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  http://www.secondbestcoffee.com/about/ .


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…













Saturday, March 22, 2014

Weak sauce, weekly stash and bleak harbingers from planet Moron...



Warning: this is the first blog post in existence - in Boner Ghost Land - that was/is produced in a realm of sobriety, and, henceforth will suck a giant bag of beaver anal-gland extract. Read on at your own pathetic peril, because God Hates Grape Soda et cetera etc....and she especially hates Straight folks and Coca Cola.


As if I wasn't saying enough about, fuck I forgot what I was saying...anywhore, in the arena of news of import, many a trail was slain this week - actually just Swope, 2 days in a row - and many a brew was abused with the glee of *458 penguins on acid. The 8 Lumens crew, sans The Yam Avenger, hit the dirt and yours truly spread the word of the Boner Ghost to a new contingent from Iowa and the Universe opened her fragrant coochie and birthed a new star in my name.




courtesy of the Oddity Cycles workshop in Haiti...




El Blanco Miguel and his iPhone toss for loss...


Thanks to the O'Posson for this little gem...to replace the one I bent whilst using it for unapproved
sex acts...


And, although I was not present at NAHBS last weekend, my minions were busy assaulting the flora, fauna and sauna...


Going to go Full Rawtard on this bad girl and win me a bike polo game soon...

The next sexy photo section was produced by the Mikey Of Whitey and his Penistitties full of Teletubbies:






And so ends this ebullient Saturday Evening's Post, albeit one in which my ABV was next to zero for once, and failure of other sordid contingencies is on the horizon...











Sunday, March 16, 2014

Fat flat earth nuke...




Soundtrack for the week: Nothing 'guilty of everything' Relapse Records.

Really feel like drinking copious amounts of coffee and writing my blackened heart out, but more important and coherent activities can be found on this snowy, 29 degree day here in KC: mainly, a swanky beer and Girl Scout cookie pairing extravaganza....


Just when the trails were dry and sans snow for the first time in *47 years, yet another moist and freezing blast of bullshite moved in overnight; but the week ahead bodes well for single-track as warmth and lack of precipitation take over the pattern.... Team 8 Lumens was able to convene a small meeting of the man-bags at SMP on Friday night on squishy-iffic, albeit dry trail, and make the *47 mile commute back to KCMO and my 2nd visit to the Bier Station in as many nights:



JL_B8 getting his schnoz all foamy..


Which brings us to the task at hand: saving money and selling off some ill-used bikes from my stable so as to not have to take a 2nd job as a WalFart greeter to finance my addiction to all things 29+...including the above I9/Velocity Dually beauties awaiting my Ti/carbon downward spiral.

Case in point: had to wipe the dust off of this one; time to go to someone with a handlebar mustache and skinny jeans who may or may not be my illegitimate son/daughter.


At least these are still in the fridge so I can have one more night of real beer before I head up to Independence Ave. to make enough money for a 12er of Keystone Light...


















Monday, March 10, 2014

Small cock, big news...


And as it was written: the great flood of Noah and his Narcs was simply the collapse of the land bridge at Istanbul -creating the Black Sea- and the animals, two by ten, had goat sex and donkey shows to attend to. Thank Gawd for Russell Crow and his failing career; please come punch me so I can retire. And, now that the corporate "Daylight Saving Time" is in effect -look it up fools, it is a manufactured bullshit scheme introduced by the Fascist Chamber of Commerce here in the US of Assholes and the petroleum industry - we can now expect the Summer to be right around the corner, waiting for us to get a peephole peek at dry trails. 



Buttplugs in other news, we - 8 Lumens Inc. - got a nice urban (read exurban yuppie fuckunts) ride in Saturday night, which ended up at Velo+, wherein we crashed the EarthRiders chili cook-off, and I burnt my gullet with the hottest shit this side of Tijuana, and Vincent basically shooing us out the door. From there we made the ride to Bier Station and yet another angry owner telling us to use our 'inside voices' and KC looking hawt whilst serving us 4oz pours of amazing barley pop... 20+miles in all, on my SS Krampus....the green one.





Merry Spring Break you twaturds.









Wednesday, March 5, 2014

Consume excrement and perish, Winter...




     Yet another polar vortex has cum and gone, leaving us here in KC with a frozen facial of record-breaking proportions, a veritable Ron Jeremy of moisture. But that's what Fatbikes are for, for felatio's sake, so over the last 5 days or so, I have been out on the Kaw River sandbar twice on ice, snow and frost-bitten, polluted mud attempting to get a few miles on my hippo-like legs before the impending doom of daylight savings time is reversed into the history books...what a freetarded system of analyzing the path of the sun around the earth - as the Republicans believe. I managed to mount the ol' Pro of Go on my helmet this time and got some Travoltaesque, Oscar-worthy footage that if I ask nicely, maybe Fatbike.com will feature in their 'weekly dose of fat' section; though Gomez is frightened that if that happens, the NSA will surely break down his door to ascertain his questionable relationship to the Boner Ghost. So enjoy a smidgen of the Big Muddy's red-headed, mutated, one-armed, two-teethed step brother, aka The Kansas River....

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rLoyk_gqVpo&feature=youtu.be