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Ragbrai, oh Ragbrai. What a fucking mess that was. I don't even know where to start. I rode, I drank. Over and over again. My crotch is an open wound, my ass belches hell fire and my liver has holes in it you can pass your fist through. I can't wait to go back. It was the best time I have ever had on a bicycle. As I learn how to formulate complete sentences again, I will share some of the fun I had. Right now, I'm such a complete retard, I can't even see straight. Here is a short list of some of the things I heard while I was there. 1) You got any I.D.? Hey, come back here! I might as well talk about the Tour since my brain and ass are fried. Armstrong is a deserving winner. A true champion. I had my doubts, but that guy is nothing if not dominant. Three in a row finally gets him out of the shadow of Lemond. I see no reason that it won't be win number four next year. He faced an Ullrich in the form of his life an bested him in every way possible. Speaking of form of his life, I hear that Lance might have a go at the hour record after his Tour victory. He should. He's the fastest man in the world right now, why not capitalize on it? I can't think of a better situation that the present for such as endeavor. And speaking of endeavors, I hear that Ullrich is going to widen his horizons in the coming seasons to include more that just the Tour. I think it's a smart move. He's been the best of the rest, what, three times now? And I disagree with those who claim second to be nothing mote than "the first loser". There isn't a single man in that race who wouldn't want second, after Armstrong of course. Ullrich has nothing to be ashamed of. That's why I rode around Phoenix for four hours this morning wearing a Telekom hat. Ullrich could be one hell of a single day and classics rider, and I think he's going to win a shit load of races in the coming years. Just not the Tour of France anyway, maybe in Spain. Or even maybe Italy. That would be something, to win all three of the major tours in your career. Ullrich could do that. How about Bicycling magazine picking Laurent Jalabert as a loser? I hope one of those idiots got fired for that one. Probably not, they're all a bunch of assholes anyway. Jaja is a fucking Champion, full stop. He got two stage wins and the fucking Polka dot jersey. Now he has worn all three jerseys in the Tour, and brought two of them home for keeps. Some loser. Click here for more Tour de France highlights. Really. It's Tour de France dot com, for Christs sake, what else could it be about besides cycling. Oh, go check it out for yourself.
I know it may be hard to believe, but I'm not exactly looking forward to the thirty hour drive we are undertaking. In fact, I'm pretty pissed I lacked the foresight and motivation to try budgeting my money for a change and buy some fucking airline tickets. Like six months ago. Now, ragbrai starts in four days and we're driving. At least I got the oil changed and the tires rotated this week. That ought to count for something, shouldn't it? Wow, this is an interesting turn of events:
Schwinn/GT to Sell Cycling Division to Huffy Corporation.
Files Voluntary Chapter 11 Petition to Facilitate Sale of Cycling
Division.
Fitness Division Operations to Continue Without Interruption.
International Operations Excluded From Filing
BOULDER, Colo., July 16 -- Schwinn/GT Corp. announced today that it
has entered into a sale agreement with Huffy Corporation for the purchase
of its Cycling Division. Schwinn/GT also announced it has commenced
proceedings under Chapter 11 of the U.S. Bankruptcy Code. This filing
is necessary to allow Schwinn/GT to complete the sale of the cycling
business. The Company filed its Chapter 11 petition in the United States
Bankruptcy Court for the District of Colorado in Denver. In accordance
with Section 363 of the Bankruptcy Code, other companies will have an
opportunity to submit bids for the cycling division through a Court
supervised competitive bidding process. Consummation of the proposed
transaction is subject to, among other things, expiration of the statutory
Hart-Scott-Rodino Act waiting period applicable to acquisitions in bankruptcy.
The Chapter 11 filing includes Schwinn Cycling & Fitness Inc., GT
Bicycles, Inc., Riteway Distribution, Inc., Hebb Industries, Inc. and
certain other U. S. affiliates. The Company's subsidiaries in Switzerland,
France and Japan are not included in the filing.
Under the terms of the current sale agreement, Huffy will pay in excess
of $60 million subject to adjustment to acquire substantially all of
the assets of Schwinn/GT's Cycling Division.
The Company has reached an agreement, subject to Court approval, with
a group of its existing lenders led by Comerica Bank to provide up to
$30 million in debtor-in-possession (DIP) financing. The funding will
be used to maintain normal business operations in the Fitness Division
and to ensure the orderly sale of the cycling business to Huffy.
Don Graber, Chairman, President and CEO of Huffy Corporation, said,
"An opportunity such as this comes along only rarely. The Schwinn(R)
brand is one of the most widely recognized brand names in the world
and together with GT(R) and other brands would strengthen our existing
brand portfolio. The Schwinn and GT brands are ideal candidates for
multi-channel distribution, capitalizing on Huffy's marketing and brand
management expertise."
Jeff Sinclair, Schwinn's Chief Executive Officer, stated, "With the
sale of the Cycling Division well on its way, we are now turning our
attention to the Fitness Division. Operations at Fitness are continuing
without interruption. Although it will take a little time to return
the Fitness Division to business as usual, we expect to make substantial
progress in the coming weeks.
"With the priority status provided under the Bankruptcy Code for goods
and services that are delivered after the filing, we anticipate the
continued support of our vendors to meet the product needs of our fitness
customers," Mr. Sinclair added.
Mr. Sinclair also noted that since the Company's operations in Switzerland,
France and Japan are not included in the Chapter 11 filing, it will
be "business as usual for these entities. Our overseas subsidiaries
are financially independent from our domestic operations and are continuing
ton operate without interruption."
In anticipation of the Cycling Division sale, the Company announced
it will downsize its Cycling Division workforce. The Company will deliver
letters to 300 Cycling Division employees to fulfill any obligations
the Company may have under the Workers Adjustment and Retraining Notification
Act.
"I am mindful of the impact these actions will have on our cycling
employees and we will make every reasonable effort to make this as smooth
a transition for them as possible. I recognize the many contributions
our employees have made to the Company over the years and regret the
loss of employment that may be associated with this transaction," Mr.
Sinclair said.
I guess if someone had to buy Schwinn, it might as well be Huffy. Why not? I hope this doesn't mean we're going to see the Schwinn brand in every mass merchant operation from Cosco to Wall Mart.
From: David David, I'm stoked you like the site. And I have no idea who that girl is, but I did hear those things are real. Nice. I know she actually raced at one time, but I don't remember when. If anyone out there can help David discover the true identity of mystery boobs girl, please post your answer on the message board. Or, if you can maybe find him a copy of the poster so he can beat up his kid brother while viewing it, that would also be appreciated. I got Jim a nice little flying pig for the hell of it when I was at the airport last week. I was drinking and it was there, so fuck it, he likes flying pigs. Shit man, who doesn't? You can see the little fucker over here. The downside: he already had one. Well now he has two. I figure that since I won't be able to update this thing for another ten days while I'm in Iowa trying not to get arrested, I should just dump some free porn in your laps. Something to keep all you fucks occupied for awhile. Have fun, and don't break your penis.
I ask you, could this be any cooler? And to think I picked drunkcyclist.com instead of drunkslut.com. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Oh yeah, Uno Mas. So now I'm working on a six pack because I can't face folding any more shirts. I can't. The thought of it makes my skin crawl. Oh just shoot me and end it now. I'll keep a seat warm for ya next to the fire. That fire. Oh, you'll see me soon enough. Trust me. You're as good as gone, just like me. What was it Biggy Smalls said, why would I want to hang out in heaven with the goody goodies? I'd rather shoot dice, drink forties and fuck bitches. Something like that, but he also mentioned wearing a sweatshirt. A black one. Can't say that it isn't appealing. I have no idea how to "shoot dice" but I could probably fake it for awhile. Then I'd get beat down by dead rap stars and they wouldn't let me sit so close to the fire anymore. That's OK though, eternity in a long time and I'm sure I'll figure out how to "shoot dice" sooner or later. Time to go call out Spooner again. I will show him my Razor scooter skills. I don't own a Razor Scooter yet, but Dad says just a few more weeks of mowing the lawn and cleaning out the rain gutters and that shiny new one down at Erheard's Schwinn is mine. I've been practicing. I watch the fruit booters and try to emulate their stylish moves with my soap shoes. Really. I think that roller blading is real cool and that jet ski's are the future. Snap into a Slim Jim. Do the Dew. Fuck you. So, tomorrow I will get up at 4:30. I'm like Rocky Balboa. Without all the raw egg chugging and boxing stuff. Aside from that, I'm running up the Philadelphia Museum of Art stairs tomorrow like the champion I am. What's that? Rocky lost? Yeah, so did the Sixers, but everyone (me) still loves them anyway. If you liked the story about the guy shitting all over himself and a restaurant bathroom, you're gonna love this. Today's joke: "What do you mean?" "Well, one Mrs. Smith has tested positive for Alzheimer disease and the other for AIDS. We can't tell which is your wife." "That's terrible! Can we do the test over?" "Normally, yes. But you have an HMO, and they won't pay for these expensive tests more than once." "Well, what am I supposed to do now? "The HMO recommends that you drop your wife off in the middle of town. If she finds her way home, don't sleep with her. Shut up and watch this.
Some lady actually sneered at me and my friends as we rode by, "Oh, there go those drunk cyclists." Oh, fuck you. Really.
From: Dor Yes, I will be there, and I'll make sure to keep my eye out for Team Pump. Hopefully I will have some brand spanking new drunkcyclist stickers to share. I say hopefully because I am a dumbass and they may not be ready in time. Yep, mi peridor. And, I'll be riding with the usual suspects, the drunkcyclist horde. Hey, we're harmless. Unless you're a beer, or a sheep. Otherwise, no worries. Want more of the dancing muppet? I did, click here for a website with some cool downloads. Oh look, click here for even more. I guess his name is Flat Eric and he's been around for a few years. I'm behind the times. No, I'm bringing him back. Something. Ya got me on that one, but it's funny as hell. This next letter is, well, it's great. You'll laugh, you'll cry. You may never look at a public restroom the same way again. Ever. I didn't post the guys name. He didn't say if he preferred to keep it anonymous or not, but I figured to err on the side of caution. You might want to write this in you calendar, because it isn't often that I do that. Usually it's balls to the wall, damn the torpedoes, full steam ahead, kill 'em all. You get the idea.
From: anonymous A couple of weeks ago we decided to cruise out to Ryan's Steakhouse
for dinner. It was a Wednesday night which means that macaroni and beef
was on the hot bar, indeed the only night of the week that it is served.
Wednesday night is also kid's night at Ryan's, complete with Dizzy the
Clown wandering from table to table entertaining the little bastards.
It may seem that the events about to be told have little connection
to those two circumstances, but all will be clear in a moment.
We went through the line and placed our orders for the all-you-can-eat
hot bar then sat down as far away from the front of the restaurant as
possible in order to keep the density of kids down a bit. Then I started
my move to the hot bar. Plate after plate of macaroni and beef were
consumed that evening, I tell you -- in all, four heaping plates of
the pseudo-Italian ambrosia were shoved into my belly. I was sated.
Perhaps a bit too much, however.
I had not really been feeling well all day, what with a bit of gas
and such. By the time I had eaten four overwhelmed plates of food, I
was in real trouble. There was so much pressure on my diaphragm that
I was having trouble breathing. At the same time, the downward pressure
was building. At first, I thought it was only gas which could have been
passed in batches right at the table without to much concern. Unfortunately,
that was not to be. After a minute or so it was clear that I was dealing
with explosive diarrhea. It's amazing how grease can make its way through
your intestines far faster than the food which spawned the grease to
begin with, but I digress...
I got up from the table and made my way to the bathroom. Upon entering,
I saw two sinks immediately inside the door, two urinals just to the
right of the sinks, and two toilet stalls against the back wall. One
of them was a handicapped bathroom. Now, normally I would have gone
to the handicapped stall since I like to stretch out a bit when I take
a good shit, but in this case, the door lock was broken and the only
thing I hate worse than my wife telling me to stop cutting my toenails
with a pair of diagional wirecutters is having someone walk in on me
while I am taking a shit. I went to the normal stall.
In retrospect, I probably should have gone to the large, handicapped
stall even though the door would not lock because that bit of time lost
in making the stall switch proved to be a bit too long under the circumstances.
By the time I had walked into the regular stall, the pressure on my
ass was reaching Biblical proportions.
I began "The Move."
For those women who may be reading this, let me take a moment to explain
"The Move." Men know exactly what their bowels are up to at any given
second. And when the time comes to empty the cache, a sequence of physiological
events occur that can not be stopped under any circumstances. There
is a move men make that involves simultaneously approaching the toilet,
beginning the body turn to position ones ass toward said toilet, hooking
ones fingers into ones waistline, and pulling down the pants while beginning
the squat at the same time. It is a very fluid motion that, when performed
properly, results in the flawless expulsion of shit at the exact same
second that ones ass is properly placed on the toilet seat. Done properly,
it even assures that the choad is properly inserted into the front rim
of the toilet in the event that the piss stream lets loose at the same
time; it is truly a picture of coordination rivaling that of a skilled
ballet dancer.
I was about half-way into "The Move" when I looked down at the floor
and saw a pile of vomit that had been previously expelled by one of
those little bastards attending kids night; it was mounded up in the
corner so I did not notice it when I had first walked into the stall.
Normally, I would not have been bothered by such a thing, but I had
eaten so much and the pressure upward was so intense, that I hit a rarely
experienced gag reflex. And once that reflex started, combined with
the intense pressure upward caused by the bloated stomach, four plates
of macaroni and beef started coming up for a rematch. What happened
next was so quick that the exact sequence of events are a bit fuzzy,
but I will try to reconstruct them as best I can.
In that moment of impending projectile vomiting, my attention was
diverted from the goings-on at the other end. To put a freeze frame
on the situation, I was half crotched down to the toilet, pants pulled
down to my knees, with a load of vomit coming up my esophagus. Now,
most of you know that vomiting takes precidence over shit no matter
what is about to come slamming out of your ass. It is apparently an
evolutionary thing since shitting will not kill you, but vomiting takes
a presence of mind to accomplish so that you do not aspirate any food
into the bronchial tubes and perhaps choke to death. My attention was
thus diverted.
At that very split second, my ass exploded in what can only be described
as a wake...you know, as in a newspaper headline along the lines of
"30,000 Killed In Wake of Typhoon Fifi" or something similar. In what
seemed to be most suitably measured in cubic feet, an enormous plug
of shit the consistancy of thick mud with embedded pockets of greasy
liquid came flying out of my ass. But remember, I was only half-way
down on the toilet at that moment. The shit wave was of such force and
of just such an angle in relation to the back curve of the toilet seat
that it ricocheted off the back of the seat and slammed into the wall
at an angle of incidence equal to the angle at which it initally hit
the toilet seat. Then I sat down.
Recall that when that event occured, I was already half-way to sitting
anyway and had actually reached the point of no return. I have always
considered myself as relatively stable gravitationally, but when you
get beyond a certain point, you're going down no matter how limber you
may be. Needless to say, the shit wave, though of considerable force,
was not so sufficient so as to completely glance off the toilet seat
and deposit itself on the walls, unlike what you would see when hitting
a puddle with a high-pressure water hose; even though you throw water
at the puddle, the puddle gets moved and no water is left to re-form
a puddle. There was a significant amount of shit remaining on about
one-third of the seat rim which I had now just collapsed upon.
Now, back to the vomit...
While all the shitting was going on, the vomit was still on its way
up. By the time I had actually collapsed on the toilet, my mouth had
filled up with a goodly portion of the macaroni and beef I had just
consumed. OK, so what does the human body instinctively do when vomiting?
One bends over. So I bent over. I was still sitting on the toilet, though.
Therefore, bending over resulted in me placing my head above my now
slightly-opened legs, positioned in between my knees and waist. Also
directly above my pants which were now pulled down to a point just midway
between my knees and my ankles. Oh, did I mention that I was wearing
not just pants, but sweat pants with elastic on the ankles?
In one mighty push, some three pounds of macaroni and beef, two or
three Cokes, and a couple of Big, Fat Yeast Rolls were deposited in
my pants...on the inside...with no ready exit at the bottom down by
my feet.
In the next several seconds, there were a handful of farts, a couple
of turds, and the event ended, yet I was now sitting there with my pants
full of vomit, my back covered in shit that had bounced off the toilet,
spattered on three ceramic-tiled walls to a height of about five feet,
and still had enough force to come back at me, covering the back of
my shirt with droplets of liquid shit. All while thick shit was spread
all over my ass in a ring curiously in the shape of a toilet seat.
And there was no fucking toilet paper.
What could I do but laugh. I must have sounded like a complete maniac
to the guy who then wandered into the bathroom. He actually asked if
I was OK since I was laughing so hard I must have sounded like I was
crying hysterically. I calmed down just enough to ask him if he would
get the manager. And told him to have the manager bring some toilet
paper. When the manager walked in, he brought the toilet paper with
him, but in no way was prepared for what happened next. I simply told
him that there was no way I was going to explain what was happening
in the stall, but that I needed several wet towels and I needed him
to go ask my wife to come help me. I told him where we were sitting
and he left. At that point, I think he was probably assuming that I
had pissed just a bit in my pants or something similarly benign.
About two minutes later, my wife came into the bathroom not knowing
what was wrong and with a certain amount of worry in her voice. I explained
to her (still laughing and having trouble getting out words) that I
had a slight accident and needed her help. Knowing that I had experienced
some close calls in the past, she probably assumed that I had laid down
a small turd or something and just needed to being the car around so
we could bolt immediately. Until I asked her, I'm sure she had no idea
that she was about to go across the street and purchase me new underwear,
new socks, new pants, a new shirt, and (by that time due to considerable
leakage around the elastic ankles thingies) new sneakers. And she then
started to laugh herself since I was still laughing. She began to ask
for an explination as to what had happened when I promised her that
I would tell her later, but that I just needed to handle damage control
for the time being. She left.
The manager then came back in with a half-dozen wet towels and a few
dry ones. I asked him to also bring a mop and bucket upon which he assured
me that they would clean up anything that needed to be cleaned. Without
giving him specific details, I explained that what was going on in that
stall that night was far in excess of what I would expect anyone to
deal with, what with most of the folks working at Ryan's making minimum
wage of just slightly above. At that moment, I think it dawned on him
exactly the gravity of the situation. Then that manager went so far
above the call of duty that I will be eternally grateful for his actions.
He hooked up a hose.
Fortunately, commercial bathrooms are constructed with tile walls
and tile floors and have a drain in the middle of the room in order
to make clean up easy. Fortunately, I was in a commercial bathroom.
He hooked up the hose to the spigot located under the sink as I began
cleaning myself up with the wet towels. Just as I was finishing, my
wife got back with the new clothes and passed them into the stall, whereupon
I stuffed the previously worn clothing into the plastic bag that came
from the store, handing the bag to my wife. I finished cleaning myself
off and carefully put on my new clothes, still stuck in the stall since
I figured that it would be in bad taste to go out of the stall to get
redressed in the event I happened to be standing there naked and some
little bastard kid walked in. At that point, I had only made a mess;
I had not yet committed a felony and intended to keep it that way.
When I finished getting dressed, I picked up the hose and cleaned
up the entire stall, washing down the remains toward the drain in the
center of the room. I put down the hose and walked out of the bathroom.
I had intended to go to the manager and thank him for all he had done,
but when I walked out, three of the management staff were there to greet
me with a standing ovation. I started laughing so hard that I thought
I was going to throw up again, but managed to scurry out to the car
where my wife was now waiting to pick me up by the front door.
The upshot of all this is that I strongly recommend eating dinner
at Ryan's Steak House. They have, by far, the nicest management staff
of any restaurant in which I have eaten.
I don't even know what to say. Beautiful, man. I wish I could give you a hug after that. Thanks for sharing.
I swear to God, I'd just as soon burn this place to the ground and start fresh. Burn it all. Everything but the bikes. Most of the bikes, anyway. A few of these little whores are on my short list. Not far from the coals, Raleigh. You hear me? You fucking break down on me in one more race, just one more, and I'm making you into a bar-b-que. You think I'm kidding? Just try me. I'm not walking you into any more start finish areas with flat tires, broken chain tensioners, whatever. You break, you die. One a lighter note, everyone seemed to enjoy the fine pictures from my last update. I'm just glad to help out. And now, some reader mail. From: Paddy OK, the cumbucket is back. When we changed the site layout around, well, we just didn't get it all figured out right away. But, it's much better know. Keep the suggestions coming, so to speak. And the wife, she not only knows about the page, she reads it everyday and cruises the message boards as well. One of my Christmas presents this year was a new Jenna Jameson porno, so believe me when I tell you her heart is made of gold. That, and she beats my ass, but that's a secret, OK? And, God damn, my message boards are fucking boring lately. What gives? Someone get pissed off already and make fun of something or somebody before I hang myself. Here is the old board if you want to check it out. Surprise me and post something. Sticking with the whole "I ain't got shit to say and I'm just going to post emails all night" theme, here's some more.
From: webmaster@addiscombecc.freeserve.co.uk Oh yeah I also enclose a photo of what we reckon is the worlds best
pro cycling mullett in the world. It belongs to Laurent Brochard and
we had to take many pictures of it. Its pure class - you can imagine
him in the barbers - "Short on the sides, spike the top and leave the
back long my man." Classy french style if ever i saw it.
Ladies and Gentleman, the King of the Mullets. It's more than a hair cut, it's art. I'm sitting here alone, on Saturday night. In front of my computer, sucking down Heinekens that Casey, my favorite Surly Slug, dropped off. And I'll have you know that I am opening each and every one of these beauties with a Surly Jethro Tule. Oh, it's a life I guess. If I want to get up at 5:00 am to ride I can't go out and boogie oogie woogie all night long. All this will change at Ragbrai. Just you wait and see.
My solution: just buy a mother fucking house if no one will rent me one. Now I can do whatever the fuck I want because it's my mother fucking house. Ha. That's right, I'm Moscow, Idaho's newest home owner. Bring me a fucking fruit basket, already. And some house plants would be nice. Surprise, surprise it is really hot and sticky in Phoenix. Not like it matters, I just thought I'd mention it. I might go outside tomorrow at about five in the morning. It probably isn't a million degrees at 5:00 am. Probably. Some scary shit showed up in the mail while I was gone. Enjoy.
click here from some good Tour commentary. If your into that sort of thing. And, this teddybang.mpg is about the funniest thing I've ever seen. I laughed till I cried, then I watched it again. And it's not even porn.
I may have to learn how to brew my own beer. Or make Vodka out of all the fucking potatoes. I'm going to have those things coming out of my ears. I can't wait. I hope I can find at least one good bar this week. I can live anywhere if I have one good bar to hang out in. Just one, is that to much to ask? I don't think so. Not at all. I don't want much. Just a place I can go and forget my name a couple of times a week. From: Bosco That letter is so dead on, and so much fun to read, I just had to share it with the horde of drunks that frequent this page. Those pics really benefit from a proper explanation. I couldn't have done it better myself. And believe me, I try. And good luck with that Myers rum. Damn good stuff, rum. I've had a taste of that myself. I feel like getting pickled. Perhaps on the plane tomorrow? Wash down Dramamine with liquor? Well I never. Yeah, I never miss a chance. From: Dave It's always good to hear about Jake throwin down the pain. Nice. Helps me to get my fat ass out of bed in the morning and actually ride. And, yes, Phoenix chugs cock. There's no way around that one. From: Olav Big pimpin' spend the cheese, I'm world wide baby. This fat fuck from Arizona is global. I'm just glad to be helping out doing what I can. I like to think I make the world a better place. And now, I know that I do. And now I'm a T.V star. Yes it's true. For those of you in the Phoenix area, you can see me, Mr. Big Ass himself in the new Domenic's Cycling Imports advertisement that runs a few times during the Tour coverage on OLN. No shit. I'm looking like a hump backed freak, bent over cleaning out a rusted up BB on some piece of shit bike. And then, just so you know I'm really all pro, they filmed me wiping off some tools. I have the dumbest look on my face and it's totally embarrassing. But, I'm a star. Big pimpin'. I saw some more of the Kranked video series today. I think it was Kranked 17, or Rocky 12, or something. I just can't get into it. I realize that I couldn't do any of the "stunts", "tricks", "lines" in the movie. I just don't care. Woo, woo, I like climbing and I can't jump. Ahh, the woods are over run with horney strippers! Quick, everyone in the car! Does this thing have any fucking gas in it? For Chirsts sake, hurry up, man! These insatiable cock hungry Martians aren't going to wait around for ever. It's first come, first serve. So to speak. Nice note, Jake. Don't bore me with that "Hi, how ya doin'?" crap. Just get to the fucking naked chicks already. And put some more of those mother fucking Buffalo wings in your toaster oven, player. What ya' putting in those things, crack cocaine? You got a brother sweatin' down in Tempe, and it ain't just from the heat. Hot damn, it's the Tour de France. I love it. Since I am a total jackass, I'm just gonna link the shit out of cyclingnews.com. You can get all the lastest and greatest information there, my brothers. I'm going to leave a nice, fat link up on the top of the page for the rest of the month. Just so you can find it, I guess. More like, so I can find it. You see, this shit pile is my homepage. It's what I use to navigate all the sites I like, and how I get to all the shit I want to see. The only thing I don't have up there is a few of those sites that specialize in hacked passwords for pornsite and that type of thing. Not so much that I'm afraid of getting in trouble, of anyone else for that matter. But, I'd hate to burn down a good thing when someone sends me a link, or a password to share. I post all the pics I get, so don't think I'm holding out. God Damn it, I hope I'm not working all of next weekend. Why? Check this shit out, the Shakin' Your Ass race is where I want to be. If there was ever an event for me, this may well be it. 'Cause, baby, I got some ass to shake.
 
Ho hum. Some new videos are up. I have a few more, I'll get it together sometime. Shit. The rain had stopped, the streets are dry, and I only have a few hours till I'm expected back at the Salt Mine de Domenic's. I break great big rocks into little tiny ones. Every man should have a job, and that is mine. Fuck me. Fuck it, I'm going riding. From:H-Ball Yeah, I'm pretty sure I'm going to have something a little different on Monday. I kinda like the new shit. Barbed wire and bullet holes, baby. It makes me wish I had a big 'ol mullet and a Pontiac to spin donuts in. Oh yeah. Mullets rule. If you haven't already seen how cool a link button can get, go see it now. From: Drew C. Fucking outstanding work, Drew. I only regret that it took me so long to post those pics. You can all see them here. Chicks and bicycles, perfect together. Maybe I should start a product review section. Why not? All the magazines do it, and they're not all idiots are they? I can break shit and talk about the glory days of my racing career. Or, maybe I'll just make some shit up. That would probably be better anyway. That's what they do in the magazines, right?
I also have a bunch of new bike porn, but, again, its late and I'm tired. Since I get to work all fucking weekend, we'll just see what happens. From: Jake Rubelt Good luck mother fucker. Let me know how that whole thunder thing goes. I could use a little of that 'ol black magic from time to time. Did ya see the race pics over at flight of the pigs? They are boss.
What a totally bad ass time Cruiser Nation was this year. Holy fuck did I ever get loaded. I can't recall being that drunk at noon in a long, long time. The slated noon start time came and went as all the beer wasn't gone yet. I'll tell ya, nothing motivated a crowd like a challenge. Here is the race report from this years winner, Big Tex.
From: Jason Tallous Finally, we lined up 30 meters from our bikes and received instructions.
"Rule number 1, there are no rules. Rule number 2, you can't ride your
own bike." We drank 4 cases of beer, so this made sense. Quickly, I
moved to a direct line for a brand new "Mono Cog Redline" with 2.5 downhill
tires.
"GO!"
We race walked up the hill to the bikes and launched ourselves toward
the single track. I am sixth into the single track. First corner and
a rock garden gobbles up bike and man. I didn't look to see if he was
OK. I concentrated thru the dust to the trail and the next guy---only
two girls showed up this year. I quickly caught the next cruiser. I
still could see the lead rider. The next pass took longer and succeeded
after some persuasion. Anaerobic, I pedaled faster to the second place
guy. I couldn't see the leader and had no time. I took the inside and
stole the line. "Thanks, Silas."
Down through the rock chute. Cheers, water balloons to the crotch,
and super soakers spraying beer. Not too much further and still no leader
in sight. My heart is about to explode, but my desire keeps me going.
You have to see the trophy. There is the leader. He has become a victim
of the terrain. Bloodied and bruised, he runs for the finish. With 20
meters to go, the race is over. Jubilant for me.
Another second for "Pounds o' Bounds."
At the bottom, we applaud the cruisers with red plastic cups of beer.
"Let me give you a beer and I'll throw your bike onto the ceremonial
trophy pile."
Lots of beer and lots of stories. May need the BBQ next year. A guy
cooking brats at the bottom would have been perfect. To end the day,
we danced with the midgets to the sweet sounds of Pubic Soufflé
After that, what else can I say? He didn't leave much out. It was great. I can't wait for next year. Glug, glug, glug. Me? Oh, I had a good start, mowed right through the bottle neck at the first turn like a weed whacker on full tilt. I was doing good, going as fast as I possibly could and I washed out and wrecked into a dead tree. (I can't complain, you should see the injuries on Dru and the Garden Gnome. Fuck.) I think I finished up there pretty good. The Hippie says I got top ten. All I know is that when I finished there was a lot fewer people standing around that I thought there would be. Go check out the pics Jim posted at flight of the pigs. I'm in there. You have got to see what Casey showed up in. Jesus. My only thing I can remember thinking was how fucking scared I was the whole time. Everything has a comfort limit, and I was well above it. My hands would vibrate off the grips and my feet bounced off the pedals. I can't believe how much a ten minute race hurts. That beach cruiser I rode will probably never be the same again. It's fucked up. From: John Jake kicks ass because he won the State Championship MTB race this year out in Williams. Mr. Big Dick. The new holder of the "Texas Package".
When I was in Pennsylvania last week everyone there thought that 90 degrees was unbearable, an absolute in human tolerance. How can we stand it, they said. It's so humid here, you guys in Arizona are lucky with your "dry heat" and all. I'll bet it isn't as bad as you say it is, Jon, I heard more that once. Well, I got news for you idiots. Between the last two days in this God damn oven, it never cooled off to the same temperature as the hottest day in Pennsylvania last week. Four in the morning here is hotter that high noon out there. How do you like them apples? I like these apples. And the story over at flight of the pigs about one man's meeting with the gringo. Read it and see what I'm talking about. Santiago Fuckin' Botero, man. Here is today's fine joke, supplied by Steve. Three handsome male dogs are walking down the street when they see a beautiful, enticing, female Poodle. The three male dogs fall all over themselves in an effort to be the one to reach her first, but end up arriving in front of her all at the same time. The males are speechless before her beauty, slobbering on themselves and hoping for just a glance from her in return. Aware of her charms and her obvious effect on the three suitors, she decides to be kind and tells them, "The first one who can use the words 'liver' and 'cheese' together in an imaginative, intelligent sentence can go out with me." The sturdy, muscular black Lab speaks up quickly and says, "I love liver and cheese." "Oh, how childish," said the Poodle. "That shows no imagination or intelligence whatsoever." She turned to the tall, shiny Golden Retriever and said, "How well can you do?" "Um. I HATE liver and cheese," blurts the Golden Retriever. "My, my," said the Poodle. "I guess it's hopeless. That's just as dumb as the Lab's sentence." She then turns to the last of the three dogs and says, "How about you, little guy?" The last of the three, tiny in stature but big in fame and finesse, is a Chihuahua. He gives her a smile, a sly wink, turns to the Golden Retriever and the Lab and says. "Liver alone, cheese mine." I know, I know the joke fucking sucked. So kill me. Maybe this will cheer you up.
I think that about wraps up this one. Good night.
Hot diggity dog, what a day to come back to Arizona. I can't believe the heat. The number I heard over and over was one hundred and seventeen. Like in one 117 degrees. You have got to be fucking kidding me. 117? It makes your eyeballs feel like they're melting. It makes me feel like I want to tear someone's head off. I love you all. What makes these awful minutes tick by is the promise of a drunken horde astride single speed beach cruisers tearing it up at the Cruiser Nation race/event on Wednesday. I'm talking the type of bikes that Casey likes to call extreme beach cruisers. The type of bike I own, and paired with an uncanny ability pilot that whore down single track with gallons of proud American lager swilling about inside me, I will be there. I'm fucking proud to be an American. I may not win, but God Damn it, I'm going to have one hell of a good time loosing. And now, let me share some of yesterdays unpleasantness with you, fair reader. I arrived at the Philadelphia airport nice and early for my 10:21 flight back to Arizona, where it's a only a dry heat I hear. Guess what? My flight was delayed. For four hours. Then it was outright cancelled. I pretty much hate people as it is. I hate shopping malls, amusement parks, and crowded bars. I go to a bar to drink, not to see and be seen. When I want to be seen I pedal my happy little ass around town in impossibly more that skin tight lycra. I am awash with every color of the diversity rainbow. I am the bumper sticker on the back of a bull dykes Buick. That's how you get "seen". In a bar, you sit on a bar stool, in front of an actual bar. The bartender knows your name, and you know his. He knows what you drink, and you know what his favorite football team is. He doesn't cut you off, and you don't put him in a bad position by driving, you walk down to that mother fucker 'cause when you leave you're going to be penniless and pounded out of your mind. Then you walk home like a crab. Sideways. And here is where the real fun starts. The flight is cancelled and immediately 115 people, who have all been staring at each other for the last four hours are now in competition for whatever remaining spots are available on the rest of the days flights. Oh, it brings out the best in people, I'll tell you. Gone are the days of walking an old lady across the street. These days it's fuck Grandma if that bitch gets her tight white ass between me and my connecting flight in Columbus. And before you get all choked up over all the cute little old ladies laying prone and motionless about the concourse with the boot prints of those going to Ohio ground into their delicate and broken backs, remember this: That isn't a gift for grandson Jimmy in her purse. No, that is a brick. And that cane she leans to heavily upon? She'll break your fucking ribs with that in a hot minute. Chivalry is dead and so soon shall be the unchivalrous. When an America West employee did appear for interrogation she was immediately seized by a woman in theatrical hysterics crying, pleading, "Why, why has the flight been cancelled? Why?" All this and I need to talk to that airline employee too, I think to myself. You're carrying on like a God Damn child and we're all inconvenienced by this turn of events, you idiot. You think that anyone here planned to be delayed? Oh, hurry up with it. That garbled up crap coming over the loudspeaker stopped making sense hours ago. I cut off Negative Nancy with a word, "Madam!" The effect was as if I had slapped her. Stunned, she stared at me. Taking my chance, I begin, "Am I to understand that I can get on a different flight at the Continental Airline ticket office? And what is the phone number you mentioned earlier?" Armed with proper information, Ang and I forged a two pronged assault. I would stand in line (and it's a long fucker at that) while Ang tackled the phones. One of us will triumph, I'm sure of it. My life being what it is, my wife saves me and I retreat to the airport bar to pour some liquor on top of this Dramamine.
If that isn't an invitation to drink, I don't know what is.
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