Before this historical post gets started in earnest, let us first reflect on the beer I am consuming currently with the glee of an Oprah vs. Paula Deen death-match: an amazing Imperial IPA from the folks at Stone - possibly the world's best brewery. By the time this is all wrapped up in cellophane and personal lubricant, I hope to be sufficiently inoculated from the *500 million seed ticks that are eating my ankles as if they were stranded with a soccer team in the Andes. But, as per usual, I get ahead of myself...when everyone knows that the Boner Ghost likes to come in from behind.
Yes, if you look closely, there are six bikes and six dipshits loaded into one truck...
As has been foretold, the Pirate is leaving us here in KC , heading westward to Colorado, and before he floats away on a cloud of reefer dust, he has commanded his minions to ride with him on as many local trails as possible. Last night, the Clinton Lake trails in Lawrence KS were chosen, and the 8 Lumens crew packed into the Beej's swanky-ass truck and shot out towards one of the region's finest trail systems. When I was nine years old, my father and I spent a weekend camping out on the north shore of Lake Clinton, and helped build what would over 30 years become the 23+ miles of rocky, rooty goodness; not to mention an ecosystem replete with many species of horrendous insects that drive one to the verge of the rubber room.
The crew spent 3 hours in the dark, slaying the beast that these trails become after about 5 minutes of navigating the shark's fins that come at you like Mike Tyson's fists - attempting to miss them will send you into a tree at top-speed, or if you are lucky, off a cliff into the lake below. I have to cum clean and admit that I love the Clinton Lake trails like I love a punch in the nuts from my Sumo mistresses: you just have to relent and let the sweet pain take you away; just imagine yourself in a hot-tub filled with rabid opossums and you get the picture. You must enter an endorphin-fueled, Zen state of mind when steering your steed through the maze of spiders and ticks; you cannot think, just react to what the night spurts in your eye.
My camera snapped at the exact moment that the Pirate asked nicely for anyone to lick the ticks from his swollen taint...
The party officially got underway after we loaded our raunchy, putrid bodies back into the truck, and after stopping for petrol, realized - thanks to the Manimal - that we were under attack from an army of seed ticks that were attempting to render our ankles into a Breaking Bad nightmare. I myself tried a combination of gasoline, hand-sanitizer and baby wipes that was utterly unsuccessful in taming the raging fire that was well underway. I awoke this morning with a maze of bites that resembled a colony of smallpox victims in 1768, and am slowly going the way of a psych-ward as we speak, trying not to gouge a canyon on each of my ankles.
Even after consuming *36 beers on the 45 minute ride home, I was utterly famished, and was sucked into the Taco Hell void - a cult of personal failure - made better by the sight of El Blanco Miguel pulling up behind me in the drive-thru...the taste of cockroach fajitas hits the spot better than a bowl of erect dicks - a delicacy only the Queen Queefer can appreciate with his refined palate. Until we meet again, let us prey: Oh holy Devil, let not the poison of mites infect our hearts and minds and lead us not into Totally Nude Temptations; may the virgin blood of our ankles be cleansed by the boiling, holy piss-water that envelopes our urine-filled condoms during a drug test. Amen.
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