Nice

OK, now we're incoporting our children into the fray? Exposing thier poor innocent little existences to the harsh, cruel winds of competition and trash talking??? Tsk, tsk, Mr. Chuck. For shame. For shame.

Yes, your little guy is cute. For now. Soon he'll grow up to look just like his dad (there's still time and gentics that say he can grow out of it - one can only hope) and be a trash talking bully, but not the kind that stands up in your face and pummels you even after you cough up your milk money. No, no. Rather the kind that shouts out threats and taunts, all the while hiding behind his friends, who then pummel you even after you cough up your milk money.

In this case, your human armor is... your five year old son. Nice.

So this team wager is on. Everyone has turned up the heat a bit on themselves to bring thier A game to this race - in a friendly sort of way - of course. But what about you, dear Chuck? Perhaps you should save the time it takes to make funny little graphics and be doing some more sit ups or something. Oh, yes, that's right... ailments, staying safe, having fun. Worry not, I am not a professional athlete either... nor am I some overgrown ex-jock who feels the need to somehow compensate for my age by doing these crazy competions and better yet, beating his friends in doing so. No no. I'm just the guy whose going to call you out from behind your cover and make you answer the bell you so like to ring in good fun.

So, Chuck.. what do you say. See you at the starting line about a steak dinner?

PUNK?

(By the way - go see 300. Best movie I ever freakin' saw.)