Evil Cycling

Murph sends in this little ditty, notice Cheever and BRose in the beginning explaining what’s exactly running in their veins.

We’ve begun our own silly season, post Interbike. It involves some bestiality, amyl nitrate, Biddle, and some Judas Priest. Evil chapters are sputtering to life all around the world, and by sputtering I mean avoiding arrest after feeling up your missus.

If your missus ain’t around, the nearest farm animal will do.

Check out Chuck, our new hire in Johannesburg. He’s a real straight shooter. Welcome to Evil, Chuck.

Just back from the cellophane wrapped, soulless, liver demolishing wreck of a city named Las Vegas. Now while I’ve been to Vegas more times than I’d like to admit, I’ve never been to the great two wheeled orgy known as Interbike. Let me tell you, Interbike is like any other trade show in the world, but for us bike lovers, there were longer lasting erections.

But like in all shows, there’s gargantuan amounts of bullshitting, backslapping, ass kissing, and the like. There were plenty of carbon and silicone treats all around. The best thing I heard as I passed a gaggle of men with pooching bellies and fit legs (myself included in that realm) was, “Yeah, but an epic ride to you might be totally different to another guy’s epic ride.”

I was immediately conflicted: punch this guy, vomit on his shirt, or both. By the time I had decided, I had wandered another 500 paces and missed my opportunity.

It was indeed nice to catch up with Sov and Andy over at the Surly booth, as well as see home town homey’s PDW having the Circulus in full effect. It was nice as well to finally meet long time readers of this blog, or, if not actually meet them, I am sure I was in somewhat close proximity to them at some point in the trip.

Bloody Mary’s on the flight out continued to 38 gallons of beer, several hundred dollars lost wagering, 14 more gallons of beer, tequila and whiskey shots, and then puking on the flight home, much to the chagrin of the tight faced stewardess. I know, lady, the ‘fasten seatbelt’ sign is still illuminated, but if I don’t get to the shitter, I’ll have half this flight covered in a pasty mix of stomach acid, bile, and booze, and the other half following suit in emptying their stomach’s contents.

The highlight must have been the All Hail The Black Market/Paved/Ritte/Soulcraft party. I say it’s the highlight because I remember very little of it. I do remember this, though.

The part I liked best about this was the belly rub. I can’t remember what happened to them other than they left shortly thereafter. I got to talking to KMac, Dr. Jon threw booze down my throat, and after that there’s just flashes and headaches. I think I tried talking to Stevil but  his eyes pinwheeled in his head and he started 32 sentences that he never finished. I’m pretty sure I was holding single syllables for 10 seconds a piece. I could be making this up. By that time he was in his Jim from Taxi mode.

Cheever was dressed like a Bjorn Borg inspired cheerleader. I do believe he was assfucked that night. Not by me, at least I don’t think so. Sov mighta thrown a bone into the old bird, just for old time’s sake.

All that behind us now, and my liver thankfully is taking brief respite. Until next weekend, when Stevil comes to my home to challenge my plumbing and attend the Oregon Manifest, another bike porn gathering, but of the highest echelon. If Interbike is your $20 blowjob common street hooker, then the Oregon Manifest is your $4000 a night type number. No lie. Hope (not) to see you there.

It’s that time of year again, Interbike. For me, believe it or not, it’s my first one. Now, I’ve done more trade shows in my lifetime than should be humanely allowed, but never the Bike Porn fest that is Interbike. I’m excited. I’ll have a bag full of Evil socks and stickers, and I’ll be trying to slip something – anything – up your ass. So watch out.

Stevil, Chevil Kinevil, Sov, a few others and myself will be there for the Evils. We will all be trying to insert something into your anus, be you man, woman, or beast.

Personally, I fucking hate Las Vegas. It’s a soulless, cellophane wrapped playground of excess and retardation, where nothing and no one seems real. Now, this would be fun if dosed on some high quality acid, but since that won’t be the case, I’ll have to suffer through it with my cohorts by staying topped off with low quality beer. Sending a bunch of functional alcoholics to Vegas is a fun concept isn’t it? Name your analogy in the comments section.

With nothing much more of interest to share with you, I’ll simply sign off by apologizing for everything I’m about to do in Vegas, as well as this picture of a well lubed Stan Beaver from this past Saturday night.

In the saloons of the next century, my ass will be right in your face as you pump out a wankie!

That will be all.

If you own this 7 inch record then you have both a veritable gold mine on your hands that about only 50 people in the whole world give a shit about and a history of poor musical taste that is unparalleled. The bass player whose name is Grant gave me this record in 1988. He went on to play in some far more notable projects, but this is the one that, for better or for worse, he will remain inextricably tied to. SRHC.