Make me (less) wet.

    A new bike can bring only one of two situations to the fore: plentiful hero dirt on the trails; or a complete near-repeat of the Great Flood of 1993, wherein every trail within 100 miles is as sloppy as an orgy at the KY factory. That being said, since my Pivot Les Fat 29+ was completed nearly a month ago, I have had the tumultuous luxury of riding said steed enough to realize her potential, and wake up covered in drool from a daydream wherein I am able to ride a full 3 hours or so on dry single-track, wherever that may be. As I type these very words, yet another set of storms is approaching from the West, alleviating any drying effect the 90 degree sun/wind combination of today had on terra firma. This is literally the first time since moving back to Kansas City from Portland in 1998 that I have logged more miles on the road in a month than in the forests...granted these 'roadie' hours are to the pub/party and back, but pedaling is pedaling, even though my upper-body is a flab-fest of mooberific proportions.

...my hometown of Emporia Kansas saw its share of flooding last week as well. The Cottonwood river went out of its banks and into the Flint Hills, nearly derailing the 10th Dirty Kanza. 

The latest installment of our

8Lumens sticker collection will be available soon on our Big Cartel site...

Butt now, let us convene the panel discussion on the simple fact that our roots as Puritans in this Cuntry are still a formidable foe in our year of the Lard, 2015:

I'm not sure which of my 'friends' on FaceFuck reported the above picture, taken so artfully by Mr. Fisky, but I can say with a veracity close to 100% that it might be the greatest helping of ThanksTaking Day hilarity I have yet to witness. Yes, I have been 36-48 hour banned from the Book of Faces 3 times now, but this photo takes the cake, the cookies, the donuts and the Twinkies and makes a concomitant sample that borders on perfection. Oh Hell, in the end -and there is a predictable end - I will get my own reality TV show that popularizes the notion that over-educated men with a 4th-grade mentality always win in the end, even if they were not part of a 36 member family tree that has only 2 branches.

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.