Monday, April 3, 2017

I went to NAHBS and all I got was a mouthful of Pubes.



     In the end there was light, a dark at the end of the tunnel, a spark that lit a pile of Blackcats that eventually made me lose my eyebrows. Or maybe it was a simpler, more inane message from Gawd, one in which it became my prerogative to interpret golden tablets and have a wife for every night of the week; a bonus if one of those matriarchs had a hot daughter that came of age at 11; and a double bonus if I didn't have to interact with black people 'til the 1970's. The only downside to this Utopia being that coffee had to be decaf and my underwear was not only always clean, but inspirational to the point of magic. Ah America, the only place where such snake-oil salesman thrive, even inspiring the 20th century version akin to a horrid amalgamation of Star Wars and Buddhism....what have we done to ourselves but repeatedly shoot our feet and wonder oh wonder why we are bleeding.
    Thus began my trip to Salt Lake City.
    Not my first time through the Land of Mor(m)on, but it was my first stay of more than a few hours, 3 full days to be exact.
    This was my 3rd consecutive year attending NAHBS as an Oddity Cycles groupy/escort girl and boy howdy was it a letdown...the only truly outstanding moment being my coupling with my Greenie Weenie 27.5x3.6 monster truck beauty:

This bike, replete with a powder-coated Ti fork, stem/bars and post, had been a collaboration between myself and the Pirate, aka Burnsey - along with Paul Components and HED wheels - wherein I had to grease his stripper pole repeatedly and turn tricks to afford the exorbitant pricing of a #deepcustom artisan who would never build a Michael Jackson tribute bike. Butt, the key element, the piece de la resistance was the simple, yet elegant anatomy that graced the logos...

...half-eaten dog bones, or #tinydicks as the Trumptards would call them. 
The moral of the whory is simply to never tempt a Boner Ghost with boners, however 'not to scale' they may be. If you are one of the 2 people out of a meelyon who have not yet seen the Radavist's coverage of my Oddity cock-pit, then follow them thar series of tubes over to his MySpace page.   

         For reasons that only my parole officer can legally explain, I was unable to make it to Ft. Collins and join the caravan -i.e. the #hardcorbincummybuns fart bus - and the drive to SLC, and was forced to fly first class from KC with my entourage of bald Pomeranian comfort animals, as well as a suitcase filled with Kanye West's Oprah love letters. 

Shit went down though, and all but a select few of the Original 8Lumens founding members arrived at the convention center, our glory on high being exalted by the presence of the DeFeet booth where I was informed that our 'Fuck Yeah' socks ( the brainchild of El Blanco Miguel) are still the numero uno selling sock in the 'artist series'...if only I was more sober I could recite the sordid tale of how these socks originally came to fruition, a tome so dense with irony that it drips with pathetic groveling and ass-spelunking;  I cannot even begin to fart in their general direction.  

I'm not sure how to lay out how shitty this year's NAHBS was in terms of vendors and attendance, not to mention the insane, weird vibe that is SLC as a whole, but let me tell you Billy Bob, there was some serious drama...mainly the outing of Bicycle Pubes, who rented the entire top floor of the Marriot and threw the party of the century with little more than a few pins and stickers, fooling even Dirt Rag and Anna Swindler into believing he was the reincarnation of Joseph Smith herself. 

The night ended with a pudding-filled, kiddy pool death-match between Pubes and Prolly, and let's just say that my bets paid off: I can now retire to my Trump Tower suite in Vegas and attend to my retinue of Dwarves and Whores - soundtrack by The Sluts. 

The after-parties sucked bloody vaginal bloodfarts, so we rode our show bikes around the city that sister-wives built, stopping on occasion to be sustained by 2.3% beer and Taco Time enemas. At least my nights ended with spooning sessions with Urethra Franklin at a sexy-ass AirBnB with the 'rock star Sklar' and crew...

I spent most of my time at the Moonmen booth due to an emergency in the Life Of Todd, so I was able to avoid the traffic jam that was the Prince Bike, along with the gorgeous assholes that are White Mikey and Chasm, a reward that is invaluable, gold bars in the ass notwithstanding; basically pacing the floor of the center high as fuck with cold-brew coffee from Hot Box-Reeb Cycles.

Oh yeah, before I forget, check out my 'coverage' of NAHBS 2017 on - all things chubby and plusssy. Don't leave out the hyphen you fucktards. 

Another Oddity masterpiece. 


Sunday, February 26, 2017

A Tyrannosaurus for your Thesaurus.


                                                           Kill Creek, day 2...

     I find it quite improbable that, after 4 months of silence in the blogosphere, this fucking trashy-ass, dipshit, trailer-park of the mind was still viewed over 500 times last month. Now, I hear you say, 'that's a pittance, there are Catholic priests with sticky fingers who have more fans than that' - and I could not even to begin to confess the truth that lies therein. However, as depression and subsequent physiological injury can attest to, and manifest from, former then latter, and in reverse at any given moment, the virtual catharsis that results from being wired into the social media universe sometimes must supersede actually getting pickled enough to convince myself to type more than 100 characters in a given evening. Not sure why, in the grand scheme of things, that my blogging has fallen off the cliff over the last year or so; many nights of waning, pathetic analysis aside, it more than likely comes down to having a son with whom I am having a blast watching old X-Files episodes etc. - 12 years old now - and the subsequent prolonging of an actual 'bedtime'. That, and being back in the band scene for the last 13 months, give or take - both of which are rewarding in the 'responsible human being' branch of evolutionary science. Satre be damned.
    With that said - all throwaway gibberish - the  mt. bike is still the ultimate sanity savior, the balm of Gilead, a Hebrew translation that resources the 'hill of testimony'. As is blatantly evidenced in my every breath, religion is ahistorical poison and I have been an avowed Atheist since I was 14; this is not a soapbox on which to brag, but simply a mixed martial-arts metaphor, a backdoor idiom to explain that the Dirt Church is the ultimate place of worship, the cathedral of my vigor, the temple of the Gawds of levity - and gravity to be sure.
    So, though much has transpired over that last 4 months in the arena of the mountain bike-cycle, this story begins, essentially, with our lack of winter here in the central flyover states and the vast deficit of moisture that has come with our record heat. Trails are being built with a bionic speed factor in KC these days and at this point it would be nearly impossible to hit all the systems in one week, unless you are a skinny fucks like Lurch or The Silent Killer who ride *458 miles a day and whose combined weight is less than one of my Colonel Sanders thighs. But, the Princess of Boners decided to put it upon himself, faced with 8 days off of work, to ride at least 5 straight days, putting in 2 hours minimum per day.  Again, I hear the pity-choir singing out in unison 'you stupid old fuck, with your nuclear knee and hacked-to-death-back, that's child's play' and they would be exalted on high to be sure; however this is a feat that I have not accomplished since my 20's and, beings as how our volatile climate almost never allows our clay-based trails to stay rideable for more than *32 minutes at a time, the option isn't even available for proper discourse. So, when the long-range forecast showed a roughly 10 day window of dryness overlapping with my time off, the devious diagram was hatched to get in the most hours of riding I've had since my right knee was wired/screwed back together at the end of September.
    The itinerant 'goal' was to ride the first 3 days here in KC, then head down to  NW Arkansas to hit a couple places that I've yet to ride, the first being Lincoln Lake -7 miles of old trails around a gorgeous small lake about 45 minutes WSW of Fayetteville recently opened to mt. bikes - and the newly-opened Bentonville system Coler, the centerpiece being the gravity/slopestyle hub that fans out into incredible terrain, some of which is bowel-clearing #rockybukake of the first order. Short story long, all went quite according to plan and 5 days/over 15 hours went down like Melania on Ivanka.
Saturday was to be a rest day with the family and Sunday was the Blvd. Brewing 'fun ride' - a road event that is slower than a turtle on quaaludes and a 12 pack of Miller Lite; perfect for a 70 degree day in late February with my son. A recovery ride as the Yams of the world would say....but I got greedy.

                                                                            Perry Lake KS, Lake Perry, where I died my 10th life

     Unforeseen was the Gawd's anger at my myriad fortunes, the euphoria brought on by the pure opium that is manifested in 5.5 inches of travel on 27.5x3.25 tires.
     A hole in the fabric of the PUNiverse opened and a window of 5 hours shown through my Saturday afternoon like a festered tick bite on my taint...or was that just El Blanco Miguel agreeing to ride for 3 hours at Lake Perry KS?
     Perry is between Lawrence and Topeka, north of I70, and is one of my old stomping grounds: windblown, thick forest that is steep and rocky with beautiful vistas of the lake and inlet streams; technical at times but worth the effort in the end; not my favorite place to ride, but with friends is a blast. I knew within 10 minutes after leaving the parking lot with 3 other super-fast-fucks that I was in no shape - after my long week of 'training' - to be back on the bike; just not my day to be the oldest by a decade, and fattest by *200lbs.  I did the loop in its entirety (save for the mile keyhole loop at the trail's northernmost point) and was dead to rights. Urethra Franklin suggested a quick stop at Free State for a beer on the way home and by Satan, it might have been the best barley-pop I ever did done seen. That night my blues/rock band had a show and the wifey and I eventually made it home wherein I went to near-coma b.a.c. and passed out.
      Sunday came around at 10 a.m. and we were meeting my parents for lunch and the trading of the progeny, so I went down to my shop to get our Fatbikes ready for their intended purpose: riding 10 or so miles on pavement with a bunch of roadies with factory reflectors still adorning their Trek hybrids.
     'And then it happened'...It was a dark and stormy night.
     I fucking fucked the fuckety fucker up.
     The worst back blow-out in over 10 years changing out a set of fucking pedals.
     6 straight days of 99% horizontal ice/heat packs have followed.
     No bikes, no work, just Netflix and Chill with my sexy Cuntwat self. Finally, I am able to sit at this very pooter and type for about 15 minutes at a time, getting up to make sure my lower back is still attached to my pelvic region - a region that in 2002 saw a massive surgery for a bulged-disc and nerve damage; a roaring success all in all that has allowed me a very high quality of life if I just am semi-cognizant of over-stressing. Which I had done with the 6th consecutive day: Perry, Die in a Fire.
      Today is the Urban Dirty race series #2 out at Cliff Drive/Kessler park that I am of course missing, but will limp around on foot and fart in the general direction of David HasselShoff as often as is humanly possible, a small token of redemption for my painkiller-drowned soul. May the Farce be with me.

Lincoln Lake Arkansas. 

Coler mt bike park in Bentonville Arkansas. 

Rock City at  Mt. Kessler, Fayetteville Arkansas - section now closed - from my trip in late December.

Sylamo trails, Mt View Arkansas from my trip in late December.

#hardcorbincummybuns on a local KC 'cross course. 

Day #3, BuRP with the Volker fast fucks and the rep from Rocky Mountain Bikes. oldie but a baddie. Heil Ranch. 

'I'll Cum on Your KOM" One of the original ACCPBG stickers.

RIP #whoisbicyclepubes


Tuesday, November 22, 2016

The $27,000 Fistfuck.

Blood is a Lubricant:

It has been a fortnight plus a fright night plus a depressive, alcohol-fueled two months or so since we last spoke; wherein we visited the Baby Bird wine incident  among other vainglorious saturnalia, amidst a shitstorm of pain and recovery, a veritable flaming train wreck of failed ideology and lack of a moral compass. Then again, let us rejoice in the next Fugazi album, because it'll be a whopper....

The joke goes a little something like this: Paul Ryan, Rand Paul and Ayn Rand walk into a bar; they die from unregulated, poisoned beer. The market will always correct itself right? No need for pesky government oversight of any kind...

Butt, let me get the meat of the issue: my fucking broken-ass right knee. I forget the exact post -not many so far this year so it will be easy to find - so go back and figure it the fuck out. It contains the exact moment that, after 40 odd years of abuse, my knee decided to give out whilst riding a chariot      ( a converted and lowered shopping cart)  pulled by a rope behind Disco The Danimal Boxwine Dan. Imagine trying to itch your right ear with the bottom of your right foot: yeah, the pop, it felt amazing. At least I was properly pickled, and continued to jump through fire pits and eventually find some sort of transportation home albeit in a car if memory serves chicken salad. Of course I naively assumed that it would heal itself, a la The Terminator, so I did little to assuage the injury, snapping it again while surfing in South Carolina and yet again again jumping off a 20 foot cliff in Arkansas into a pool that, in the air, I executed the faux pas of pulling my right leg up for a can-opener. This was the last straw: when I hit the water I blacked out for what seemed an eternity; luckily my fat ass bouyed me to the surface with only 50 gallons of water in my lungs.  

Doctor's appointments were scheduled, eventually culminating in a MRI that revealed a full medial meniscus tear, as well as a large piece of cartilage floating around under my knee-cap. I took the first available date for surgery but kept riding up until the night before, not knowing if it would ever be 100% again - at least a 3 month recovery time. 
Long story short, the surgery went well and my knee resembled a pregnant football upon my return home to a bliss of liver abuse that included attempting in vain to overdose on Oxycontin and 9% abv beer. I now have cables and anchors in my tibia along with some gorgeous scars that will surely end my career as a leg model. 
It took nearly 6 weeks until I could spin on a bike - on the street - and another 10 days to get onto a mt. bike, and today I actually hit up the technical #rockybukake that is Swope Park - 2 hrs of shitty fitness and weak-as-fuck climbing. But I say Cot Dayum, it was the most rewarding ride in at least a century...

From a ride last week with El Blanco Miguel and The Silent shit at BuRP is mega killer

Paved trail riding therapy..

..KC Tweed Ride, sponsored by BikeWalkKC and VeloWagonKC.

Crane Brewing in Raytown Mo, taproom opening.

Surfed the Kaw sandbar with the kiddo and Postal Jeff last week as well...

Earlier this year I was recruited to do vocals for a friend's heavy Blues band and last week we recorded a 4 song ep. of original jams. Dig. 

First official off-road ride was The Lawrence River Trail with the kiddo.

It's the condensation fucktard...a classic of #hardcorbincummybuns