Repetitive Redundancy...

Drink drink and more drink...I see no pattern forming here, so let us move along into this great Black vs. Red Friday from the very depths of heaven....go fuck myself.

For a third time this weeeeeek, I patronized The Bier Station...KC's finest barley-pop establishment, and the discourse degraded into the realms of Three Floyd's Brewery and the animated series 'Archer'...a conquest not unlike the scene from 'Dazed and Confused' where High School chicks are discussed in illogical detail...I might be drunk enough to fellate Matthew McConagay at this point in thyme....you're wel-cum.

Happy "Kill a Native American for Jesus" day...

I will not spend these precious moments - which should be spent with my family - on my usual geopolitical soapbox, but let us remember that we are a country based on exploitation and still are: instead, we, the bottom 90% are ecstatic that TV's and Xbox's are going on sale tonight at 6 o'clock, and that we have become whores to Capitalism on a voluntary basis; Gawd bless Walmart and the Virgin Mary Macy's...

On a more upbeat note - one that has a hippity, hoppity flavor flav - we had a pretty pretty pretty good night ride last night at Swope Park, and only El Blanco's wittle toesies were sacrificed to the Devil of Dirt.  And, per Boner Ghost standards - which are higher than you might think - we made the customary stop at The Bier Station on the way back towards the County of Johnson's... We were joined by a gaggle of gorgeous male prostitutes as well as Team 8 Lumens' favorite Victoria's Secret models, and instead of the pre-ordained drunkenness that is typical for The Cuntwat, Urethra Franklin took the reigns and rode the tranny goats all the way to Beavertown...

The night was also super 'Especiale' for the simple reason that El Blanco has now jumped the shark onto a true 29+...a sexy, seductive Purple Nurple Krampussy: 

Frozen Fat...

Saturday night was an epic collision of arctic air, Fatbikes and driftwood bonfires, not to mention cheap beer and whiskey that, when left too close to the fire, was boiling and bubbling like the Olsen twins on crank.  15 brave souls eventually found their way out the the Great Kaw Sandbar, and thanks to the badass dudes at Velo+ in Lenexa, we had around 8 Fatbikes to choose from, including a Kona Wo and a Fatback...as well as my 3 Pugsleys. An official 'race' never came to fruition - it was 17 degrees - but I did manage to have a major crash whilst riding one-handed, ( my signature move) and this time I had to sacrifice the precious barley cargo to the river Gawds in the process. Thanks to everyone who made the effort to make it a memorable night - even though I have yet to remember any definitive moments - and next time maybe Team 8 Lumens will be represented by a far larger contingent instead of sitting at home petting their kitties and getting the high score on Ms. Pacman...

You lame-ass coitus-ers...

(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...

A few thoughts on the sportball...

Last week saw a near record number of days spent on the single track, and was capped off by a ride down to Westport for the remnants of the Strong Beer Festival and a viewing of Pulp Fiction whilst consuming at least *673 kinds of beer in a 3 hour period....and of course eating like a little piggy in A Christmas Story: why oh why can I not just say no to guacamole and chocolate-sea salt almonds; surely the psychic motivations are PhD dissertation-worthy. I had the opportunity to meet the 8 Lumens crew out at WyCo for yet more SS goodness, but instead opted for a reconnaissance hike on the Kaw sandbar with the kiddos and Joe Schmoe...laying out in my pickled mind a course for the Fat Sand Nationals that will take place this coming weekend on the 23rd.

A look at the long-range forecast is a bit daunting: rain towards the end of the week and then, the coup de grace, a wintry mix and a high of 30 the day of the 'race'. Fatbikes were made for the nastiest of trail conditions, so my concern does not arise from the chance of precipitation, rather, the temperature will surely frighten all but the most resilient and hard-core riders: there will be mucho whiskeo provided so there really is no excuse to sit at home on your deflated sack of seed...

Which brings me to the meat of this here post, the blended anal glands of the swine, the carcass of the crap-filled dog of hot: my own penchant for viewing the sport of balls. I grew up playing futbol as if it were a religion, but American Football was what my father and I watched with a passion every Sunday and Monday nights, a guilty pleasure that I have now passed on to my son of 9 years. As did many a fan of our Chiefs, we had a truncated dinner party last night for the Denver Donkeys game, which ended as expected with Mrs. Manning eating us out like an extra-juicy series of meat-curtains. But, as if that was not enough time spent in front of millionaire lobotimites, I was offered a very rare opportunity by a close friend to attend the KU home basketball game Tuesday night at the eponymous Allen Field House, a venue in which I have never seen a game....and the seats are 10 rows up from center court: good fucking grief. So, short story long, I am choosing the sportball over a warm November night ride; I'm sure it will be an incredible experience, however jaded and cynical I am about my closeted love of athletics - besides cycling, of course. There is something unmistakably visceral about being crammed like sardines into a stadium packed to the brim with rabid fanatics: the mob mentality is without a doubt the most powerful force in humanity, aside from a 10 hour Youporn binge that is....

Just the tip...

    Sometimes your fears fall burning to the ground and sometimes they singe your taint hairs...In the event that any of you out there in bikey-land don't quite understand the catharsis that can be gained from a chilled, leaf-strewn night on the trails (Swope in this case) I cannot stress strenuously enough the amount of joy you are denying yourselves. Last night I joined some old-school mt. bike neighbors of mine for their inaugural foray into the wilds of after-dark single track spanking, and the results were staggering: not five minutes went buy without yelps of either pain or elation; not only did the rocks welcome our wheels with open arms, the leaves, thick as the layers of Honey Boo Boo's folds, provided a cushion of near mattress-like softness....did I just use 'softness' in a sentence? For fuck's sake, someone get me a beer and a dope slap.

And, since Harvey Keitel is not available to clean up my car after a messy night of blatant male prostitution, I am readying myself to again hit the trails - BuRP for the love of Gaia - and the mega-piles of tree detritus that adumbrates the steaming remains of horse fecal matter...equestrians on the forest floor to be sure. Or, since daddy is always in need of a new bike, I might cruise the tennis court parking lot around noon in order to steepen my cash flow for the month...

Ride, for cunnilingus' sake...

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