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….
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