Sunday, June 29, 2014

Beers Steers and *&@#&!^#s….and beers.

Glory be to the Heyzeus on High: progress is a slow turd, caught in the bowels of elation; offending only those without a sense of tumor.

It has been a busty week here in the land of the Lumens, what with Saxy Golden Swope insanity, multiple visits to the Bier Station and a plentitude of Eggo Waffles that would shame a 3rd world country into a War of Civility. Yes yes y'all, cycling here in the Kansass Shitty is alive and kicking arse, though I missed the monthly Critical Mass on Friday - which was attending by hundreds. I tend to avoid riding in groups on the streets unless I am stumbling drunk and belligerent to the point of rear-view mirror removal force. Butt, therein lies the greater issue of intent: Can one listen to the latest Mastodon Cd without the desire to bash a few car doors with a SPD?

In more coherent words, let us discuss the one year anniversary of the raddddddiest bike shop in all of the county of Johnsons: Velo+ in Lenexa KS. Coffee, beer, bikes and Taddihogg Cycling Hats for fuckety's sake. 

Well…I'm too intoxicated; too over-self-served; too AA Gawd-Fucked to make a worthy analysis of how amazing Vincent and The Dye have been over the last year in promoting all things of the groove. That's really all that needs to be said…more power to y'all train track-adjacent folks: Kick Kansas' ass all the way back to ToPuka and drive the Brownbutt of Sam into the asylum. 

And, although the Bier Station is across the border, as is Mother's Brewery in Springfield, the tap takeover/8Lumens corporal meeting was a complete success, including a rare hot-Yoga session in the parking lot wherein I did damage/insemination thrusts in front of millions of my fan-boys…
That is all: at least until the 8Lumens "Fuck Yeah" socks arrive on Tuesday and we proceed to take over the Durty Wurl one athlete's foot at a time.

Saturday, June 21, 2014

Death Sauce Sausage-Fest.

Yes, you are reading that correctly: 337,000 Scoville Units. 

History and time divided will only tell; moments of glory escape us mere mortals faster than a drunken sailor humping a wooden mermaid, but all is well when #hardcorbincummybuns is in the house: He who turned a mere 26 years of age this day - I have * 89 illegitimate children older than that - is the 9th or 10th wonder of the world in the eyes of Team 8Lumens; for it is he who is able to skid his janky-ass,  broken-tire-bead-rim 4000 feet down Main St. KCMO at 12:30 a.m. on a Friday night….But his superhuman attributes do not extend to a tolerance of the peppery juices of heat; nor the squeezed and fermented by-products of said extractions. Let the terror begin.

Outside the Belfry KCMO after a rim-grind left his SS with a 2" wobble.

Would have imbibed this baby-cake, but it was only 4.2% abv, ostensibly water in my veins.

Team 8Lumens may be famous the world over at this point, but here in KC we can only seem to muster a threesome for a night of urban destruction, a panoply of saint-killing behaviors, a veritable series of events only best described as Velo-Terrorism. But, with fame comes arrogance and with arrogance comes risk-taking and of course that brings threats of violence and 500 ft. industrial crane climbs that never quite come to fruition. With that said, perilous actions of quite another flavor were taken on with blind/brainless abandon in the form of comestibles at Grinders in the Crossroads: Death Sauce was dared; Death Sauce was downed; and Death Sauce came back up….

If any of yooos out there in the wilds of non-flyover cuntry have never ventured into the downtown KCMO area, you are missing out: world-class beer and restaurants, music and merriment, and of course pizza and wings at the aforementioned Grinders. Now, Death Sauce is just one of their signature pepper- based gravies, all being top-notch of course, and pilgrims travel thousands of kilometers in search of their pizza as well….but back to the Salsa De Muerto: you must sign a waiver to consume the wings doused in the Devil's Spit and are warned repeatedly that even a tip of a toothpick will kill *467 baby seals without a club in sight: It's akin to playing "I know" by Helmet at your born-again Grandmother's funeral, then dancing on the tables in a Jaegermeister Thong at the Baptist Church potluck. All that and more, to tell the truth. Anygay, I started talking excrement early in the night -which is my raison d' etre - and as the remainder of our Motley Stew craved the aliments, the discussion came around to the legend of those who have died trying the Death Sauce and the *-123 who have came out alive. I, myself have long been acclimating to extremely hot salsas and barbecue sauces, so, even though I am not a fan of wings -they are to me little more than poultry pussy with remnants of feathers- I committed to trying a nickel-sized sample on my Big-Ass-Cheese-Tots, because I am a racist towards my 1/8th Irish heritage.

that is less than 2 inches of liquid for reference…

El Blanco ordered an entire pizza for his dark ass, and HardCorbinCummyBuns asked kindly for a veggie sammy and fries and 4 gallons of PBR as is rationed in the trailer parks of Sugar Creek MO.
Then the Scovilles hit the factual fan: I dipped a single tot, covering one end and threw her/him down the hatch like a sorority girl using a straw to get the giz out of a prophylactic. It.Fucking.Burned. Not bad really, not enough to not sop up the rest on three more tots - good flavor overall. My voice dropped a few octaves for about 5 minutes and I sweat enough to fill a pint glass, but in the end I felt quite like a jockey spanking the Medusa with a whip made from the pubes of Godzilla. I had won, Muerto had put away his scythe and life would last at least 10 more minutes. 

too bad the Chasmgasm was there only in spunk...

The simple fact that I had cum out the other side with my bodily functions intact infuriated the surrounding patrons of Grinders, including Handleballs, for he decided to simply lick the millimeter left in my sample lid to prove that the old man could never have graced the Sauce with such fortitude and bravery of the gullet. Major mistake. He immediately began hyperventilating and convulsing, replete with profuse sweat and bulging- red eyes, rocking back and forth in a seance of tongue-speak and Satanic-salacious vernacular. Oh how the mighty fell over the next 10 minutes: he attempted to mute the flames with Urethra Franklin's Bacon/Cheese pizza and glass after glass of agua-fresca; and myriad threats of up-of-the-chuck. The rest of our congregation sharted in our chamois laughing and pointing until he finally turned white and stumbled into the water-closet and purged his innards of the conflagration within. Dear Gaia, it might have been the pinnacle of drunken abandon, more satiating than a greased lap-dance from the skinny Oprah. 

As is with youth, recovery is a fickle mistress, but HardCorbin rebounded with post haste and we continued North to Power and White to ride/jump stairs and eventually to The Flying Saucer for one last brew at Midnight; and of course the Ball of Handle stripping down to his tri-shorts which kept me from getting a date from the sundry effluvium of ladies de la noche -a blessing in disguise as per usual. Next time don't stay at home amongst your vintage rubber phallus collection and *345 ferrets and come out and destroy some pave' with the Team of Eight: regrets will be fleeting. 

Sunday, June 15, 2014

Indolent Masturbatorium.

What a week it has been dear leaders of the Freetarded Wurl: 7 days of drunken abandon - well, minus 3 that were spent in a dry county in central Arkansas - but who is counting when you can make up the time lost with beers like this:

Butt, as per usual, I am getting a foot of myself…Let us 'remember' the previous half-fortnight with fortitude and flavor, slowly analyzing the vast knowledge gained and the myriad brain cells lost through either lack of use or alcohol poisoning or any combination thereof. 

1. Chasmgasm celebrated his sweet 16 in style, frying up concrete-dusted shrimpies and chickies, along with a few brats dowsed in espresso barbecue sauce supplied by yours liarly. El Blanco was his typical selfless self, arriving 2 hours unfashionably late because gravel-grinding is far more important than having friends. 

2. Traveled to the Boston Mts. of north-central Arkansas for some swimming hole abuse and hiking with the family, hitting the Glory Hole Falls and Round Top Mountain, then spending the entire day winding through poison ivy-infested trails in the Richland Creek Wilderness area, ending with a few hours at one of the coolest swimming spots in the midwest, Falling Water Falls.  Then ended the trip with a visit to the Hasty area on the Buffalo River, followed by a tour of the Hurricane River Cave -incredible and worth the time - but as is always the case, the most difficult part of the drive was the 10 miles or so of Branson Buttarded Billboards; give me strength and all the legal grenades available and the problem would be eliminated.

3. Broke out the old-school Eletro-Industrial DJ chops for a party Friday night and proceeded to drink enough Blvd. Tank 7 to forget to ride back to the venue after a 1:30 a.m. coffee run that was unsuccessful to say the most. 

89. Urban Dirty #1 was last night and I won nothing but delayed sobriety.

…89 continued: Let it be said that David HasselSHOFF and his crew of near-homless minions can cut a fucking trail like IMBAers on speed; or whatever consciousness-avoiding substance is available when driving a mini backhoe. That being said, the rain here in KC has been relentless - 8 inches in the last week alone - and the trails have been slicker than a donkey show in Tijuana. But that did not stop us from having a little 'race' in the Rozarks under the Rosedale Arch, which was replete with my first flat in over 3 months, as well as enough mosquitos and pit bulls to last me a lifetime. Still an effingham of a blast, mud, blood and all, though everyone was brownied out by 930 and I consumed Gatorade instead of obliging  the normal magnetic pull of the Bier Station, which is somehow always on my way home when riding a velocipede. 

345. My Kona Ute cargo bike is almost 5 years old now, so it's time to fuck around with a newer model/type of faux car…I want one of these Virtue Trucks for no reason other than it's a bicycle and bikes are saxy golden showers of love.

904. Kat Daley and Geekhouse Bikes are just fucking cool as all helly hellness.

This is the shit that blew through at 4 a.m. making the off-roading even more out of reach...

Sunday, June 8, 2014

Jehovah's Piss Test

At this moment of momentary worship, on this Wholiest of Sacredesty mornings, I prey to the master of the University, the commander in cheese, the lady in the waiting room, and of course the highest of all baked goods, Sir Penistitty the Great.  In the probable case that a blog post written whilst imbibing coffee instead of Beezlebubba's taint scrapings begins to travel on a downward spiral wherein sense is made and revelations are reprimanded, please pull the plug and go forth with your day young lads and lassies, for it's about to get all academic up here in your y'all Princess.

Scoopy Scoopy Poo, where are you…?  No, really, there are importanterly news of such mega-importantance that I can barely keep my bowels from exploding forth with the glee of * 456 Oprah impersonators on SlimFast. No riding to report on, other than multiple road forays to and from the watery hole, and back and forth to Westport after grain-alcohol abuse, which was sent to me from a 'friend' in Austin who knows of my penchant for all things distilled - a homemade Limoncello hooch that was cleansing of both body and soul, if tripping balls  while riding a Cargo bike 8 miles is on the spectrum of 'clean'. 

So, as many of yoos who live in the Midwest know, our drought is officially over for now, as the last 7 days have better wetter than Paris Hilton's  coke drool: no trail riding, no dirt-worship of any kind. But that is not to say that muchos is not hiding behind the closet door in the cycling community here in KCMOish.
You favorite Terroristas of Terror, Team 8 Lumens, have moved on to the next phase of Wurl Dumbination and will be receiving 150 pairs of tall, black "Fuck Yeah" socks here by the end of the month - you can order them from our Big Cartel site - and the first Urban Dirty race of the summer is next weekend, wherein I will crush Gwhiz and take a victory lap on his Amazonian gams. 

Thanks be to HardCorbin Cummybuns for the below dos picturos from the DK, where he broketh the law and brought the wrath of the Northern States down on his crusty toes...

Cinder Block Brewery, North KCMO…I might just camp out under these barrels while they age.

Folks, it's past time to get down and boogie to the seriousness: I promised myself that I wouldn't waste your time with a story of Freetards and their Gawd; but it must be brought into the light so all can bask in its inherent and explicit glory.

picture was edited by the man, the myth the legend, Chasmgasm.

It would seem that someone who isn't named Handleballs placed a couple of 8Lumens stickers on this fine automobile at the Dirty Kanza, which in turn brought the wrath of said vehicle's owners to myself through Facefuck etc. and proved to drag a fine local business owner into the fray as well. Not Rick James in my book bitches. If I wanted to compete for Christ, I would do as all priests do: fondle boys and suck each other off in the rectory while having a 'blood of Jehovah party'. It's 2014, people. I realize fully and painfully that we do live in the bible chastitty belt, but for Fuckunt's sake, peel the offending sticker off and chalk it up to a political protest: that's what the Boner Ghost would do, and he would do it with a smile on his giner. You are on the wrong side of history and your ilk will be swept aside into the dustbin of evolutionary, biological, scientific veracity, so sorry to report. I would expend more effort on this parody of itself, but I am not drunk enough on Bean Juice to find the intestinal fortitude to go on….

…and I didn't even get to a feel-good report on the Moonmen of Ft. Collins and their 00 bike.
Next installment ladies and germs, next installment.