Evil Cycling

And by lineage we mean Stevil’s sad excuse for a penis. But that’s beside the point.

You see, our Evil pedigree didn’t start with a couple of idiots in Iowa on Ragbrai, though that’s what we’ve lead you to believe. No, our story begins before jet engines, before bad remakes of good movies, before Bear’s dad decided to throw one in the old lady, not worrying about the consequences.

It’s the same for Pentabike, too. And others. We’ve been around for ages, in different forms. In fact, Evil used to ride pretty pro back in the day. We have a story to tell you about it, and here’s the teaser.

This is Jane’s grandma, handing off a fine drink to guy with the initials J.A. = Dave’s dad’s initials are also J.A. You see where we’re going with this? Neither do we. What’s in the hand up, you ask? It’s one of Colonel Pabst’s first homebrew recipes from his basement in Milwaukee, WI, flown out to France.

Though after Bear had his way with Mrs. Paton, we’re not entirely sure that we are still on his good side.

This one was taken at the actual event where my presence was the cause of everyone else’s race being ruined.

Seconds later I snatched the camera from his hands and wiped my ass with it.

No fun will be had on my watch.

Leading the way…………

All the way up, up, up

To the bar

To the beer

To the bathroom, where you will be graced with the vision of Cheever taking a piss at the Yamhill Pub.

Sometimes is three too few

As I came home on Saturday morning from picking the pet animal up from surgery, two cops were parked in front of my house. “What a shock” I thought, as the police have been called to my house more times in the seven years of living here, than in 20 years of living in Oakland.

Apparently just before my arrival, Nina was running down the street, sans pants, throwing rocks at her boyfriend exclaiming such catchy phrases as “don’t call me a whore” and “fuck you, faggot.”

If I wasn’t bound by the eye of the storm, I would find amusement in this, but as it stands, I am and I don’t.

Yeah Nina, you and your methadone addicted ‘fiance’ (when he’s not back in jail on parole violations), I’m talking to you.

I’m a peaceful man by nature, but I wish nothing but the illest will on you.

After paying a total of $9,000 for two different surgeries on my toothless cat to remove foreign objects from his stomach, and due to a short process of elimination as to where said objects were coming from, I came to the conclusion that it might be from the garbage stack next door.

Of course I don’t know this to be fact, but just the same, to remove one part of the equation seemed to me a good place to start. A lump of plastic covered in chicken fat? He can’t chew it, but he obviously can swallow it.

You became indignant and combative when I asked you to keep your garbage in a can, (because heaven forbid you should afford the city provided service) rather than in a pile by our building. You lashed out at me as if obtaining a regularly occurring collection of rancid trash at your door step was some kind of badge of honor for your kind.

So it stands. I’m almost $10,000 out and I get to force my animals to stay inside so you can save $40.00

You Nina, are a fucker of the purest and most vile form, and I hope your diabetes takes you in a long, and excruciating way.

We had a picnic under the trees, drank Absinthe, and Cheever barfed.

It was magical.