Smack my Gubmant up....

The sweet stench of failure is wafting under my hairy nostrils once again; this time it is coming from the putrid, rotten winds that are blowing out of our 'nation's' Capitol ( more like Capital )...for it is the eve of the eve of the threatened shutdown, wherein the Retardlicans show their blatantly racist, inner Klan-hearts, and parade their Cruz-dicks in front of the Fox-puppets with incredible lack of proficiency. I am attempting, albeit in vain I fear, to numb myself with a few legal pain killers this very night - maybe I'll get the nerve to go and race some 'cross in the slop tomorrow...surely that will burn off the demons that will haunt my Monday from Heaven...

...which is, of course, code for trying to avoid any credible news outlets in hopes of avoiding the irreconcilable grief and shame I have in our 'leaders' and the Koch Brothers who pull their obvious strings. Although the Left has made a few notable strides since the 2012 elections, I see little light at the end of the clogged tunnel: poverty and discrimination are explicit in a corporate 'democracy'. I have been a card-carrying Socialist since I was a teenager - over 20 years now - and the conditions of our future forecast continue to degrade further than I ever imagined possible...to say that it resembles a broken record, skipping on 'Cats in the Cradle' eternally is the under-statement of the century. The American Dream is not only an illusion perpetuated by the nearsighted, but it is more of a Nightmare in which we are the Zombies...watching ourselves on screen, unaware of the implicit paradox we have become. If only I was not part of the problem: the myth lives healthily in my scaffolded delusions as well...

La Pirata's Last Stand...

Oh Oh oh Oh...last night was the penutlimate orgy on dirt folks, and I am still limping and whining like a baby as a result. Although, ostensibly the race report featured below was written for the Pirate's blog - 

http://singlespeedpirate.blogspot.com  - we can relish in its inherent beauty here as well....and remember kids, don't read this alone in uncle touchy's funtime basement.

 In the beginning there was dark…

      Before we begin this self-diagnosed confessional, let me first beg for permission – not forgiveness – to say a mourning prayer for the loss of my oral virginity: for if one wants and desires to get through those pearly gates without any lube, he must conquer first his concupiscence to enjoy ejaculate smoothies without guilt.  So, without any further fanfare, let us now get on our knees and unzip our pants – or pull our lycra aside – and prey to the Demon of Dreck: ….Dear Lard Gawd of Gehenna, may our souls be cleansed of powdered donut dust; let our palates be wiped away of the jello-shot gizm that coats our burned taste buds;  may my anus be healed of the 3^rd degree burns I collected from the very fire-pit of Hades; may my Ute cargo bike be put in a frame and hung on the wall for all to worship after two Angels climbed atop the steel horse like jockeys at a Victoria’s Secret convention; may the Manimal forever spit his juices into such a worthy receptacle; and may those who missed last night’s Pirate cXc race to the bottom be forever shamed into letting a donkey rape their first-born.  Eh Man.

     So, as you may have ascertained, the shit that went down out on the Superfund Site of an illegal race course last night – under the close supervision of Commander Sparrow – was indeed one for the annals of anal; for the diary of an ax murderer too afraid to ride his/her mt. bike with the 8 Lumens crew and their many sycophants.  Night racing might be the next best thing to an 8 hour fellating session from Kate Upton, and ‘Torched” did not disappoint: the course was slicker than KY on a slug, and the attendees were similarly greased; problematic only in the confusion caused when The Beej entered the pre-race beer garden looking like Lindsay Lohan on a meth bender….though in my experience she is not quite as hirsute. El Blanco Miguel –aka Urethra Franklin -  surprised no one by arriving in World of Warcraft drag, which is eerily congruent to Elmo in knickers. Chris-go came as Don Johnson, which gave me an earworm of the Miami Vice theme song – and also dreams of flamingos and hood-ornament hair cuts – while my pink CX skinsuit, stuffed with trouser snakes and Barbie heads made every woman within 10 miles need a raincoat for their coochies.  What little sense-memory I have of the rest of the night helps not in recalling the remainder of the costumes, but if my cognizance is not mistaken, the highlight of the attire – or lack thereof – were the lovely ladies in Daisy Dukes at the time-bonus table: it is impossible to know how offensive I was in propositioning their services but the sundry bruises I found this morning point to a possibility of many punches being thrown in my general direction; par for the course.

     The 8 Lumens Freetards really outdid themselves with the obstacles: teeter totters, ladder bridges and of course the fire jump, made the 3 laps seem like a party in my pants wherein everyone was cumming. In respect for the Pirate’s departure, an effigy was sacrificed to the Devil’s Daughter in the form of a pyre made from the bones of Blackbeard…better known to the m(asses) as the ramp over the pit of passion. This feature has been the supreme attraction at the last two races, promoting full nudity and cousin-sex, all the while giving its warmth to the beer-soaked chamois of yours truly. There is just something juicy/peachy about jumping your mountain bicycle over a raging, 3 foot tall crater of heat, which reminds me that I need to change my sheets after a night of quadruple penetration with my goats.

    In this next/last paragraph I will extoll the virtues of beer: it is good.

    I tend to shy away from drinking water- for fuck’s sake fish poop in it – and during last night’s marathon of mortality, I held fast to these sacred beliefs, draining a keg of Mother’s Sandy with unabashed elation; there were no challenges I could not face, even a granny-geared climb up the penultimate Lawrence hill with a tattooed goddess in tow was but a walk in the proverbial playground – or at least my b.a.c told me so.  The superlative moment of the nocturnal revelry, though, arrived by way of myself – the Queen Queefer – and his excellency  The Manimal…not only did we become beer brothers when he Baby-Birded two hot shots of PBR into my glossy, fuzzy  mouth, but now I can say that I and Alicia Silverstone ( the Pirate will provide a link here)  will be lovers in the afterlife: for now that my delta-hymen is broken, I can walk the earth in search of the next best thing to a Pirate cXc  race – a yeast infection in my beard.

Princess Boner Ghost reporting…

Freetards unite....

Yes, I fully realize that I have posted this flier previously, and that I have extolled the virtues of said event time and time again, ad nauseum etc. etc. etc. But I cannot stress more strenuously the importance of your lame, pathetic arses attending this 'race' tomorrow night: the Gawds of Dirt are all lined up, waiting ever so patiently to laugh in your face and throw frog feces in your eyes; even the girl scouts will have their stripper pole/cookie hand-up installed on the back side of the course. So, to entice you and whet your appetite - and grease your colon - I give you another installment of my race reporting from a previous event...and to think there will be so much free beer tomorrow night that I might just ask myself out: I give great blow-jobs on the first date...

  

     It has come to my attention that my services are needed; that my millions of fans have been holding their collective breaths, waiting for any sign of truth to emerge concerning last Saturday night’s Pirate cXc debauchery, also known as the Saturnalia of Phat.  Now, you haters of pork beware:  the following invective, which is a diatribe of cellulite-like proportions, is likely to offend everyone equally, especially those who doubt the power of the plump.

     Since my recent sex-change operation successfully made me a master of three-hole insertion merrymaking, I have embraced only the sexiest of night bike riding. So with considerable haste, I signed up for the first Pirate cXc race of the season, which took place on a full moon – my normal night wherein I dismember sundry prostitutes – and was abnormally pleasant weather for late January.  In observance of my devout religious intolerance I arrived in drag, as did many, including White Mike who appeared as a transsexual Elmo, countless 11 year old boys stuffed in his pants. The award for most prideful costume, though, went to Mrs. AmazonMonroe, and in the end his amore por de gordo brought him fame and fortune beyond all measure.

     Wait just a fucking hour….what the heaven do costumes and vodka flasks on fatties have to do with illegal night racing? Well, let’s just say that a Pirate cXc race gives new meaning to “cross”.  Again I get ahead of myself.  What exactly happened that night is of utmost importance when one needs definitive explanations of how they awoke Sunday morning with an ache in their anus and their man-bag stapled to their thigh.  I can neither confirm nor deny the existence of the Deevil, but if he had a dog in the fight he was without a doubt present at the time-bonus table ( or maybe at the end of the teeter totter licking his chops ).

     Powdered donuts pair well with beer, so says the local UCI Cicerone, who checked my tire width on every lap, which disqualified me from my normal spot on the podium.  Even after I consumed *348 of Chasm’s tall-boys on the starting line, my virginal Krampus strayed mightily, careening off many tree-shaped objects, otherwise know as trees.  On one lap I was “legitimately” forced to taste baby gravy in the back of my throat, as Joel stomped on my glutes, which involuntarily sent my twins spreading across my top tube.  I recovered quickly with the help of my cheerleaders, and was able to catch him in the deep, dark forest and deliver a felch on a magnitude of 8.9 on the Richter scale….

     And as it has been foretold, I sense in my ADD infested, sixth grade dropouts I call my readers, that a more gay-forward approach is necessary:  yes, I will now provide a list of a despicably insufficient narrative that is not without its inherent risks.

1.     Chris-go rode my white fatty and valiantly rescued fairy wings that were abandoned after Handleballs had his way with them.

2.     Postal Jeff and his trusty MukLuk snubbed the time-bonus table in favor of the free Girl Scout pole dances on the backside of the course.

3.     Speeding Jesus smoked me in the single-speed class…as if that is a rare occurrence.

4.     Jack Sparrow blew himself…I mean to say that he flatted his fatty during the pre-race rituals and was forced to ride Axel Rose’s Stumpjumper to the start/finish.

5.     T-Don was utterly frightened by my blazing speed and because of this he did not race…

6.     The Manimal and G-whiz were so slow that they only lapped me *46 times, a complete disgrace for Ethos Racing.

7.     The Silent Killer continued his dominance by giving an old-fashioned to everyone who doubted the advantage of an obese steed on a course designed by racist circus midgets.

8.     Cotter drinking enough for a small German village and still finishing ahead of me…what the fark?

9.     Chasm showing the entire world how imperative it is to dress to impress, and to leave the back door of your PBR jammies open for business.

1.  And last but not leased: some poor schmuck tried to be Paul Bunyan and plowed into the flora, breaking his arm in the process.  Only the picture leaked of me humping a deer was less embarrassing, which goes to show, a Pirate cXc race is not for the faint of heart: only those born without one.

Captain Cuntwat reporting….

...his inner wanker

Very little to report here in the land of the lost; rain is finally falling and thus, the morning trail ride on the Blue River is postponed, leaving me to sort through * 378 pictures that are bulging my memory to the point of overflow...enjoy yet another visual stimulation on this foggy, wet Tuesday: I know I did.

Pub n' Pedal 7 KCMO...

My new boyfriend and I are moving to a cabin in the woods...

The KC Sprints crew - Jones, Zeke and Jevon - really know how to throw down the gauntlet and set the standard for the crazy when it comes to urban biking events: the mike was dropped with such force last night that no one would take the stage for fear of a reverse knob-job that would register on the Richter scale....

This post will not go into detail about the events that transpired during this epic event, rather I will focus on documenting said disaster through the following photo-essay; for if you cannot decipher the near-criminal behaviors that were undertaken, you need serious help - or a 4th grade sex-ed class...

Team Mega-Penis won in the ( rear ) end...

G-Whiz and his new flame are moving in next to us...

He probably won't even call me back...even though I think I'm pregnant...

Don (Chris-Go) Juan...