Tuesday, November 22, 2016

The $27,000 Fistfuck.

Blood is a Lubricant:


It has been a fortnight plus a fright night plus a depressive, alcohol-fueled two months or so since we last spoke; wherein we visited the Baby Bird wine incident  among other vainglorious saturnalia, amidst a shitstorm of pain and recovery, a veritable flaming train wreck of failed ideology and lack of a moral compass. Then again, let us rejoice in the next Fugazi album, because it'll be a whopper....



The joke goes a little something like this: Paul Ryan, Rand Paul and Ayn Rand walk into a bar; they die from unregulated, poisoned beer. The market will always correct itself right? No need for pesky government oversight of any kind...


Butt, let me get the meat of the issue: my fucking broken-ass right knee. I forget the exact post -not many so far this year so it will be easy to find - so go back and figure it the fuck out. It contains the exact moment that, after 40 odd years of abuse, my knee decided to give out whilst riding a chariot      ( a converted and lowered shopping cart)  pulled by a rope behind Disco The Danimal Boxwine Dan. Imagine trying to itch your right ear with the bottom of your right foot: yeah, the pop, it felt amazing. At least I was properly pickled, and continued to jump through fire pits and eventually find some sort of transportation home albeit in a car if memory serves chicken salad. Of course I naively assumed that it would heal itself, a la The Terminator, so I did little to assuage the injury, snapping it again while surfing in South Carolina and yet again again jumping off a 20 foot cliff in Arkansas into a pool that, in the air, I executed the faux pas of pulling my right leg up for a can-opener. This was the last straw: when I hit the water I blacked out for what seemed an eternity; luckily my fat ass bouyed me to the surface with only 50 gallons of water in my lungs.  


Doctor's appointments were scheduled, eventually culminating in a MRI that revealed a full medial meniscus tear, as well as a large piece of cartilage floating around under my knee-cap. I took the first available date for surgery but kept riding up until the night before, not knowing if it would ever be 100% again - at least a 3 month recovery time. 
Long story short, the surgery went well and my knee resembled a pregnant football upon my return home to a bliss of liver abuse that included attempting in vain to overdose on Oxycontin and 9% abv beer. I now have cables and anchors in my tibia along with some gorgeous scars that will surely end my career as a leg model. 
It took nearly 6 weeks until I could spin on a bike - on the street - and another 10 days to get onto a mt. bike, and today I actually hit up the technical #rockybukake that is Swope Park - 2 hrs of shitty fitness and weak-as-fuck climbing. But I say Cot Dayum, it was the most rewarding ride in at least a century...




From a ride last week with El Blanco Miguel and The Silent Killer..new shit at BuRP is mega killer




Paved trail riding therapy..


..KC Tweed Ride, sponsored by BikeWalkKC and VeloWagonKC.



Crane Brewing in Raytown Mo, taproom opening.





Surfed the Kaw sandbar with the kiddo and Postal Jeff last week as well...


Earlier this year I was recruited to do vocals for a friend's heavy Blues band and last week we recorded a 4 song ep. of original jams. Dig. 



First official off-road ride was The Lawrence River Trail with the kiddo.


It's the condensation fucktard...a classic of #hardcorbincummybuns



























Saturday, September 24, 2016

The Art of Alcohol Poisoning: Pub 'n Pedal 10

 


   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. 































Thursday, August 18, 2016

Lobotomy don't bodda me.

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...





SSKC happened again...the single-speeded bestest eventest on the Planetest.