So sorry nerds, I meant Lando Calrissian -surely the confusion will set in and take hold like the Wrath of Khan. As if this blog needed another reason to begin a story of virtual murder and mayhem with the statement of fact that is the imbibing of barley juice, of riding single-track like deaf bats out of hell, of tire tracks on the ass of the unbelievers, fearful of all that attends itself to the demon that is the 29+.
….nothing that a 40 won't fix.
The impetus, barely hidden behind a rotted patina of shame, for this last week's events was definitively unjust and inept as usual in the Land of the Lumens: one of the founding members was in town for a visit - Captain Sparrow by any other name - so the troops rallied around the temple of spooge and fucked up some dirty dirt after the rains exited; culminating in an over-the-top menagerie of mockery and misogyny that was without a doubt some of the moist funnery I've had in a fortnight or twenty.
Many tires were blown, many El Blancos were taxied home, and many malt liquors were consumed whilst riding the pave' back to the Bier Station, which of course was closing as we arrived - much to the chagrin of the management to be sure. We ended up in Brookside with hot spuds and cold suds, in hopes that any tick or owl residue would not attach itself to our sanded taints - a victory not worth writing home about, let alone mentioning outside the rubber room that is El Ocho Lumenes'...
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