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.
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