I'll take a banana with a side of fake orgasm.

 

 
     In the pantheon that is the panoply of saints and sinners, one vastly superior soul stands above all the rest, showering the throngs of minions with his special sauce: Ronald Reagan. That is, if you cream your jeans for the worship of the false idol of supply-side economics, and the Gaffer Curve, which  should be renamed the Abortion As Wedge Issue financial obviation, wherein the poor are convinced that the Free Market is an actual, living breathing entity that solves all the ills of the trailer park. I would spend the next 2 hours defending Bernie Sanders and Elizabeth Warren, all the while disparaging Mrs. Clinton as the centrist Republican that she is, but instead, since this blog is ostensibly devoted to all things bikey, I will only suggest that one listens to track #1 of Kyuss' Sky Valley until all the demons are transformed through her purring motor...666 miles per hour.

If there were any coherent way in which to review the last 2 weeks of planetary, gravitational motion,  I would make a list, an annotated list a la a La Pirata cXc race report, but then again my overly-pickled liver would revolt in a protest akin to an Oprah audience finding out that instead of a new car for every brainwashed mom, a $2 gift certificate to Hobby Lobby was the all-desired gift du jour....though, we as swollen members of the Crew of the 8Lumens know all too well that the only legal way to obtain mental clarity is simply to ride single-track on a new steed, one that flows like the juices of manna from the coochie of the Deevil.

Observe the Pivot Les Fat, probably the apex of the Fatbike/29+ evolutionary process, in full-carbon bonerificism, a bullet disguised as a mt. bike, a bicycle masquerading as a matte-black stripper. I have only had the consensual ability to ride this hot-to-twat goddess on the trails twice before the Noah-esque floods inundated the KC area, but I can report, dearest Jim Jones Kool-aid imbibers, that this bike is a Porn Star that shoots it's load for 3 hours at a time....

...and, speaking and screaming for mercy under the weight of a feather of Fruit Loops, my next bike is in the chamber of the Oddtitty maniacal Meth Lab in FOCO: it is almost done; after I sell my golden semen to the Queen of  The Kardashian, which is Hot Neon Pink on the pole.

This is the OrChasm's Oddity #Twerker 29+. Fucking BADDASSERY TO THE MAX HEADROOM.

Oddity Cycles Dot Cum. Do it. You know you'll need a Cialis.

Over-drunk and under-medicated.

In the age of overt ridiculousness and inert ineptitude I shall throw myself into the ring and reward the Wurl with a bout that rivals a Rosanne Vs. Oprah deathmatch in Jello-Pudding with Bill Cosby as referee: Holy Fuckoly let's get this rumble of stumble started.

In the interim period between this magically-delicious night of porch beers and porno tryouts and my last eponymous post, activities have been more like a multitude of fishes from HeyZeus' hands than a Frasier-chair of flabolanches and chicken-fry orgies at a Burger King in Havana; more than an embarrassment of riches with no reward, less than a poke in the prick from a hobo. So many days and nights of Hero Dirt at SMP and Swope - the home of Single Speeeeed Kansass Shitty - and even more late nighty nights imbibing grains fermented into kegs of juicy juices from the loins of the Goddess. Long live 7Lumens and her panoply of saints, for we are the music makers, the dreamers of the cream sauce with a side of Gummy Hairs. 

Fuck the PoPo.