The Adventures of Captain Cuntwat and Princess Boner Ghost: 2016

Give me a reputation for being a dastardly drunk and I'll raise you a liver that is so acclimated to partying that it might just take it upon itself to create a new Olympic sport called the 100 meter pickled breast stroker...or possibly the baby-bird wine choker, of which I am a gold-medal holder. You have to be in awe of The Danimal ( @disco_boxwine_dan ) and his problematic penchant for raising the B.A.C. of everyone within a 2 mile radius anytime he leaves his house; at least this lovely attribute makes our "team" every year at the KC Sprints' event Pub n' Pedal the virtual winner in every category, even if my toaster has yet to manifest itself in my sticky little fingers the morning after said event; a testament to 12 beers and 3 rounds of shots - including jello - in a matter of two hours elapsed, and while the sun was still high in the sky, wherever that may be; Taco Bell drive-thru's notwithstanding.

This year Team Penistitties - an agglomeration of 8Lumens luminaries - added a new sponsor: The Brony Industrial League of KC; otherwise known as the Purveyors of PonyPorn. Many Yams were consumed and even more KOM's were cum on, a veritable #rockybukake on the pavement of downtown KCMO, wherein we made it to about 8 bars total before I 'voluntarily' removed myself from the group by 9pm. But, I'm getting a felatio of myself, let us be kind and rewind.

Ol' UnkyJohns, the Jones himself, knows how to stage organized cycling chaos better than most mental patients and much worse than Baron Von Dooshtard, aka Donald Trump's first-born. But, after 10 consecutive years of spanking the velo-monkey, Pub n' Pedal just keeps getting more betterer and remains one of the premier urban-cycling events in the Midwest. Not only has KC become a mecca for the mt. biking scene, but the dirt-punk-roadie contingent is as strong as ever, a blinding assortment of crusty art-twats and PBR aficionados...at least they wear 8Lumens Pussycaps/PonyPorn with gracious aplomb.

El Blanco Miguel sacrificed his sexy, hirsute legs yet again, and schlepped the box wine on his boner-stem TDF racing stead pictured above, supplying our crew with inebriated pit-stops which were random and violently imposed by the Director Sportive the one and homely Bicycle Pubes who is now in the witness protection program for NAHBS doping. Deep Custom is only allowed when Peacock Grove is the MC...

I know for a fact that I failed miserably this year by not finding the taint to make it back down to the Start/Finish in the West Bottoms, in the shadow of Kemper Arena, but our team had quite the rate of attrition, quickly devolving into a rapey version of couples therapy, and since I cannot abide animal abuse, I decided to take a break in a fast-food lawn on Rainbow Blvd, awaking to find that I had somehow purloined a palette of nuclear tacos and the clock showing only 10pm. At this juncture in the festivities I made the executive decision - as CEO of Cuntwat LLC - to ride the 8 miles home instead of adding the insult of being late to the after-party to the litany of near-felonies I had already committed in the name of human-powered transport...til next year y'all fucktards.

In the rare event that Satan in Satin appears before my very eyes and rubs one out in my belly button, let it be known, let it ring from on high, that if somehow my ability to be 110% irreverent in the face of impotent, vacuous fatuousness, please insert an icepick deep into my nasal cavity and put an end to my misery, my waking nightmare that is the acrid bubble wherein the States of Un-raveled finds itself; take the trash out to pasture, rid the World of the massive mistake that is Turtle Island...

Let us rejoice in the pure and unadulterated entropy that is visible from every fetid corner of our electorate, the culmination of every iota of Right-wing propaganda since 1980. Racism equals fear; fear equals intellectual scarcity; solutions are but one genocide away from Ayn Rand. Fuck you fools.

Aside from a latent drug addiction, bikes and beer are still the holy duality, the balm for empathy, the panacea for mass delusion...so shall we embark on a visual journey through the digital memory that is the off-road cycling scene here in Kansas City, a shining star in the turd-laden punchbowl that refreshes more than Oprah on a GMO binge...