Shiver me Member...

For those of you out there in the land of off-road cycling, I am about to give you fair warning: If you miss this race I will hunt you down and fuck you with a watermelon....and that's only if you beg for mercy first. I you still have doubts to whether or not you should attend, I bring you one of my own race reports from earlier this year: a Pulitzer Prize-winning short story that won me acclaim throughout the Universe of SSRI abusers. Enjoy on an empty stomach....

Easter Eve Massacre 2013.

     Before I can begin this event report in earnest I must relay some very exciting news that is of utmost importance to the picturesque landscape that these words will create.  Since the Supreme Court has now joined the 21^st century and allowed me to marry my long-time lover, it is with great joy and girded loins that I can announce my matrimonial blessedness, and since he still sits on the aforementioned court he has granted my wish to undergo my *348^th gender-reassignment surgery; thank you honey bunches, my sweet Justice Antonin Scalia. Without you I would still be known by the hurtful and degrading “MaxiThad”,  or even worse the violently racist “Captain Cuntwat”. So it is now that I can come back into the closet: my name is now Princess Boner Ghost.

     And so it goes, now that I will have not one, but two giant members with which to straddle my steed of FatBikes, I signed up for the eponymous last steeplechase in the 2013 winter night race series known to the populaces in the know as the Pirate cXc.  It would seem to the lay(ed)man or woman that Commander Sparrow was up to no respectable acts of kindness yet again, sending out a pre-race email that was laden with insults and epithets, basically name-calling and hair-pulling – and I had just shaved my bikini line. But alas, this was not the case, for the weather cooperated and the Kona-flavored burrito tent was agog with 50+ entrants, promising their first born to the Devils of Dirt.  Little did they know that after the dooshy messenger-inspired pre-race skid contest they would have swamp gasses pugnaciously inserted into every orifice, mud and frog semen wiped across their lips, and skunk anal gland juice passed off as whiskey shots. Not to mention the cocaine donuts that were not worth anywhere close to enough bonus time. I will say nothing about the brownies due to my legal obligations and the simple fact that while my new hubby is all in for the butt sex, he is still not on the honorable side of the drug war.

     I could go on and on into infinity about my affair with my new Krampus and how it floated through the course with the glee of *126 eunuchs on meth, or how beyond overwhelming it was when I bunny hopped the fire jump in reverse, but that would be self-aggrandizing rubbish which I never stoop to the level of for any cost. Actually I will do it for $45, which un-ironically is my old rock bottom price for dirty sanchez’s.  But the star of the night was the course itself: it is hard to beat illegal night racing on your own private trail system; cut in by the bleeding hands of nine year old tranny boys who had just a week ago made my Ipad. It was splendidly replete with all manner of obstacles including many a bridge over the river Kwai, wherein the riders were assaulted with completely legal .50 machine guns and grenades filled with cherry-flavored alligator tears. Many a mishap ensued and many a captive were taken by the brutal slog through the murky jungles surrounding Mill Creek and the nearby railroad of doom – where last year the bottom ten finishers were sacrificed to the Goddess of Doprah.

    And now, ladies and germs, I will again resort to my fallback system of analysis, the simplest and most coherent of all tools of rhetorical boondoggles: the annotated list.  This time, though, I will use a more linear thought-process, and while I am nowhere near the town of Soberville, this will make complete and convincing sense to you, my beloved asshats.

35.  Concerning the “costumes”… White Mike again ruled the 3^rd grade locker room with his Sumo suit…which needed about *457,000 big macs to look authentic. Chasm spanked the ape with his homo-erotic Chef Boy-Hard-Me suit….Chris-Go looked as though he had seen no mullet he didn’t love, and some dude who I was too drunk to remember his name came as a cactus; or was he a French tickler…difficult to ascertain.

78.  Fuck me with a WD-40 soaked tree branch!  Fucking Cotter beat me again…

32.  Chris-go humped my Pugsley so hard he poked a hole the size of Texas in the rear tire on the first lap.

47.  Posson needed some dental work, and like many Amarkans who have top-rate single-payer health insurance, opted for the self-inflicted bent-fork approach to getting a root canal. May the force be with him as he and his new fork that he won at the post-race bonfire ride off into the beer-soaked sunset.

12.  Randy Braley and his team of Victoria’s Secret photo assistants obviously had the most fun of the night. Situating themselves at the ladder bridge/Asian massage table/amphibian rape pool, they were able to archive the carnage, which supervened when racers were forced against their will to cross over a mile-wide, rat-infested, HIV poisoned stream.

69.  There were some hot chicks at the race, but I no longer concern myself with such frivolities, instead electing to go full hen.

78.  Handleballs just rules the known universe. The Energizer Bunny of mountain biking never fails to make me tingly in all the wrong places.

54.  I missed my opportunity to make my first million by not recording the mega-retarded-genius banter between Chris-go and Chasm during the after party…Jones and I were literally showing turtle heads in our lycra listening to their expositional eloquence.

57.  And last but not leased-to-own, let us all give a hearty air biscuit to the one and homely Pirate:  how the fuck could we, the lamest of all cyclists outside of the recumbent community, find a more ignoble endeavor than a no-holds-barred non-race; a veritable porn-fest on two wheels; an unfaithfully religious ode to the non-existent God of all things filthy.

Princess Boner Ghost reporting….

Fart me some Art...

As I sit here contemplating whether or not to go out into the desert heat and jungle humidity to ride the trails, I find that inspiration comes hidden in strange fruit on occasion, and in the interim periods between said enlightenment, my battered soul laughs at the ruse of meaning and animus, taking a leap onto the tracks in protest. With that page of the DSM 4 out of the way, let us reflect on the little corrupt cabal that amassed last night at the Bier Station, laying waste to the sanity of the regular, moral individuals who would have wished to enjoy a tranquil evening of imbibing New Belgium brews removed from the 8 Lumens crew.

The short ride during rush hour - not on my wish list for many reasons - ended back at the pub, and after dropping my son off with the responsible parent, I returned in full flower to de-robe every skirt- wearing lady and mustached dooshtard within a 3 ft. perimeter. Speeding Jesus was not satisfied with my predictable behavior and, with much haste, brought to our table some Cards Against Humanity; a game that was invented after an extensive case-study of my criminal history was completed. 

And, although the evidentiary proof may or may not exist, the Pirate even raffled off a few of my luscious hats, modeled here by the ravishing Diddy.  Shit came unhinged when the Dyke arrived, ostensibly to meet his fellow Trek Store compatriots, but everyone knew his true intentions: to smell my scented man-bag and give me *389 titty twists. His legs gave me an insta-boner as he lumbered over our table, much to the chagrin of the Bier Station staff: they were disappointed that he was unable to kick me in the face and shut me the holy fuck up. Many thanks to the Bier Meister Godek for not calling the coppers to take me away - I hope I paid my bill in full before 'driving' El Blanco Miguel all 

the way to 10th street listening to his legendary 'fried chicken' potboiler about SSUSA and its aftermath. Only the newest 4 song e.p. from The Bug kept me from choking on my own laughter as I navigated the gloomy I-35 corridor southward, regretting only that I missed the exit for Hooters, wherein I would surely be asked kindly to leave before I could finish one single hot-wing.

Self-potrait with donut.

This is how I look without a beard...not in any way respectable. 

And so we do not stray too far from the task at hand, let us both reminisce and look forward to the party that is the Pirate cXc - http://pirate-cxc.blogspot.com, which left to its own devices will go down in history as not only the circo del sexo y de la muerte, but also as the coming out event for the Boner Ghost and his trusty sidekick Captain Cuntwat. It is with zero regrets that Queen Queefer reveals this simple fact to the masses of dirtbag mt. bikers...September 21st 2013, age of the Devil, he will again rape amphibians with unabashed morbidity. 

How I learned to stop worrying and love the twerk...

In the beginning there was fish pussy and fish dick and they fucked and fucked and eventually decided that being wet was totally uncool and one of the hipster fish decided to investigate the shoreline and over a millennia grew some gimp legs and walked out onto the volcanic ash beach and had a fucking margarita and went back into the water and said fuck y'all I'm moving into a fucking treehouse and brought the sexiest ass bitch fish with him and had a mega-teen party with crack and meth and invented fish porn and fish jazz and Gawd said "it is good"....

We seem to forget that every subsequent generation feels that its successors are filthy, immoral heathens  on the doorstep of hell, whacking off on the Devil's chin; the transitory state of grace that emulates entropy is simply the latest iteration of resisting history. I will not sit here with my first world problems and complain about the VMA awards and the corporate whores that pimp* their artists for all to see -and hopefully buy- but I will not under any circumstance be silent on the inherent hypocrisy that infects this nation and its whiny, blatantly un-ironic citizenry. We, a country based upon religious freedom - freedom to practice and invent inane and hyperbolic idiocies - are still caught in the grasp of guilt: sex and its many antecedents are at the core a crime of public shame and private abuse; a counter-intuitive false balance of a shade of grey that is doublespeak at best and unimaginable apocryphal pretense at worst. 

(*yes I reversed those roles intentionally for comic effect, or lack thereof...)

The double, triple and quadruple standards that infest this issue and poison the root of sanity to the core are myriad and disgusting; a veritable plethora of insensate irrelevance that makes us all complicit in our own obvious degradation as biological beings, forgetting that we are driven by desire and that free will is but an illusion of evolution: determinism is the true killer of mysticism. 

And lastly, though I make the false claim that this is a blog about cycling, it is not without an obvious self-sense of cognitive incongruity that I step off the high-dive into the cesspool of inanity, making what is surely a vain attempt to not preach to the choir, but instead give a dope-slap to the massively myopic masses who, with no help from our media and 'elected' officials, are rotting away in a self-induced oblivion.  

Boner Ghost buys a gun....right KC?

SaturDump...

Not many tales to tell, so I will throw a few rolls at y'all "sexal preeverts"...and other than the beer pictured below, the party is all in my pants tonight.

Have fun wasting time at your given church in the morning, I myself and Irene will be cleaning up after a night of bread-rubbing...

Up Kilts...

Commander Sparrow and I decided to make the epic journey to the hinterlands of the Northern climes last night and ended up at Smithville for the ERTA Humpday, which might as well be a short commuter plane ride for us Southerners; at least they didn't yell "Jayhawkers" and burn our town to the ground, similar to the party 150 years ago.

The riding was phenomenal, though, and the company akin to a short bus filled to the brim with cranially-injured beavers: yours truly the ring-leader. That being said, the after party was stellar and I am still burping up ghost pepper peanuts and Hoptimum IPA. Burnsey broke out the dirtbag hippy party favors and commenced to demonstrate a "game" that consisted of birthing yourself through a tie-down that was cinched tighter after every round. Of course I wanted no part in this and instead decided to use my superior IQ to make assorted vaginal jokes and butt-floss gags. Quite the night indeed, and lucky are we here in KC to have world-class trails, courtesy of the ERTA gang of bangers.

Monsieur Bolin getting his kilt lubed...

Doss Master Flash getting in position for self-sucking...

The Pirate losing at his own game...JayBay taking him to the dog park.

All I know is she brought kick-ass brownies...

The Pirate posing for his grandchildren...

And me, myself and I...the Queen Queefer smoking the peloton on the Jones...

And, as per usual, El Blanco Miguel left us early, opting for the "school night excuse" aka the Booty Call Supreme; surely his plethora of mail-order brides could give his horse fly bites the love and tenderness he needed so desperately - I wouldn't suck any poison out of him for less than a six pack of PBR.

Fuck a Duck...or was that a Chicken?

The last time we spoke, I was convalescing from an attack of the angry beer Gods and their many malted minions after a vainglorious "ride" known as the "Into the Chasm"....and as fate would have it, my blood began rejecting any substance with an a.b.v of less than 9.5% after a mega-healthy meal at The Westside Local on Wednesday, plummeting me into a sickness that is still attempting to grab my nutsack with golf shoes 5 days later. That meant no work, let alone trail riding and a Niquil-induced haze that can only be compared to a bad acid trip at a Grateful Dead tribute band event...

I even missed out on a chance to go with the Eponymous Team 8 Lumens to Single Speed USA up in Minnesota over the weekend. But at least I was coherent enough to stop by El Blanco Miguel's den of sin and drop off some Taddihogg Cycling Hats - taddihogg.com - as well as the hottest accessory of the summer, a pile of stinking, shit-stained Captain Cuntwat stickers. Now, you the layman/woman might think that this development somehow is indicative of the slow deterioration of morals here in the land of the Freetard, but I can assure you, young Jedi, the poop hit the proverbial, bladed cooling device long ago indeed. 

I myself attribute the entirety of the Decay of Western Civilization to one thing and one thing only: The Chicken Nugget.  As you take a minute or 30 to let this enlightened intellectual intrigue settle in, I will take a slight musical break and re-energize my failing brain with a hit of The Young Widows' "The Muted Man"....OK class, let's get back to work. I will not satisfy your biases with a rant on Frankenfood or the Fast-Foodification of our society, nor will I embark on a lengthy diatribe concerning factory farming or the obesity epidemic we are facing down in this country, unable to see our erect members over our bulging bellies. I would love nothing more to bash the biggest dooshtard of a President we have ever had in this country -Ronald Reagan - and his ridiculous Supply Side economic theories that never even came close to "trickling down". Instead, by focusing my attention, however briefly, on the insanity that is the Chicken Nugget, I can sum up the degradation of the American Nightmare in as few words as possible. Simply put, the fused, chicken-parts-waste-cockroach combination that is served over a billion times daily is analogous to what we have become as Americans: faux humans, chopped up and dumbed down into nothing that resembles the original product from which we came; and that we have allowed this to happen to us voluntarily by being offered 3 dipping sauces as a reward is even more disgusting than the liquid bag of "meat" from the factory floor. In other words, we are all mooing at the salt-lick of stupidity, awaiting the next bio-engineered concoction to make our flanks the juiciest they can be.

But as the delusion grows into reality the least we can do, as the last few cognizant zombies left amongst the Jellyfish of the Right, is ride our cocking brains out at festivals such as SSUSA. And even though I was surely greatly missed at said event, the Boner Ghost legend lives on, occupying the sordid heights he so greatly deserves, looking down from every street sign in a 3 mile radius on the drunkards that are too IQ challenged to put gears on their bikes.

A satisfied costumer of unknown origin, replete with a new Taddihogg Cycling hat

and the accouterment du jour.

KC DC representing with Goat-Raping panache...

Queefer Queen out...

Parking Mirage....

And so we did...last night was yet another case study in drunken, two-wheeled self-transport; a jam-packed saturnalia of law-breaking and offensive behaviors....countless parking garages were laid waste to, and a plethora of rubber was skidded with due respect.