AAAAAAA

     In the event that my gravestone needs engraving at an earlier date than I expected, let it be known that it should read ' drank himself to life', an aphorism of asterisk-riddled, liver-poisoned pomposity…and to think that I was drunk enough during the composition of the previous post that I mistakenly thought that the Frank Stallone Shady Acres Rim Race was last weekend.

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But at least this gives me adequate time to stock up on box wine and dildos, and enough condoms to wrap around my axles in order to lap everyone *458 times.

One could easily surmise that 10 straight/gay nights of micro-brew abuse would suffice, and one would be correct in such a bold assumption/theoretical observation/postulation. Because, after a 90 degree, ultra-humid day at work and lingering soreness from a 1.5 hour pounding at Swope, I am back on a tea cleanse for a night or two. The storms this evening skirted the central KCMO area so I will hit Swope yet again tomorrow - training for the penultimate challenge of keeping my rim from tacoing Saturday night. 

And, speaking of Chinese Ti bikes, it would appear that The Chasm finally got his rolling, albeit with gears, which automatically revokes his 8Lumens membership, even though he paid fees for a lifetime…

…my crew making final adjustments on his bike with the help of Volker of course.

We shall see if the bike ever actually sees the dirt outside of his cul-de-sac trailer park; if the stars align and the Jaychickens recruit an openly Eskimo basketball player that is: 99% chance of NO.

Clits of Faith.

…this one is of HardCorbin's sweet, condensed cheeks, which got me kicked off of Facefuck but not Instagram.

Words: ridiculous examples of the failure of the human mind to elaborate on the serendipitous moments of reflection that so haunt our every waking moment. Or, conversely: go fucketh thyself in the anuseth.
The latter course of actionable language far better describes the downward spiral that was the group meeting of the rinds last night at the Clips of Faith movie event with New Belgium Brewery; a heinous habitual abusing of all things barley/yeast in origin - a broken series of promises made to the Gawds of proper behaviors and seminal leakage.

Jones' adult XXX bigwheel of Satan Salsa...

After a collection consumption of copious catacombs of sour beers, we, the contingent of Ochos Lumenos, ditched the event at intermission - ostensibly to satiate Handleballs' epic case of the munchies- and yet more brews on the porch of Urethra Franklin's. For those of yoos in the KCMO area, you are well aware of the proximity of the Nelson Atkins Museum of Rich Folks' Pretty Pictures

to  Theis Park where the aforementioned affair was taking place…if not, it really makes no difference or sameness either way. Because, after leaving on our velocipedes -mine being a fully-loaded Necromancer Pugsley - we made a quick pitstop at the Glass Maze on the southern lawn of the museum for a quick, inebriated run-through. Not the best idea ever hatched. Within the first ten feet I smashed my helmeted face into a 'clear' wall, and, then the dashing Ms. Blanco, who was far ahead of me with the rest of the group, punched a wall with her nose, which in turn spurted out blood all over the million-dollar sculpture. As I arrived on the crime scene, White Mikey was stripping off his shirt and attempting to stem the flow from her swollen proboscis. 

But, in true Ochos Lumenos form, she got back on her bike and rode back to Midtown and served Asian salad and taquitos to the rest of us mere mortals…actually, HardCorbin and I made a bike-thru appearance at Panchos, the infamous joint on Main.

Rain was threatening, so the Chasmugger and I headed south to the County of Johnson's and the safety of acceptable rap music and daddy day care. And to think that Saturday night is the Rim Race…my b.a.c. will never let me drive again.

Post Acock-a-lick-tip Wurl Dumbi-nation...

It has been a busy 7 days -also formerly categorized as a week - here in the Palatial Palace de TwatCunt, what with the weather gawds cooperating by providing trail-manna from heathen, as well as the Mikey of Whitey and I moving on to making an order for the Wurl's bestest socks: 8Lumens "fuck yeah" *456 inch-cuff woolies from Sock Guy. There was also a very chilly/drunky bike-in movie put on by Bike-WalkKC at the eponymous Blvd.Drive-in, wherein Handleballs and I were the only teamy members aroused enough to attend….though did I see a little beach-blanket bingo being played by Mr. Balls and his new squeeze?

This week also bodes well for the outer alcoholic without me…Clips of Faith by New Belgium is here in KCMO Thursday night; and my history over the last 4 years of this event is sketchy at best: if you are unlucky enough to run into me late in the evening you will be adorned with a free Taddihogg cycling hat if you only give me a big kissy kiss kiss. 

And if you like Fatbikes, Fatchicks or Fatchubbies, go on Facefuck and let uncle Gomez know that you want one of these fine specimens…and yes I have already received  an epic hummer from Fatima, pictured above. 

Put in a few miles - 1.5 hours - out at an old favorite trail system on the Kansas side this morning ( Kill Creek)  and was rewarded with overgrown, poison ivy-ridden single track, which is still more fun than anal probe given by a rabid ostrich…which, speaking from experience is more satisfying than it may sound. Buy now. War in.

Pickled Reindeer - Fish Tacos - 8 Lumens

     There are few words with the power to accurately describe the imminent world-domination of Team 8 Lumens, though penistitties might be descriptive enough for the haute quality of this blog. For those of you in the bubble that is Republican politics, a refresher course in the origin story/creationist myth of how the Lumens of 8 was birthed out of the fetid coochie of our Dear Earth Daddy is in order. It goes a little sumpin' like this: There once was a Pirate who hosted night rides from his scalawag-infested lair in the high peaks above SMP; from this vantage point, many a dickbagaggeretard was known to arrive with faulty and or redacted lighting; this failure of character was rewarded with taint abuse and equine steaks, followed by beer enemas and toe-sucking; then the ultimate faux pas was injected into the collective psyche of all mt. bike riders throughout the known universe: someone arrived with a mini mag light strapped to their helmet, convinced that this piece of shite of less than 20 lumens would suffice for single-track bombing and park police mocking. After panties were filled with laughter induced poopyness, the attendee - whose identity is being protected for fear of NSA attack - was given a more bettererer darkness eliminating device and the ride was begun in earnest…and after the eventual  drunken denouement, a plan was hatched by someone who is not I to name an International Pro team after this most pivotal event. Though it has taken almost 2 years for 8 Lumens to get on the podium of life-coaching, our time has cum: we have a full kit - if you go nude below the waist - and *458 custom bikes from Oddity Cycles in Ft. Collins. If you watch closely - even closer than you watch your wife not giving you a blow-job - you will see the 8 Lumens, Evil Knevil-inspired jump over the Peloton at this summer's Tour De Pants; a veritable mega-mooning of all things Mor(m)on. You're welcome.

Glorious Anniversary of Doing Epic Poop.

It has been roughly 3 years since my core group of riding partners/criminals shifted into the new school, and away from all things squishy and skinny-tired: as has been stated ad nauseum here in the annals of ahistorical excrement, I no longer own a suspended bike and all 4 of my main ponies are single and sassy, like your mom. With that being repeated, it has been a whirlywinded  downward spiral of excessive spending of time/money/sobriety/birth-control during the aforementioned period of transition, both in terms of who I hang with for the purpose of the mountain bike-cyling, as well as who is available to bail me out of the KCMO cop-shop: I am an unabashed alcoholic/enthusiast who keeps getting faster and more betterer at riding stupidly technical terrain. This is in part  - hell, greatly influenced - by the serendipidous joining of arms with the Pirate Crew ( now Team 8 Lumens) and this blog, which turns one year old this week,  and is a natural outgrowth/tumor of said relationships that are illegal in 49 states. But, after almost 23,000 views in the last 12 months of our Lard, the need for meth grows in me more every day, a testament to the power of prayer and David HasselShoff puking on the ice…

But back to the present boner in hand: the riding has been massive and sick over the last week, including a bust-a-gut Landahl run with The Manimal, and a death-defying charge of the hills at SMP with Urethra Franklin and El Asesino Silencioso. With the rain skirting around the metro this evening the weekend may beckon even more track of the single and dirt and ticks in every orifice - even though we are in near drought conditions. 

…broke out the Classic Krampus -aka THE TANK - for a run to The Crossroads for First Friday last weekend and ended up at the Czar Bar watching the ex-drummer of The Flaming Lips open for a local band, which in the best of terms was an incredible train wreck that was thoroughly enjoyable.

After all is said and over-done, I would like to thank the usual suspects for tolerating my

clinical depression/anger/freetardedness/perversion over the last year…here's to a doctoral thesis on the merits of Ghostly Boners and Princely Twats.