Salacious Laundry...

     It isn't often that I choose to avoid the chance to ride any of my velocipedes for whatever reason, even if it is to the store or den of liquor or dispensary of malted beverages, but tonight I lamed out and opted to talk to myself in textual format and have a triple IPA or ten. I could have ridden out to the newest and coolest bike shop here in KC ( Lenexa to be exact ) and helped officiate a night of home brewing, or taken a short jaunt back over to The Bier Station for their rare bottle night, or better yet taken a limo down to Bazooka's and lost the farm to a future psychologist...

....instead, I am hoping to revisit the events of last week's Team 8 Lumens meeting that lead to my being censored by Instagram which was deserved, granted, but the chain of events that were the sordid means to an end were well worth any nasty emails that the authorities could ever send. I actually think I broke a rib or two laughing at the picture that El Blanco Miguel sent me via text - which I was then dared to post by the group. In the end, as was aforementioned in a previous post, I stayed up and wrote a 3 page pestiferous pile of pulp on how much I despise the faux morality that is practiced by so many and yet never perfected by any. Reverse cerebral interference is such a sick joke and an utter failure -the War on Drugs a macrocosm in effect - that the Emperor wears so many layers of clothing that his fat ass gets in the way of the long view; the brilliant minds of the Right know this all too well: let's get the poor to vote against their economic interests by collaring them with guileless iniquity - led by the nose with the eternal battle that divides and conquers, as it kills more than it saves.

Now let us move on towards the fun shit: knee surgery and late night Fatbike races on the mighty Kaw River sandbar. It seems that Mr. Fisk - of Ride for Death fame - went under the knife today to get his ACL reattached to his schlong...or was it his Tibia? Thank Gaia I am retawded at the Maths, for otherwise I would be a pill-popping surgeon. I am awaiting a Facefuck update on his progress, and at that point dear readers, I will devote a session of tongue-speaking for his speedy recovery. In his own words..."I think I should cut the green one..."

And now for the final thoughts of this short night:

November 23 is going to be the poop to fuck the shit if there ever was a grunt session on my chest...

We are meeting at the Riverfront 'Cross Course parking lot at 7 p.m. and will proceed to get sand stuck in all our orrifi until we can finish a cabinet by dry-humping. If you have never had intercourse with a Fatbike, you are missing out on orgasms that Tommy Lee would kick Pamela Anderson to the curb for; and to ride them on an entire course made from sand is better than Courtney Love with a shotgun.

Be there.

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