Experiment.

Putin. Trump. Clinton. Election. Meddling. Special Counsel. Dossier. Boogers.
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Lately I've been seeing some Russian traffic for this blog. I seriously doubt there's any interest in that country of a mere 144 million souls, even among what would be my target demographic- old, untalented, and overweight road bike racing idiots. Then again, my entire knowledge of their racing scene is centered around my belief that Belov from American Flyers and Ogre from Revenge of the Nerds were separated at birth.
...but I digress.
 
The infrequent-but-rhythmic nature of the Russian hits indicate they are from bots triggering off something I said. I'd be interested to see what that was. Then again, I'd also be interested in seeing what attracted and maintains the interest of my faithful French porn bots. Wait... maybe not. At any rate, I'd be remiss if I didn't welcome these new consumers of my garbage and work to tailoring my message to better serve them. Thus the top line. The last one is for me, because I share my four-year-old's sense of humor.
 
What I'm hoping is that one of the bots will become so enamored with this blog that they will alert their oligarch overlord. The oligarch will then become so impressed with my obvious cycling talent that they will dump tens of millions of dollars into a team dedicated solely to helping me win meaningless office park crits. Because I'm willing to do my part, I will limit my salary demands to the mid six-figures range, with bonuses for every sock and water bottle prime won.
 
We'll see how this works out. Doody.

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