Shit on my Tits: an erudite extradition of erectile function...

     In the wake of the #metoo movement - which I am 110% in support of - I have questioned the name of this blog (even though it was initially to piss off the 'religious right') and have thought deeply and sensually about changing the title to maybe a less 'offensive', albeit Dada-esque moniker. Maybe the initialization could become something akin to 'Another Conscious Cavalcade of Pubic Ball Gonads' or 'Anal Connoisseurs Conduct Period Ballets with Grover' or perhaps a Pence-endorsed heading such as 'Arisen Christ Covers the Papal Bible Gonorrhea'. In either/or/nor/none case, we have here a conundrum of postmodern concern and, though it is not my aim to make an overt affront to the fairer, more intelligent sex, it is nonetheless a pertinent pattern of self-recognition that I must follow, and, if I so choose to label myself Captain Cuntwat or Princess Boner Ghost, the Gawds should allow me my destiny, whether proffered or preferred. In the macabre end, which it surely will be, a downward spiral not unlike a black hole sucking on a entropy-infected donkey schlong, it may be fitting that the 6 words will have to be stricken from the electronic register, because I will be the first to admit that words have emotional weight and have been used in a mostly derogative fashion, one that is focused directly on impeding and defaming women for centuries. But, words are also nothing without inherent intent, and though it is not my place to interpret anyone else's sensibilities, I find it difficult not see the obvious humor - dark as it may be - in the appellation that encompasses ACCPBG. So vote with your fingers, sticky and cramped as they may be...for now we stay in the dingy realms of #ballsdeepinatunacan. Or Infinite Jest.

Things have been extra-thingy, so thing-infused here in KC with the cycling scene, from Volker becoming One Star, to *569 more miles of new single-track being built every week, to a solid new crew of #8Lumens recruits that I cannot and will not stop, even for the breaka dawn; never have I been so impressed with our city and its denizens of the Mountain Bike-cycle - the gnar is flowing like manna from Hellven. That being said....I am once again sans any type of suspension on my 4 off-road bikes and after a 3 month stint with a dropper post - my second attempt at justifying the sissy-stick - I have rid myself of even that piece of modern accoutrement. Tires at least 3 inches wide, with a preferred width of 3.8 ( with a 27.5 rim ) have overtaken the stable, and though the stallions are fast and rough, my enjoyment whilst straddling these #rockybukake beasts has never been higher.

Since we are in an early season mini-drought in the KC metro - roughly 5 inches below average - and since our Winter lasted practically 'til the very end of April, we have had little down time as far as trail closures are concerned ( our clay-based soil, though rocky, takes 2-3 days to dry out so as not to damage the trails ) so we have been getting a lot of quality riding days under our belts for this point in the year. And really that's all that matters: single-track with friends and copious beer as pain-relief; same as it ever was, same as it shall ever be, regardless of how many Sleep concerts I miss and Stormy porn that I don't. Stay dirty. 

OneStar soft-core opening party...

Bored Meatings a total sucksex as of late...

Stacking short-pours, works every time. 

  

 

Call it a Cum Back.

     So many lost mammaries, so much morer time to forget how to remember them, and never enough Oxford commas to get my chubby past 3rd base at Buddies; so goes the last 4ish months of silencio silencio silencio...the log lady has spoken.

    It's probably a rhetorical statement of vastly out-sized proportions to state the obvious: I'd better not start this update of events in the beginning, rather begin at the end, which currently has me highly confused to why my *anus is so sore.                                                                                        

*Addendum: not the actual bunghole, just the entirety of the areas surrounding it, mainly every single bone and muscle from toe to head.

Last night was Pub n' Pedal 11, yes that indicates the years this event has terrorized KCMO, and to be sure, it never disappoints, at least in the 6 years that I have attended; even the rain held off til after the toaster had melted - by my own hand... Liar: It started up with a vengeance at about 11:15 as I passed into Johnson county, douching me for the last 20 minutes of my 15 mile return trip on my trusty Surly LHT. Butt, as per historical precedent, my astute summary is lacking the essential fake news with which one can understand the gravity of Team PonyPorn's ultimate demise, by the hand of Panchos on Main - and the hurling of Coors Light shorties at pre-millennials.

The core, rigid members of PonyPorn have been together for multiple years now, and our goal is never to win said event -PnP- but to lay as much waste to the streets of KC and to offend as many unknowing patrons of the 25 or so bars on the manifest, consuming boxes of wine and batting for both teams - at least that's my position on the field - whilst getting alcohol poisoning and smashing as many windows as the law allows, figurative or not. This year Boos and crew were added at the last minute, a welcome addition to the over-arching goal of a blood transfusion by 10:30. I was reminded of an incident from last year's PnP wherein I was 'seen' hurling full cans of beer at cars on Westport road, the key word being 'reminded' for I have no recollection of said events, but, being a professional drunk, did not deny the story in the least. This sums up how our team is the all-time best, and how, given rampant constellations of aplomb, is also the worst. 

As was foretold, beforehand, preliminarily, hitherto later in the prelude; after nearly a month of drought, we here in the KC metro area were served a plate of slap-ass in the form of Beezelbubby storms, which gave the PnP after-party a certain electric charge, and had I not mis-read my surroundings - as well as the GPS - I would have arrived home before the Hellvens opened up, cleansing my body of layer upon layer of fine, boxed Cabernet. Dan is the Deevil y'all. 

In the interim months since my last post concerning NAHBS 2017, a few itinerant events of import have dropped into my poisoned palette, mainly SSUSA in Bellingham WA, and SSKC here in my homeland, roughly 5 miles south of my humble crack house, at the Blue River Trails - the latter being rained out; still remaining a legendary saturnalia of slime and Boos dipsomania. 

Oddity, Mone' and gay for the stay. 

Almost forgot: WSATU was was was was was sticky. 

And, cuck me, also forgot about the FAT DRAG races up at Velo Garage in N.KC, a fine dining event if I've ever ordered the caviar. 

#whoisbicyclepubes

Deejay for Hotel 7 manager. 

BPR porn at SSUSA 

Atop the Chuckanut, looking west out on the Pacific. Fucking painful magic at SSUSA.

2 day trip down to Iola and then to Fall River KS with the kiddo: killer new trail systems. IN KANSAS you fucks.

Day trip up to Lincoln NE and Monkey Wrench Cycles - incredible - and Boiler Brewing Co. 

B-day breaking and entering with some 8Lumens luminaries at Imperial Brewing etc. 

I went to NAHBS and all I got was a mouthful of Pubes.

 

   

     In the end there was light, a dark at the end of the tunnel, a spark that lit a pile of Blackcats that eventually made me lose my eyebrows. Or maybe it was a simpler, more inane message from Gawd, one in which it became my prerogative to interpret golden tablets and have a wife for every night of the week; a bonus if one of those matriarchs had a hot daughter that came of age at 11; and a double bonus if I didn't have to interact with black people 'til the 1970's. The only downside to this Utopia being that coffee had to be decaf and my underwear was not only always clean, but inspirational to the point of magic. Ah America, the only place where such snake-oil salesman thrive, even inspiring the 20th century version akin to a horrid amalgamation of Star Wars and Buddhism....what have we done to ourselves but repeatedly shoot our feet and wonder oh wonder why we are bleeding.
    Thus began my trip to Salt Lake City.
    Not my first time through the Land of Mor(m)on, but it was my first stay of more than a few hours, 3 full days to be exact.
    This was my 3rd consecutive year attending NAHBS as an Oddity Cycles groupy/escort girl and boy howdy was it a letdown...the only truly outstanding moment being my coupling with my Greenie Weenie 27.5x3.6 monster truck beauty:

This bike, replete with a powder-coated Ti fork, stem/bars and post, had been a collaboration between myself and the Pirate, aka Burnsey - along with Paul Components and HED wheels - wherein I had to grease his stripper pole repeatedly and turn tricks to afford the exorbitant pricing of a #deepcustom artisan who would never build a Michael Jackson tribute bike. Butt, the key element, the piece de la resistance was the simple, yet elegant anatomy that graced the logos...

...half-eaten dog bones, or #tinydicks as the Trumptards would call them. 

The moral of the whory is simply to never tempt a Boner Ghost with boners, however 'not to scale' they may be. If you are one of the 2 people out of a meelyon who have not yet seen the Radavist's coverage of my Oddity cock-pit, then follow them thar series of tubes over to his MySpace page.   

         For reasons that only my parole officer can legally explain, I was unable to make it to Ft. Collins and join the caravan -i.e. the #hardcorbincummybuns fart bus - and the drive to SLC, and was forced to fly first class from KC with my entourage of bald Pomeranian comfort animals, as well as a suitcase filled with Kanye West's Oprah love letters. 

Shit went down though, and all but a select few of the Original 8Lumens founding members arrived at the convention center, our glory on high being exalted by the presence of the DeFeet booth where I was informed that our 'Fuck Yeah' socks ( the brainchild of El Blanco Miguel) are still the numero uno selling sock in the 'artist series'...if only I was more sober I could recite the sordid tale of how these socks originally came to fruition, a tome so dense with irony that it drips with pathetic groveling and ass-spelunking;  I cannot even begin to fart in their general direction.  

I'm not sure how to lay out how shitty this year's NAHBS was in terms of vendors and attendance, not to mention the insane, weird vibe that is SLC as a whole, but let me tell you Billy Bob, there was some serious drama...mainly the outing of Bicycle Pubes, who rented the entire top floor of the Marriot and threw the party of the century with little more than a few pins and stickers, fooling even Dirt Rag and Anna Swindler into believing he was the reincarnation of Joseph Smith herself. 

The night ended with a pudding-filled, kiddy pool death-match between Pubes and Prolly, and let's just say that my bets paid off: I can now retire to my Trump Tower suite in Vegas and attend to my retinue of Dwarves and Whores - soundtrack by The Sluts. 

The after-parties sucked bloody vaginal bloodfarts, so we rode our show bikes around the city that sister-wives built, stopping on occasion to be sustained by 2.3% beer and Taco Time enemas. At least my nights ended with spooning sessions with Urethra Franklin at a sexy-ass AirBnB with the 'rock star Sklar' and crew...

I spent most of my time at the Moonmen booth due to an emergency in the Life Of Todd, so I was able to avoid the traffic jam that was the Prince Bike, along with the gorgeous assholes that are White Mikey and Chasm, a reward that is invaluable, gold bars in the ass notwithstanding; basically pacing the floor of the center high as fuck with cold-brew coffee from Hot Box-Reeb Cycles.

Oh yeah, before I forget, check out my 'coverage' of NAHBS 2017 on Fat-bike.com - all things chubby and plusssy. Don't leave out the hyphen you fucktards. 

Another Oddity masterpiece.