Siphon the Moob Sweat.

'In order to choose an incorrect course of action, one must first exhaust all other paths of proper behavior.'  The Boner Ghost, circa 1908.  

It looks as though the Midwest and South are in the crosshairs of the Deevil Herself at this point, and my coochie is drying up faster than a team of oxen pulling a cart of goat testes through the Sahara, driven by Oprah in a reflective thong. Yes, I fully realize that it is technically Summer here in KC, but for Van Damme's sake, turn off the fuckety heat lamps for a day or two....some clouds or fog, shite I'll even take some smog from LA if anyone wants to ship me a cargo container full. If only there was a secondary market for my perspiration; there has to be a fetish forum out there in the tubes that would pay me by the liter, which is the world standard system of measurement, Tony Stewart. 

Since the ultimate in debacle-management success that was the Chop 'em Ups of Doom 8 days ago, the cycling scene has been a bit distant to my attendance, and that is purely of my own volition, at least that's what I tell the Captain, and in all liarly, the beer consumption has been impaired as well: this trend must end abruptly, my brothers. As Viking ships are found 100's of miles up the Mississippi  - dating from the 11th century - and Gawd's left gonad is found on the dark side of the Moon, let us all rejoice in the happenstance glee that is discovered when the lottery ticket comes up a winner; in other words, keep on getting in the morer stupiderer line at Burger King as they off-shore their corporate, tax-dogding cuntarded company. May the farce be with thee as per usual....

Another one bites the butt.

Sunday morning concussion Haiku:

                                I love the sound of
                          skull hitting the pavement hard
                                helmets are for rubes.


    If I can be serious for a few milliseconds, let us all rejoice that yet another 8Lumens member ended up in the hospital last night, replete with chunks of head-flesh dripping onto the steril asphalt of the West Bottoms of KCMO and blood sacrifice to the gods of the velo-cult. Cranial protection is, in the 21st century, a must, though in the first 20 years of my life on two wheels helmets were as rarified as a Kardashian's IQ. With that said, there are times when one is inebriated to the point of a fire-breather, and in those holy moments of glee, mistakes and poor riding skills abound like a Mormon bunny orgy at a Cialis convention. Case in point, we, the 8Lumens Army of None, assembled under the guise of illegal parking garage pyrotechnics and canned-beer exploitation,  and gave the angels of aggravated anarchy - on our Penny Farthings with twisty staches - something to write home about from the Eastern Front....Chop 'em Ups is Dead; Long Live Chop 'em Ups.

Since my memory of the events that transpired last night into a human centipede of a downward spiral are minimal at best and completely non-existent at worst, I will of course resort to the tried and true option of listing - in absolutely non-linear order - what I can gather with the remaining brain cells left to my disposal...

1. David HasselShoff is a fucking maniac with a PBL (Pot Blood Level) of 50%. 

23. Curlzeli is the baddest-assed woman on the planet and has attained a lifetime membership in the 8Lumens Army. 

54. Chris-Go again saved the the night, or at least saved Fred from paying for an ambulance, which, by the sounds of sirens by volume, would have taken *56 hours to show up anyway. 

78. The 8Lumens Fund for Growth is going to purchase a full-face downhill helmet and padded suit for Fred in hopes that the next time he 'decides' to blow out both the tires on my Krampus and do a 4 foot drop onto his face he will at least be protected from becoming a short bus volunteer.

69. We might have been witness to the most amazing scene of depravity and poverty all wrapped up in a sexy little bundle of the American Dream atop the abandoned parking garage at 31st and Main: 2 individuals of unknown sexual orientation shooting heroin, stripping copper wire from stolen air-conditioners and slapping salami at the same time in an enclosed stairwell; a feat heretofore unknown to my lurid imagination....

289. The Benspooter formally known as Fukinwhat is without a doubt the corrupt CEO of 8Lumens corporation; a complete array of responsible bikey riding and authority avoidance. 

9. Riding 15 miles home through the warzone that is SW Blvd on a Friday night on a single speed Krampus with a flat front tire might be the penultimate excuse for calling a taxi if those events are ever replicated with any verisimilitude again...

                               

Natural Selection Rejection.

 
   If things had gone the way of the 6000 year old dinosaurs, I would have had a higher percentage chance of attending SSUSA this weekend; that's a cold hard fact you can inscribe in the Holy Book of  Satan folks.  Now that a 'titanosaur' has been unearthed in Patagonia -as tall as a 7 story building, the largest land animal since Noah's chubby half-brother - we can all sleep more betterer at night knowing the Creationists are almost ready to join their inbred kin and porcine amorists at the right hand of GawdAwful, which is actually a  quite comfortable loveseat at the DMV....

Alas and therefore, at least we here in KC have a vainglorious, attendant sense of irony and can amuse ourselves with other forms of two-wheeled entertainment -case in point the infamous Wyco's Revenge marathon mt. bike race held on the thickly-forested hills of the Missouri River. As in previous posts concerning the plethora of incredible single-track we have here in the centermost portion of the contiguous US, those of yooos who have not jumped off of I-70 for a day or two to ride our epic dirt are indeed missing out on a religious experience only best compared to a blow-job on an alter. I had a relatively fast race, considering my training regimen consists of beer and porn, and the occasional Earth Riders hairy taco muncher fest, and I would have pulled off a 5th overall in the open category in the 2hr event, but for some unknown reason I wrecked in grand fashion, at a high rate of speed, and did an Olympic Ballet move through the forest that would make Usher proud to have me on his dance-off panel. That being said, I finally got my bars straightened and my chain realigned and fought back to a 7th place spot - again not bad for a facially-challenged, non aero position on a 29+ feather....good times and great oldies to be sure.

The Unbearable Lightness of Peeing.

In the event that the coming week holds even more bad news for the world as a whole, let us remember that in the end, the Backstreet Boys will cum down upon us, dressed as dooshy angels in bow ties , allowing only those who take Justin Timberlake's name in vain to rise up through the fleshy gates of heaven...

But it all will be in vain once the Great Earthquake of Walmart - originating south of St Louis - swallows us all, taking us to the great sweatshop of middle earth, wherein we can fabricate $200 Fatbikes for the remaining minions of HeyZeus. Clucker clucker, chicken fucker. 

Reality beckons me kindly to talk at length about riding bikes and drinking beer as per usual, and as sweet and succulent as Ms. Verity is, I seem to not have the gumption to elucidate the complicated facets of such decadent behavior; the collective mind is at a fever pitch, an off-camber assault on the senses of proportions not seen in my lifetime... But then again I was a mere child when Reagan took office and sowed the seeds of Freetardedness for generations to come.

The following photos are of the El Torreon Bike Swap, a yearly agglomeration of riffraff and degenerates whose only saving grace is the addiction to the Velocipede:

...I guess I only saved two pics, so enjoy the requisite barley pop images, whilst I load

up the bikes for a trip downtown to Blvd. Brewing for a BikeWalkKC event for First Friday: Ginger Lemon Radler make gooey love to my gizzard.