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 21st 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 *348th 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 3rd 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….