Sticky fingers...

Yet another gift you fucktards did not ask for, nor know you needed: I give you the next batch of stickers, made by the hands of Mista Jones -God Hates Grape Soda- and his minions of midget lepers; only the best quality for all of y'all Sarah Palin porn watching, rabbit-diddlers...

If any of you out there in La La Land desire one or more of these beauties email me, or just provide a description of your car/house/school/work and I will personally use my brown-tipped appendages to apply them for you.

Fat Sand Nationals

You didn't ask for it, so here it is...your early Thankstaking gift:

https://www.facebook.com/events/534849603265191/   

There is an open debate over whether or not this should be a daylight event or a vampire-friendly feast...say either 2p.m. - 5p.m. or 7 p.m. til dawn. If you give a flying fuck, go to the event page and weigh in: vote early and vote often.

'Sponsored' by:

Oh irony, you dirty skank...

The problem at hand, or holy penis, is simply this: to get to most of the mt. bike trails from my house - which is centrally located here in KC - one must, because of limited time, drive a car to the trailhead. Now, you purists who ride to and from the single-track on your geared, carbon, skinny-tired, 25 pound crotch rockets take heed: I am just too busy to ride my SS Fatties the extra 1-2 hours round-trip. And so we arrive at the impetus for this provocative, albeit brief,  editorial: my fucking 10 year old VW Diesel is on the shits and I am forced to wait the 4 days for a part to come in. This car has been quite impressive overall, but when he/she/it decides to take a crap, it is a blowout that gets all 4 sides of the stall. Cue Urethra Franklin...maybe he can come by and grab me tomorrow and hit up some dirt so I am not forced to ride down to Roanoke and smack up the short and stubby rocks designed by the Shoffy; not that these trails aren't grooving, it just that I'd rather spank Kill Creek or Landahl. Time will tell, and in case you forgot to turn off the lights, keep flipping the switch until Jesus finishes...

(A peck of Rothko for your Friday...)

And now for a brief update on Mr. Fisk and his knee injury from the Ride for Death: it would seem that he had quite the compression injury from his botched bunny hop over a * 23 foot-wide concrete ditch; his knee - more precisely his ACL and Tibia - were smashed like taters at a Ms. Idaho competition and he will be off the bike for at least 3 months- possibly 5 before he can get on a mt. bike. I paid he and his  family a visit to express my condolences - and drop off a couple Blvd. Smokestacks - the other night and tried to piece together the chain of events through a drunken haze. Let's just say that the ride itself was sufficiently dangerous to break anyone's face, so the fact that only one real injury occurred is amazing in and of itself...but wait, El Blanco Miguel huwt his wittle shins and bwed in his wittle sockies, how could I forget: services and a visitation will be announced...

Giz mopper...

On this bright and bountiful Monday, I returned to the scene of the crime and did a little CSI clean-up...even found 4 full cans of beer left over, and of course, Handleballs' pet puppy still lying in state like he has been for years now. Who knows what kind of asshat leaves a dead dog in a half-kennel without a proper burial, but if we had run into he/she that night, it would have gotten Hulk Hoganish real fast like. But like Jesus Chrysler said to me many times during the Ride for Death, 'leave no trace'...so, since I was in the neighborhood, I stopped back in to tidy the place up with my feather duster and Honey Wagon; and take a few pix during the daylight hours for your enjoyment...

!Que desastre de mierda!

Broken chains, broken bones and broken dreams -and a smidgen of rough trade - along with *46 flats and scaredy pussies, made for a vainglorious evening of urban mt. biking in downtown KC Saturday; and a quick check of my b.a.c. this morning is the ultimate litmus test of success: if you are still too drunk to drive at 8 a.m. you have won riches beyond all measure. If anyone out there in the series of tubes thought that all the posturing and hyperbole concerning the Ride for Death was just to hear the sound of my dulcet tones extemporize on the risk of following said 'me' through the hinterlands of industrial hell, I think all was proven correct by the time the war of attrition finally ended. For whatever lame-ass reason you decided to stay home and slap the salami to ESPN, you deserve only the worst shaming possible: next time grow a pair of huevos and get out and ride.

At first count I believe that at least 12 diptards decided to grace me with their presence, and by the final stretch we were down to 4, one of which had just endo-ed at high speed over a curb and onto the concrete. Mr Fisk, I apologize sincerely for laughing and mocking you in the parking lot, but I can only surmise that you would have done the same for me - I would be butt-hurt if not. For those of ye who chose to live vicariously through the cool people and not join the good fight, I will give you an annotated list of some of the hip spots we hit - all of which required immense doses of acid and trespassing...

1. JDizzle and I stashed a 30 pack of Coors - the handlebar mustache of beers - under the hobo encampment which is the I-35 bridge over the Turkey Creek diversion tunnel ( dug in 1913) where dogs and Walfart bikes go to die. The tunnel - a concrete, 1300 ft. long, 12 foot high monster - was built to divert the creek out to the Kansas River instead of flooding the West Bottoms in KCK, KCMO.  Very few non-homeless people know of its existence, and to get there you have to act as though you have no dental insurance, for if you smile at the locals, you may just get a banjo serenade as you get bent over...squeeeeaaal.

2. From there we headed North, gang-raping a church parking lot and its 80 year old rock retaining wall...my kind of party if there ever was one.

3. More Northward travel had us arriving at the bluff above Cambridge Circle and the double-track trespass shindig downhill to the railroad tracks behind the ancient Imperial Brewery...where the Dizzzle broke his chain while shifting into granny gear to climb over a stick. 

4. The Yucca Mountain climb challenge was next while we waited for Senor Villasi to repair the aforementioned chain...Urethra Franklin skipped his platform pedals and ended up bashing his shins and just about bled out: Ride for Death mutha fucka.

5. Kemper Arena - where pro teams get put to pasture - and the haunted houses were the next stop, and by stop I mean literally, due to Chasm's first of *35 flats; then off towards the Kaw River and its many antiquated metal bridges that attract a myriad of miscreants and misanthropes, out to destroy the moral fabric of this sacred nation, giving each other multiple Santorums in the dark whilst whistling Dixie in the direction of the Mason-Dixon line. 

6. I will not call out those who chose not to ride across the perilous railroad bridge over the Kaw, because it is more fun than a box of cocks to know that deep in the heart of Texas a village is waiting for you idiots...

7. The I-70 bridge embankment that looks as though it is 100 yards of the steepest, badassy-est concrete this side of a strip club parking lot; and I'm here to tell you, it is just that: a free carnival ride that shoots you out at 30mph into oncoming traffic - unless the drunken escaped inmates you call your friends are there to yell 'clear'...

8. Kaw Point via the stairs of evil brain damage...oh how the two rivers converge into one, the sweet stench of stinking effluvium of excrement and fertilizer run-off that breeds *47 foot, hybrid catfish that can walk on land and give you the best fish lips money can barter. Here, an industrial tower was violated, an 8 story exposed ladder to get to the top, which provides a charming view of the wasteland of the Fairfax District, and an eu de parfum of 100 year old oil spills soaked in riverboat entrails.

9. From here on it gets a bit hazy...we crossed back over the river, heading east into the bottoms yet again, and made our way to the 470 loop and the River Market and the shining palace known to some as the Oasis for Booze and underage prostitution. Luckily there was a lone police officer on site to keep me from being solicited or vice-versa, providing beer to an infant. Our ultimate goal was the new Cinder Block Brewery in North KC, but due to the nut-fucking tranny squirrels that call themselves mt. bikers and all the mechanicals, we were too late in our arrival.

10. The Pier along the Missouri River has for many generations been a place of idle solitude and quiet reflection, as well as a platform for oral ravaging and anal probing...and as we all rode down the stairs -the elevator is only open til 7 pm. - we skidded across a diverse sample of ejaculates, second only in quality to a Thai brothel.

11. Southward toward the Ponak's beacon...and it was only 11 p.m. - are you fucking pulling my bacon? Through the Power and White district, over the Kauffman Center parking garage and back to the Boulevard de Southwest we traveled, and until  El Roberto de Crasho made his prolonged attempt at flight, we were all still in one, straggling piece. Speeding Jesus and I were about 50 yards ahead of JDizzle and Fisky, and were hopping curbs and stairs with the glee of *69 parakeets on crack, and when we arrived at my car we were surprised, that after 5 minutes or so, they were nowhere to be seen. The Jesus took off towards home, and I waited longer, getting concerned that yet another broken bike was being walked back to the starting line. But alas, this was not the case, as Fisky got frisky and hit a curb, which sent him flailing to the pavement: the report as I know it currently is that he could not walk this morning and had to make a trip to the ER, and was then sent to get a CT scan....something about a cracked tibula/fibula/ballsack. We wish him well in his recovery and will miss him dearly at the next group ride - unless we can all chip in and buy him a full body-armor suit.   

Errata addendum attenui...just got the pic below from Mr. Fisk: chipped tibula, out for 3 weeks.

It's time you dirty man-whores...

The Ride for Death starts in one, dog-humping hour...be there or be blown away, or gang-raped by feral cats: your choice.

Bionic Ninja Keagles...

Tonight, tonight, tonighiiiiiitttteeee ohh ohhhhhhh.  Yes, this very evening's - and after-hour - reconnoiter mission to the bottoms of Kansas City were quite the success, even if Urethra Franklin had sand in his vajajay and refused to ride the railroad tracks of death: even Handleballs the Valiant cried chicken livers and passed on the ultra-steep freeway embankment that will be a rite of passage on the Ride for Death. All said and dumb, though, many a hobo was massacred, and many a dirty needle pocketed on our pre-ride of the Southern portion of the 'route'....you should be looking into a living will - or at least call your mommy and wish her well before Saturday night.