(Commander Sparrow's usual genius work...)
Last night was one of those magical, atmospheric nights where the sky seems to be one with the earth and the frozen, liquid-filled air is perfect for a 30 minute ride on a Fatbike to the Bier Station...either that or I was high on fumes from my botched batch of Thursday morning meth. In either case, it was a celebratory evening for one Speeding Jesus - aka Tylor - as it was his 60th birthday; or in goat years exactly one half of that total. It was also intended to be a dual event of sorts, for Team 8 Lumens was to meet up at the Station for libation and #Penistitty abuse; but in the end all was lost - excluding the brave and valiant Fisky ( who drove down with his newly sutured knee) - due to the painful fact that not one of the limp team Members had the huevos to venture out into the snowy night. If I were a lesser woman I would call each of you out - oh what the fuck I will...Handleballs, Chasm, Shoffy, Urethra Franklin, JLb8 and even G-whiz: you lame fuckedy fuckunts; I had to hold down the fort and spoon feed Fisky *46 beers of unknown origin; had to flip the eagle to all the faux-mohawk yuppie assuckers; had to drink *67 4oz pours of every sour beer on tap, all the while feeling every stray boob I could get my broken fingers around. A complete disgrace that the Team of 8 was not there to keep my stack of dimes in my pants....
And while we are on the sordid subject of losers who bale on their fellow lady parts, I am predicting a low turnout for tomorrow night's Fat Sand Nationals: just bring your winter-weight furry puma outfit and some Uggs and you'll be fine. I am bringing 30 gallons of gasoline with which to light a house-sized pile of driftwood, as well as enough whiskey to keep Bukowski drunk for 30 seconds...be there or be forever labeled as a whiny, broke-ass Beiber blower. This is your final warning...
Where's the fucking Fatbike Nationals report you lazy bastard!
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