Saturday, March 29, 2014

The chicken crossed the road and shit in my mouth..

Although some topics that get discussed in minute detail here on the Princess Diarrheas, many bodily functions are best left to the imagination - as long as they belong to a second or third party - for we all know how infatuated we are with our own physiological proclivities, especially those induced by drinking coffee lager and pickled eggs. But before that cul-de-sac of heinous secretions is deliberated by the prosecution, we must venture back in time to Friday morning and my trip to Second Best Coffee in KCMO .

These fine cats came out of the Oddly Correct slow-coffee model, and are doing amazing work out on the southern borders of the Waldo neighborhood…you can even hang your velocipede on the wall next to the bar if you so choose, and as long as you can tolerate a few twisty-staches, the coffee and expresso is top-notchy indeed. I rarely venture that far south but I plan to hit them up as often as possible - 5 choices of espresso by the way…digital.

Next stop was the only dry trail in town - so I be toldeth - at SMP, which, if that's
all ya gots, ain't not bad. I pulled the White Flight Pugsley out of the corner of my shop, not having ridden actual single-track on her since Colorado, which was ostensibly snow-covered trail at 8000+ feet: one of the best rides I've ever had if anyone is counting; special sauce thanks to Redstone Cyclery in Lyons for the Tuesday night special. But back here in what is now the rainy season, with our myriad trail systems spread across all quadrants of our sprawled metro, dry dirt is almost always found if you are willing to put in 30 minutes or so of driving. I do dearly miss Landahl and BuRP, though. The Pugsley is a massive, porky tank and riding it SS is a fucking thigh-busting freetardfest, albeit one in which a short 1:30 of riding equals a workout of Biblical proportions…still an 8 psi kick in the Shennanny nia Twain if you get my Tokyo drift. 

Next on the agenda was an 8Lumens festivus of inebriation - or so I thought - and a night out on the town of down and the KC of North. As per usual, many of the team's flaccid  'members' decided to put their heads in the sandy giner and stay home to catch Downton Abbey re-runs and drink Appetinis with their mistresses. Oh well, now we are a team of 2, as WhiteyMikey and I made an executive decision and kicked everyone else out…until Sunday morning and a re-initiation ride at Perry for Single Speed Dirt Church. Who will make the cut/snip? Anyway, the Captain and the Blanco met up at The Belfry -Celina Tio's posh beer bar behind Collection on Grand - and got loosened up like a Ritchey one-bolt seat post...

El Blanco, Celina and yours liarly.

From there we headed up over the mighty muddy  to Cinder Block Brewery for some local faire and brews - still very good after 4 visits - and a few too many swords swinging amongst the kitties. As a matter of course, Urethra Franklin deduced that he was hankering for a hunk of cheese and brought back to the table a veritable Haute Cuisine of pickled eggs and even more than pickled sausage. I myself, and I do not partake of the foods whenst I am imbibing but I decided to make an exception - since eggs pair well with fine beers, said no one ever. Mr. Whitey took an egg up in his fine hands and gave it the ol' squeezeroo, contemplating his imminent demise in the shape of a chicken abortion. Down the hatch it went and immediately I was placed in limbo as to whether or not to dial 911 before he blew chunks of vinegar yolk across the floor; after 3 full minutes of gagging it irrevocably was masticated. 

I finally got my baby chic into my craw, and, I'm not sure why the egg deserved to be tortured to that degree, but that's why water-boarding is a 'legal' form of coercion. I now am letting off sulfurous, gaseous emissions that could easily fuel a Third-World country for 24 hours if properly burned; a proper end to a productive day if consuming preserved fetuses is the litmus test of success…

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