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.