My Dick is 14 inches in Dog Years...

Handleballs and his Bunny outside El Blanco Miguel's ( who will for the purpose of this article now be known as Urethra Franklin ).

The 8 Lumens Crew went East towards the Meth-flavored, hushpuppy-stained winds of Independence MO, and the best trail system in the entire region, Landahl Park reserve. If you are not from the Kansas City area and are on your way through our glorified Cowtown on I-70, you must stop and ride these trails, for they are the best in the four-state area - no shit, believe it. There was a time when I rode Landahl every weekend, but those days are gone, and I am lucky to get out there once a month at best. But, like sex from your *36th cousin, it's mind-blowing when you can get it. Crazy fast and rocky, with a ton of elevation to boot; a veritable cornucopia of pleasure that keeps you standing at attention as if Kate Upton was cupping your twins. Aside from a few minor mechanical issues - mostly mine - the crew of 6 dicks valiantly attempted to ride the infamous 10-11 loop with as little shameful hike-a-biking as possible - a tall order in the pitch-dark. But, as always, beer was awaiting our return and a cold front followed us out of the deep forest, finally annulling the disgusting 100 degree week that dried out our region like an arc welder pointed at the flora. 

As per Pirate ride standards, the shit hits the fan when completely dehydrated mt. bikers refuel with the Hop Juice...and last night was no exception. As we were pulling out of the parking lot in Beej's monster-clown-truck, what we thought to be babes coming out to the trails to run or hike pulled in next to us, kicking up the desert-like gravel as they did a quick donut and pulled in behind us, eventually driving up next to us on the skinny-as-fuck, super hilly roads that lead back out to 7 highway. They were in the mood to hill-top and play Garth Brooks at an unacceptable volume, and we were ready to oblige their desires. Once we steered onto to the southbound lanes of 7 - a 4 lane - Urethra Franklin immediately commenced in requesting of these nice ladies a chance for their shirts to possibly be lifted, as to ascertain a glance at their dairy-cannons. All we got was a bra-flash and I lost my patience and stuck my bare taint out the back window -at 55 mph - to show my disappointment with the show...

Of course, after this debauchery, I was ready to enter the Dragon -otherwise know as the Taco Smell portal - and tame my inner hunger demons with my favorite Roach Wrap Deluxe. Folks, I'ma here ta tella ya...nothing is open on a school night in Blue Springs MO...We drove in circles, through a Taco Johns or some semblance thereof, and eventually opted for the Socialist Republic of QT: the finest of all convenience stores; always stocked with rotating, rounded blobs of heated meat - or spicy cheese taquito if you play your cards close. 

Ultimate Taquito Death Match...featuring the Manimal, La Pirata and the Boner Ghost, respectfully...

Unfortunately, we were not accosted by any remaining high school sweethearts on our way back to good ol' I-70, and we made a successful disposal of Urethra Franklin and the Manimal downtown, finally getting rid of me and my Porn-bike...yet another great night of riding with the 8 Lumen Freetards, and yet another instance of me waking up confused and sore...

29+ cock-fighter...

And, since you dipshits need plenty of time to plan ahead for your imminent demise - and the smarts to get good life insurance- I give you this...flier designed by the Genius Commander Sparrow and his team of tranny goats...this will be an urban mt. bike ride that will test your limits of sanity as well as the fortitude of your sexuality. Do it.

The Boner Ghost edit....

Just realized, after a night of substance abuse and cumming on KOMs, that the date on my little pathetic flier is wrong: it is OCTOBER 19th. The Pirate better get a real flier made ASAP or the scurvy-ridden rats will eat at his hairy man bag...

What a fucking total piece of shit...

Ride in (with) the Twat...

Yes my yeast infested minions, it's that time of year yet again...time to celebrate life in the way I know best: by attempting to kill oneself while drunk on a bike.

https://www.facebook.com/events/229929677164879/229933150497865/?notif_t=event_mall_reply 

.....if the above link does not work, and you think your vag can handle my heat, then email me at kcarson@kc.rr.com for more information on the debauchery that will most definitely go down, and how much bail money you should bring. I would give you more warnings but you should know better. 

Go fuck yourself.

29+ champion crowned...

For those of you expecting the usual X-rated banter about me dreaming of an eternal felating session from Kate Upton or a sordid tale about how I get a mega-chubby every time I hear the song "Flames Go Higher" by The Eagles of Death Metal, you can save your fucking 15 minutes and stop reading this post now. For there will be no references to me being asked kindly to 'not beat up the patrons' of the Bier Station -even though they deserved it -nor any defamatory epithets tossed  like Peyton Manning throws touchdown passes at Mile High. No, dear readers, this entry is going to get down to the business of finally declaring a winner in the bloody, drawn-out fight for the King of The 29+: too bad to the victor goes the spoils of my swamp-crotch mounting it on a bi-weekly basis; the very definition of a Pyrrhic victory.

If anyone needs a refresher course in the bikes we are about to discuss in Newtonian detail I will give you an old-fashioned first:

Case study one: A Jones Spaceframe - steel - with Truss fork. Set up with Surly Rabbit Holes front and back...front tire is a 3" Knard, the rear a Conti 2.4 Trail King, which when stretched on the 50mm rim measures 2.55". 

Case Study two: A Surly Krampus -size Medium, with Rabbit Holes and 3" Knards front and back. 

I will not bore you with a *14598 word description of the components that I built these bikes up with, because they are very similar ( i.e. stem length, bar width) especially considering they are both fucking single-speeds. 

I have had the Krampus for about 8 months now and the Jones about 3: plenty of time to ride a plethora of trails in all varieties of conditions. But before I get into the way these bikes ride, I will actually attempt to reach beyond my abilities as a 3rd grade math dropout, and give you some measurements - more accurately known in my mind as 'just fucking look at it'. The major difference between these two bikes, as far as the frame is concerned, is the head-tube angle and rake of the fork. Of course, this translates to a wheelbase that is 1.5" longer on the Krampus, and because of the Truss fork stack-height, a 2" taller front end on the Jones. My inaugural ride on the Jones was very strange after spending the previous 6 months on the Krampus: it handled amazingly fast and responsive; yet seemed to be a rougher ride overall. Over time this has changed, in that I learned to move the Jones with a different  riding position and weight distribution. The Truss fork is very stiff ( it is a 135mm spacing) but soaks up bumps quite nicely, as well as the rear triangle "truss" eating rocks and roots like a stoner and a stack of Totinos pizzas. 

Believe it or not, the Jones handles this kind of technical trail better...

I will freely admit that it saddens me to assign the Heavy-weight belt to the Jones, mainly due to the fact that there are 5 Surly's in my house currently, and that I have owned 8 different models over the last 10 years. Don't get me wrong, the Krampus is an amazing trail bike...it's just that the Jones takes on ultra-technical trail with a greater ease, and rides faster than a stallion chasing a pack of slutty donkeys - a favorite pastime of mine, euphemistically speaking. The street value of these bikes is a bit different - $2000 for the Krampus ( as built), and $3200 for the Jones, but that in no way is pertinent in my opinion: it simply comes down to the frame/fork design in the end. The Krampus comes in a close second because it just feels slightly more sluggish under most conditions, and considering that my porky old ass needs all the help it can get in the speed department, any advantage - however minor - is not in any way similar to Jennifer Anniston and Angelina Jolie licking each other's nether regions: Brad Pitt wins either way.

Six dicks, a million ticks and a double-ended crucifix...

Before this historical post gets started in earnest, let us first reflect on the beer I am consuming currently with the glee of an Oprah vs. Paula Deen death-match: an amazing Imperial IPA from the folks at Stone - possibly the world's best brewery. By the time this is all wrapped up in cellophane and personal lubricant, I hope to be sufficiently inoculated from the *500 million seed ticks that are eating my ankles as if they were stranded with a soccer team in the Andes. But, as per usual, I get ahead of myself...when everyone knows that the Boner Ghost likes to come in from behind.

Yes, if you look closely, there are six bikes and six dipshits loaded into one truck...

As has been foretold, the Pirate is leaving us here in KC , heading westward to Colorado, and before he floats away on a cloud of reefer dust, he has commanded his minions to ride with him on as many local trails as possible. Last night, the Clinton Lake trails in Lawrence KS were chosen, and the 8 Lumens crew packed into the Beej's swanky-ass truck and shot out towards one of the region's finest trail systems. When I was nine years old, my father and I spent a weekend camping out on the north shore of Lake Clinton, and helped build what would over 30 years become the 23+ miles of rocky, rooty goodness; not to mention an ecosystem replete with many species of horrendous insects that drive one to the verge of the rubber room. 

The crew spent 3 hours in the dark, slaying the beast that these trails become after about 5 minutes of navigating the shark's fins that come at you like Mike Tyson's fists - attempting to miss them will send you into a tree at top-speed, or if you are lucky, off a cliff into the lake below. I have to cum clean and admit that I love the Clinton Lake trails like I love a punch in the nuts from my Sumo mistresses: you just have to relent and let the sweet pain take you away; just imagine yourself in a hot-tub filled with rabid opossums and you get the picture. You must enter an endorphin-fueled, Zen state of mind when steering your steed through the maze of spiders and ticks; you cannot think, just react to what the night spurts in your eye. 

My camera snapped at the exact moment that the Pirate asked nicely for anyone to lick the ticks from his swollen taint...

The party officially got underway after we loaded our raunchy, putrid bodies back into the truck, and after stopping for petrol, realized - thanks to the Manimal - that we were under attack from an army of seed ticks that were attempting to render our ankles into a Breaking Bad nightmare. I myself tried a combination of gasoline, hand-sanitizer and baby wipes that was utterly unsuccessful in taming the raging fire that was well underway. I awoke this morning with a maze of bites that resembled a colony of smallpox victims in 1768, and am slowly going the way of a psych-ward as we speak, trying not to gouge a canyon on each of my ankles. 

Even after consuming *36 beers on the 45 minute ride home, I was utterly famished, and was sucked into the Taco Hell void - a cult of personal failure - made better by the sight of El Blanco Miguel pulling up behind me in the drive-thru...the taste of cockroach fajitas hits the spot better than a bowl of erect dicks - a delicacy only the Queen Queefer can appreciate with his refined palate. Until we meet again, let us prey: Oh holy Devil, let not the poison of mites infect our hearts and minds and lead us not into Totally Nude Temptations; may the virgin blood of our ankles be cleansed by the boiling, holy piss-water that envelopes our urine-filled condoms during a drug test. Amen.

Got Swope?

When one thinks about Kansas City, the idea of our burg being a mountain biking destination might be the last thing that would come to mind...yes we have world-class barbecue and 2 shitty-ass professional sports teams - well, one damn good soccer team I guess - crappy-as-fuck infrastructure, horrible public transportation, and a freetarded lack of commuter bike lanes. But, for those of us whose European ancestors decided unwisely to stop here and farm instead of continuing on to Oregon or California, or those of us here for 'work' or some other ignoble excuse, at least we have the best trail builders in this quadrant of the known universe, as well as at least eight sets of incredible trail systems. I have ridden extensively in the mountains of Oregon, California, Kentucky, Arkansas, Oklahoma, Texas and Colorado, and other than lacking true elevation, our trails here in KC are just as good or better than any I've ridden elsewhere.

The Swope Park trails have been a work in progress for the last 5 years or so, and today Phase Five was officially opened. I have never seen the parking area so full - probably 50 cars - or so many riders out on the single-track with smiles on their gritty faces: there is no way that I can see for one to not understand the brilliance of these trails; incredible usage of natural features and a flow that is akin to me break-dancing in a pit of pudding with Kate Upton.

Today I chose to straddle my Jones, and with Speeding Jesus and Ben from Chamois Butt'r, we hit the new extension with the glee of a priest with a closet full of 8 year old boys; to say nothing of the prime condition of the dirt and rocks which my Jones slaughtered with the efficiency of BP and an oily drill bit stuck in an impoverished trailer park. 

The only disappointing factor in the day's events was the sighting of a Handleballs driving away from the trails: surely he was on his way to bring me back my weekly allowance of hooker blood or meth-mouth drainings; or maybe not, considering that I settled for pickled mouse anus burritos from Taco Hell... 

...actually the memory of making sweet love to this beer Saturday night was what sustained my efforts on the bike today: attempting to follow a pro who was half my weight - and 50 fucking years younger - for 2 hours may be something to write home about from the Eastern Front, but it is not conducive to well-relaxed muscles - maybe El Blanco Miguel will kindly share his gaggle of massage professionals; I will pay the extra for a happy-ending. And, I told myself that I would not call him out, but that's my raison d' etre: the Goddamn Pirate was late and was unable to take advantage of me and my wide draft; I sure do hope that he had to ride by his lonesome as punishment for his tardiness....then again, as much as he wrecks it is probably better for his ego that no one was there to witness the carnage.  Cheers Burnsey.

Shiver me Member...

For those of you out there in the land of off-road cycling, I am about to give you fair warning: If you miss this race I will hunt you down and fuck you with a watermelon....and that's only if you beg for mercy first. I you still have doubts to whether or not you should attend, I bring you one of my own race reports from earlier this year: a Pulitzer Prize-winning short story that won me acclaim throughout the Universe of SSRI abusers. Enjoy on an empty stomach....

Easter Eve Massacre 2013.

     Before I can begin this event report in earnest I must relay some very exciting news that is of utmost importance to the picturesque landscape that these words will create.  Since the Supreme Court has now joined the 21^st century and allowed me to marry my long-time lover, it is with great joy and girded loins that I can announce my matrimonial blessedness, and since he still sits on the aforementioned court he has granted my wish to undergo my *348^th gender-reassignment surgery; thank you honey bunches, my sweet Justice Antonin Scalia. Without you I would still be known by the hurtful and degrading “MaxiThad”,  or even worse the violently racist “Captain Cuntwat”. So it is now that I can come back into the closet: my name is now Princess Boner Ghost.

     And so it goes, now that I will have not one, but two giant members with which to straddle my steed of FatBikes, I signed up for the eponymous last steeplechase in the 2013 winter night race series known to the populaces in the know as the Pirate cXc.  It would seem to the lay(ed)man or woman that Commander Sparrow was up to no respectable acts of kindness yet again, sending out a pre-race email that was laden with insults and epithets, basically name-calling and hair-pulling – and I had just shaved my bikini line. But alas, this was not the case, for the weather cooperated and the Kona-flavored burrito tent was agog with 50+ entrants, promising their first born to the Devils of Dirt.  Little did they know that after the dooshy messenger-inspired pre-race skid contest they would have swamp gasses pugnaciously inserted into every orifice, mud and frog semen wiped across their lips, and skunk anal gland juice passed off as whiskey shots. Not to mention the cocaine donuts that were not worth anywhere close to enough bonus time. I will say nothing about the brownies due to my legal obligations and the simple fact that while my new hubby is all in for the butt sex, he is still not on the honorable side of the drug war.

     I could go on and on into infinity about my affair with my new Krampus and how it floated through the course with the glee of *126 eunuchs on meth, or how beyond overwhelming it was when I bunny hopped the fire jump in reverse, but that would be self-aggrandizing rubbish which I never stoop to the level of for any cost. Actually I will do it for $45, which un-ironically is my old rock bottom price for dirty sanchez’s.  But the star of the night was the course itself: it is hard to beat illegal night racing on your own private trail system; cut in by the bleeding hands of nine year old tranny boys who had just a week ago made my Ipad. It was splendidly replete with all manner of obstacles including many a bridge over the river Kwai, wherein the riders were assaulted with completely legal .50 machine guns and grenades filled with cherry-flavored alligator tears. Many a mishap ensued and many a captive were taken by the brutal slog through the murky jungles surrounding Mill Creek and the nearby railroad of doom – where last year the bottom ten finishers were sacrificed to the Goddess of Doprah.

    And now, ladies and germs, I will again resort to my fallback system of analysis, the simplest and most coherent of all tools of rhetorical boondoggles: the annotated list.  This time, though, I will use a more linear thought-process, and while I am nowhere near the town of Soberville, this will make complete and convincing sense to you, my beloved asshats.

35.  Concerning the “costumes”… White Mike again ruled the 3^rd grade locker room with his Sumo suit…which needed about *457,000 big macs to look authentic. Chasm spanked the ape with his homo-erotic Chef Boy-Hard-Me suit….Chris-Go looked as though he had seen no mullet he didn’t love, and some dude who I was too drunk to remember his name came as a cactus; or was he a French tickler…difficult to ascertain.

78.  Fuck me with a WD-40 soaked tree branch!  Fucking Cotter beat me again…

32.  Chris-go humped my Pugsley so hard he poked a hole the size of Texas in the rear tire on the first lap.

47.  Posson needed some dental work, and like many Amarkans who have top-rate single-payer health insurance, opted for the self-inflicted bent-fork approach to getting a root canal. May the force be with him as he and his new fork that he won at the post-race bonfire ride off into the beer-soaked sunset.

12.  Randy Braley and his team of Victoria’s Secret photo assistants obviously had the most fun of the night. Situating themselves at the ladder bridge/Asian massage table/amphibian rape pool, they were able to archive the carnage, which supervened when racers were forced against their will to cross over a mile-wide, rat-infested, HIV poisoned stream.

69.  There were some hot chicks at the race, but I no longer concern myself with such frivolities, instead electing to go full hen.

78.  Handleballs just rules the known universe. The Energizer Bunny of mountain biking never fails to make me tingly in all the wrong places.

54.  I missed my opportunity to make my first million by not recording the mega-retarded-genius banter between Chris-go and Chasm during the after party…Jones and I were literally showing turtle heads in our lycra listening to their expositional eloquence.

57.  And last but not leased-to-own, let us all give a hearty air biscuit to the one and homely Pirate:  how the fuck could we, the lamest of all cyclists outside of the recumbent community, find a more ignoble endeavor than a no-holds-barred non-race; a veritable porn-fest on two wheels; an unfaithfully religious ode to the non-existent God of all things filthy.

Princess Boner Ghost reporting….