Evil Cycling

Our penises from the collective assfucking we give the bicycle-related world and catch up a moment. Too much butt humping means the hands do nothing, (unless reaching around to fondle Bear’s ponderous teets) and as we all know idle hands are the Devil’s plaything. So are stripper’s tits. Wait, those are our playthings!

Your Portland Evil update has you learning the following: Magic Gardens still has some of the best strippers in downtown. So easy to swing by for a pint or two and see the sights. Plus, the big and burly bouncer, recently out of prison, has the hots for Cheever. Then again, who doesn’t? Speaking of the bird-like one, he recently attended the USGP and appropriately raced (poorly) and heckled (rapha, and did well), so we’re all winners on that front.

At least he was upright. We know that sometimes the trajectory can take the opposite tack and head due south, with a bullet.

In other parts of the world, seems Evil’s doing fine. Carter is well in NYC, Bear-pi is in MPLS and well, along with those other a-hole naer-do-wells, Nick, Sov, Clark, Jro/Bro, and everyone else are holding their own. I’d rather them hold theirs than mine. Just sayin’.

Stevil’s just dropped some bitchin’ new kits and you should immediately buy two: because you’ll soil the first one you put on. If you’re not smart enough to navigate your way to new AHTBM kits, you can easily find other ways to adorn yourself in cool, simply by clicking here, and giving up all hope in yourself, and humanity.

Which is fortunate because after this year’s running of the SSCXWC, I maybe have about five to spare.

So as you might can guess, a partial (and mulleted) cloud of evil descended on the City By The Bay and not a drop of alcohol, or brain cell was spared. It’s probably a good thing that this event doesn’t happen more than once a year, because there’s no way my body could take it.

Mud and blood and one hour of pure, unadulterated suffering was what this year’s race offered up, and we drank every last bit that we could physically afford. Plus whatever happened to come out of Loudass’ mouth.

Photo by Skotty Pawz.

I wasn’t supposed to be there. I was supposed to be in Philadelphia. But, as soon as I landed in MPLS for my layover, and upon finding out my flight to Philly was canceled due to a freak blizzard, I immediately went to work. I started by calling around, and strangely, no one was picking up. Although, if they saw my name on the caller ID, I don’t blame them for not picking up. But the erstwhile Bear picked up his phone, and offered a ride and his couch until my next morning flight to Philly. Then he informed me it was the Homie Fall Fest, that’s probably why no one was answering their phones. True that.

Bear scooped me up, we went to the beer store, and we set about catching up on the porch on a brisk October afternoon.

Then the lovely JRo and the Rabbit Costumed Brose picked me up and, on one of Bear’s almost-fits-me bikes, made our way to the Minnehaha trail to catch up with the homie. This was easy. Find the smoke, follow the smoke, and see shit like this:

There were hot laps, and I mean that – a huge bonfire got larger and larger as the night went on. Lots of beers met their deaths. A bottle of Wild Turkey in my bag slowly died as well. I hadn’t come rightly prepared, with my shiny work shoes and stupid pants, but hey, I wasn’t supposed to be here. Chewey was there, Sov, Geneo, and a host of other faces I hadn’t seen for a while, so that was nice. Bikes went in circles, over fires, into each other, and in every possible direction. It was a downright hootenanny. Until apparently some asshats made off with a couple of backpacks, and that just isn’t cool.

Before I knew it I was hammered, and no better place to go than the Sunrise! An open fryer pit with beers on tap, basically. They sold us “cheeseburgers” and “fries” in “baskets”. Moffit just looked around for food to pilfer.

This is the shittiest report with the shittiest phone photos ever, but hey, I wasn’t even supposed to be there.

Bear dropped me off at the airport the next morning and I continued eastward to the city of brotherly love. Yes, I had some cheez whiz.

that regular use of profanity is a sign of a low I.Q.

If this is true, Captain Dave is certifiably retarded, and the readers of this site are catatonic.

Yep, look.

Crash.

Anus.

Click of shutter.

Pic of shitter.

Listen to Slayer, for the love of God.

While you gaze and Cheever’s visage and no doubt ask yourself “What kind of bird is that?”, we offer the contrast of the lovely Anna the Wolf, who tells us her socks made her go 10x faster, but also resulted in 2 shots of Patron before the finish line.

Hey, what can we say? Promoting blatant bicycle born alcoholism since ‘99.

All it takes is the sharp eye of a photographer like Mike Albright and it becomes clear how possible it is to polish a turd.

This is because that between Las Vegas and my recent trip to Portland, I think I managed to do some irreparable damage to my brain meat.

The only thing I remember was putting a sticker on an extremely expensive custom bike.

Or maybe that was Cheever.

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