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 3rd 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…