Frozen Fat...

Saturday night was an epic collision of arctic air, Fatbikes and driftwood bonfires, not to mention cheap beer and whiskey that, when left too close to the fire, was boiling and bubbling like the Olsen twins on crank.  15 brave souls eventually found their way out the the Great Kaw Sandbar, and thanks to the badass dudes at Velo+ in Lenexa, we had around 8 Fatbikes to choose from, including a Kona Wo and a Fatback...as well as my 3 Pugsleys. An official 'race' never came to fruition - it was 17 degrees - but I did manage to have a major crash whilst riding one-handed, ( my signature move) and this time I had to sacrifice the precious barley cargo to the river Gawds in the process. Thanks to everyone who made the effort to make it a memorable night - even though I have yet to remember any definitive moments - and next time maybe Team 8 Lumens will be represented by a far larger contingent instead of sitting at home petting their kitties and getting the high score on Ms. Pacman...

You lame-ass coitus-ers...

(Commander Sparrow's usual genius work...)

Last night was one of those magical, atmospheric nights where the sky seems to be one with the earth and the frozen, liquid-filled air is perfect for a 30 minute ride on a Fatbike to the Bier Station...either that or I was high on fumes from my botched batch of Thursday morning meth. In either case, it was a celebratory evening for one Speeding Jesus - aka Tylor - as it was his 60th birthday; or in goat years exactly one half of that total. It was also intended to be a dual event of sorts, for Team 8 Lumens was to meet up at the Station for libation and #Penistitty abuse; but in the end all was lost - excluding the brave and valiant Fisky ( who drove down with his newly sutured knee) - due to the painful fact that not one of the limp team Members had the huevos to venture out into the snowy night. If I were a lesser woman I would call each of you out - oh what the fuck I will...Handleballs, Chasm, Shoffy, Urethra Franklin, JLb8 and even G-whiz: you lame fuckedy fuckunts; I had to hold down the fort and spoon feed Fisky *46 beers of unknown origin; had to flip the eagle to all the faux-mohawk yuppie assuckers; had to drink *67 4oz pours of every sour beer on tap, all the while feeling every stray boob I could get my broken fingers around. A complete disgrace that the Team of 8 was not there to keep my stack of dimes in my pants....

And while we are on the sordid subject of losers who bale on their fellow lady parts, I am predicting a low turnout for tomorrow night's Fat Sand Nationals: just bring your winter-weight furry puma outfit and some Uggs and you'll be fine. I am bringing 30 gallons of gasoline with which to light a house-sized pile of driftwood, as well as enough whiskey to keep Bukowski drunk for 30 seconds...be there or be forever labeled as a whiny, broke-ass Beiber blower. This is your final warning...

A few thoughts on the sportball...

Last week saw a near record number of days spent on the single track, and was capped off by a ride down to Westport for the remnants of the Strong Beer Festival and a viewing of Pulp Fiction whilst consuming at least *673 kinds of beer in a 3 hour period....and of course eating like a little piggy in A Christmas Story: why oh why can I not just say no to guacamole and chocolate-sea salt almonds; surely the psychic motivations are PhD dissertation-worthy. I had the opportunity to meet the 8 Lumens crew out at WyCo for yet more SS goodness, but instead opted for a reconnaissance hike on the Kaw sandbar with the kiddos and Joe Schmoe...laying out in my pickled mind a course for the Fat Sand Nationals that will take place this coming weekend on the 23rd.

A look at the long-range forecast is a bit daunting: rain towards the end of the week and then, the coup de grace, a wintry mix and a high of 30 the day of the 'race'. Fatbikes were made for the nastiest of trail conditions, so my concern does not arise from the chance of precipitation, rather, the temperature will surely frighten all but the most resilient and hard-core riders: there will be mucho whiskeo provided so there really is no excuse to sit at home on your deflated sack of seed...

Which brings me to the meat of this here post, the blended anal glands of the swine, the carcass of the crap-filled dog of hot: my own penchant for viewing the sport of balls. I grew up playing futbol as if it were a religion, but American Football was what my father and I watched with a passion every Sunday and Monday nights, a guilty pleasure that I have now passed on to my son of 9 years. As did many a fan of our Chiefs, we had a truncated dinner party last night for the Denver Donkeys game, which ended as expected with Mrs. Manning eating us out like an extra-juicy series of meat-curtains. But, as if that was not enough time spent in front of millionaire lobotimites, I was offered a very rare opportunity by a close friend to attend the KU home basketball game Tuesday night at the eponymous Allen Field House, a venue in which I have never seen a game....and the seats are 10 rows up from center court: good fucking grief. So, short story long, I am choosing the sportball over a warm November night ride; I'm sure it will be an incredible experience, however jaded and cynical I am about my closeted love of athletics - besides cycling, of course. There is something unmistakably visceral about being crammed like sardines into a stadium packed to the brim with rabid fanatics: the mob mentality is without a doubt the most powerful force in humanity, aside from a 10 hour Youporn binge that is....

Just the tip...

    Sometimes your fears fall burning to the ground and sometimes they singe your taint hairs...In the event that any of you out there in bikey-land don't quite understand the catharsis that can be gained from a chilled, leaf-strewn night on the trails (Swope in this case) I cannot stress strenuously enough the amount of joy you are denying yourselves. Last night I joined some old-school mt. bike neighbors of mine for their inaugural foray into the wilds of after-dark single track spanking, and the results were staggering: not five minutes went buy without yelps of either pain or elation; not only did the rocks welcome our wheels with open arms, the leaves, thick as the layers of Honey Boo Boo's folds, provided a cushion of near mattress-like softness....did I just use 'softness' in a sentence? For fuck's sake, someone get me a beer and a dope slap.

And, since Harvey Keitel is not available to clean up my car after a messy night of blatant male prostitution, I am readying myself to again hit the trails - BuRP for the love of Gaia - and the mega-piles of tree detritus that adumbrates the steaming remains of horse fecal matter...equestrians on the forest floor to be sure. Or, since daddy is always in need of a new bike, I might cruise the tennis court parking lot around noon in order to steepen my cash flow for the month...

Ride, for cunnilingus' sake...

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Ba Donka Bonk...

It looks as though one brave soul is willing to put his/her life on the line tonight and ride with me out into the beautiful 60 degree weather to take another care package of beer and cheer to Mr. Fisk after his knee surgery success yesterday. Although the wind is blowing more leaves than Paris Hilton, an urban mt. bike ride is always more enjoyable than it sounds, especially when stops are made at Swagger and the Bier Station. And, though I have to work in the morning, I plan on attending the hippest 'cross race in the area -  at the Heartland Park dirt track in Topuka KS - Saturday night, racing under the raceway lights with my Slimen Und Grossen team members. I again will ride either the Jones or the Krampus, because when you have 3 other real 'cross bikes - one that is full carbon and weighs 17 lbs. - one should always choose a 28lb. steel beast that floats up stairs and other obstacles: and if the keg is flowing correctly, with no hands.

Salacious Laundry...

     It isn't often that I choose to avoid the chance to ride any of my velocipedes for whatever reason, even if it is to the store or den of liquor or dispensary of malted beverages, but tonight I lamed out and opted to talk to myself in textual format and have a triple IPA or ten. I could have ridden out to the newest and coolest bike shop here in KC ( Lenexa to be exact ) and helped officiate a night of home brewing, or taken a short jaunt back over to The Bier Station for their rare bottle night, or better yet taken a limo down to Bazooka's and lost the farm to a future psychologist...

....instead, I am hoping to revisit the events of last week's Team 8 Lumens meeting that lead to my being censored by Instagram which was deserved, granted, but the chain of events that were the sordid means to an end were well worth any nasty emails that the authorities could ever send. I actually think I broke a rib or two laughing at the picture that El Blanco Miguel sent me via text - which I was then dared to post by the group. In the end, as was aforementioned in a previous post, I stayed up and wrote a 3 page pestiferous pile of pulp on how much I despise the faux morality that is practiced by so many and yet never perfected by any. Reverse cerebral interference is such a sick joke and an utter failure -the War on Drugs a macrocosm in effect - that the Emperor wears so many layers of clothing that his fat ass gets in the way of the long view; the brilliant minds of the Right know this all too well: let's get the poor to vote against their economic interests by collaring them with guileless iniquity - led by the nose with the eternal battle that divides and conquers, as it kills more than it saves.

Now let us move on towards the fun shit: knee surgery and late night Fatbike races on the mighty Kaw River sandbar. It seems that Mr. Fisk - of Ride for Death fame - went under the knife today to get his ACL reattached to his schlong...or was it his Tibia? Thank Gaia I am retawded at the Maths, for otherwise I would be a pill-popping surgeon. I am awaiting a Facefuck update on his progress, and at that point dear readers, I will devote a session of tongue-speaking for his speedy recovery. In his own words..."I think I should cut the green one..."

And now for the final thoughts of this short night:

November 23 is going to be the poop to fuck the shit if there ever was a grunt session on my chest...

We are meeting at the Riverfront 'Cross Course parking lot at 7 p.m. and will proceed to get sand stuck in all our orrifi until we can finish a cabinet by dry-humping. If you have never had intercourse with a Fatbike, you are missing out on orgasms that Tommy Lee would kick Pamela Anderson to the curb for; and to ride them on an entire course made from sand is better than Courtney Love with a shotgun.

Be there.

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