Friday, August 9, 2013

Give my poop a hand...

Sad sad sad times indeed...The Pirate and his beautiful family had a little going away shindig last night, and even though Jack Sparrow is sticking around until the Black Pearl is sold, - hopefully getting drunk and crashing his Fatty one-handed - we here in the KC mt. biking community are reeling from the loss of a major cog in the freewheel of fun that said swashbuckler provided us over the years.

(El Blanco Gordo Miguel doing his patented "stinky-pinky parasol" strip tease for the souls with enough fortitude to withstand the time it took him to finish...)

The illegalities will surely continue in the absence of the aforementioned El Pirata, but we will be forced to retire his number and lobby heavily for his immediate induction into the KC hall of shame -mt. biking division. All that sappy bullshit said, the stories of adventure poured out of the attendees' mouths last night: not unlike the movie 'The Exorcist' in their evil stench. Handleballs was in the zone as usual, his Energizer Bunny giving him an old-fashioned in his shorts, and easily winning the door prize for best memoir of the evening; a steep order to be sure, beings as how I regurgitated the original "be careful bro" story with graphic, X-rated detail. 

(Handleballs the Great, high on Moonshine and fermented goat semen...)

It seems that on a recent climbing trip to the great white North - who really knows what devil-forsaken mountain range they were destroying - Handleballs and company ran into a group of climbers from Switzerland and immediately became neutral observers of countless foreign actuality, the Swiss were quite friendly and one spoke better English than Hulk Hogan.  Their camps were close together on a ridge and at night they could be overheard telling animated tales, followed by a hearty round of applause. The American's curiosity was piqued and they decided to send Diplomat 'Balls as an emissary to inquire into the philosophical underpinnings that were surely behind the nightly display. Or so he thought. Turns out that the Swiss climbers were discussing the poignant inner-workings of their bowels; comparing notes on how frequent they had been released during the day. Turns out they love South Park as much as I do, those Swiss Misses - bless their hearts. Handleballs regaled us with this shitty ditty verbatim, and we commenced with blowing IPA's out our ears laughing until the sun set on the evenings' festival of goodbyes. It gave me great hope in humanity, knowing that even sophisticated Europeans would be fans of the Boner Ghost, because it is he who applauds his queefs with unabashed glee.

( The Pirate's new creation - a silver 29+ with greased head tube for smooth insertions...)

(Jack Sparrow sporting his custom Taddihogg hat made from the taints of midget Llama prostitutes...)

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