Wednesday, March 24, 2010


Whats up with you wusses taking smoke breaks last night? Its a CRIT- NOT A UNION JOB! Looks like r5 wasn't the only one pounding sacks of Cheetos in mama's basement over the winter.
BTW, road racing boring. Cross is for real man.


  1. First! Cross dressing is definitely for real men.

  2. Mountain biking is for pussies. They only race if it's 80, bone dry, and sunny.

    Of course, the fact that the slightest precip around her turns mtn courses into impossible bogs might have something to do with it, but then I blame the 'racers' themselves for not finding ground with more sand in it.

  3. well r5 that was almost a sentence

  4. that tubby bitch of a viking is no doubt a mountain biker.

  5. That viking looks like JoeH!

  6. Does anyone know where I can get me some roids? I wanta win a tuesday championship!

  7. Score a new bike from the internet, wheelsuck on a few Wednesday night hills, and hope that Bill starts looking your way. You won't be alone.

  8. "The old river in its broad reach rested unruffled at the decline of day, after ages of good service done to the race that peopled its banks, spread out in the tranquil dignity of a waterway leading to the uttermost ends of the earth.
    Hunters for gold or pursuers of fame, they all had gone out on that stream, bearing the sword, and often the torch, messengers of the might within the land, bearers of a spark from the sacred fire. What greatness had not floated on the ebb of that river into the mystery of an unknown earth!"

  9. "Mistah Kurtz -- he dead.

    A penny for the Old Guy"

    We are the hollow men
    We are the stuffed men
    Leaning together
    Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
    Our dried voices, when
    We whisper together
    Are quiet and meaningless
    As wind in dry grass
    Or rats' feet over broken glass
    In our dry cellar

    Shape without form, shade without colour,
    Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

    Those who have crossed
    With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
    Remember us -- if at all -- not as lost
    Violent souls, but only
    As the hollow men
    The stuffed men.

  10. I

    Damn it all! all this our South stinks peace.
    You whoreson dog, Papiols, come! Let's to music!
    I have no life save when the swords clash.
    But ah! when I see the standards gold, vair, purple, opposing
    And the broad fields beneath them turn crimson,
    Then howls my heart nigh mad with rejoicing.

    In hot summer have I great rejoicing
    When the tempests kill the earth's foul peace,
    And the lightnings from black heav'n flash crimson,
    And the fierce thunders roar me their music
    And the winds shriek through the clouds mad, opposing,
    And through all the riven skies God's swords clash.

    Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash!
    And the shrill neighs of destriers in battle rejoicing,
    Spiked breast to spiked breast opposing!
    Better one hour's stour than a year's peace
    With fat boards, bawds, wine and frail music!
    Bah! there's no wine like the blood's crimson!

    And I love to see the sun rise blood-crimson.
    And I watch his spears through the dark clash
    And it fills all my heart with rejoicing
    And pries wide my mouth with fast music
    When I see him so scorn and defy peace,
    His lone might 'gainst all darkness opposing.

    The man who fears war and squats opposing
    My words for stour, hath no blood of crimson
    But is fit only to rot in womanish peace
    Far from where worth's won and the swords clash
    For the death of such sluts I go rejoicing;
    Yea, I fill all the air with my music.

    Papiols, Papiols, to the music!
    There's no sound like to swords swords opposing,
    No cry like the battle's rejoicing
    When our elbows and swords drip the crimson
    And our charges 'gainst "The Leopard's" rush clash.
    May God damn for ever all who cry "Peace!"

    And let the music of the swords make them crimson!
    Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash!
    Hell blot black for always the thought "Peace!"

  11. "They's a time of change, an' when that comes, dyin' is a piece of all dyin', and bearin' is a piece of all bearin', an' bearin' an' dyin' is two pieces of the same thing. An' then things ain't so lonely anymore. An' then a hurt don't hurt so bad."

  12. Did I ever tell you about the man who taught his ass to talk? His whole abdomen would move up and down you dig farting out the words. It was unlike anything I had ever heard.
    "This ass talk had sort of a gut frequency. It hit you right down there like you gotta go. You know when the old colon gives you the elbow and it feels sorta cold inside, and you know all you have to do is turn loose? Well this talking hit you right down there, a bubbly, thick stagnant sound, a sound you could smell.

    "This man worked for a carnival you dig, and to start with it was like a novelty ventriliquist act. Real funny, too, at first. He had a number he called "The Better 'Ole' that was a scream, I tell you. I forget most of it but it was clever. Like, "Oh I say, are you still down there, old thing?'

    "'Nah! I had to go relieve myself.'

    "After a while the ass start talking on its own. He would go in without anything prepared and his ass would ad-lib and toss the gags back at him every time.

    "Then it developed sort of teeth-like little raspy in- curving hooks and start eating. He thought this was cute at first and built and act around it, but the asshole would eat its way through his pants and start talking on the street, shouting out it wanted equal rights. It would get drunk, too, and have crying jags nobody loved it and it wanted to be kissed same as any other mouth. Finally it talked all the time day and night, you could hear him for blocks screaming at it to shut up, and beating it with his fist, and sticking candles up it, but nothing did any good and the asshole said to him: 'It's you who will shut up in the end. Not me. Because we don't need you around here any more. I can talk and eat AND shit.'

    "After that he began waking up in the morning with a transparent jelly like a tadpole's tail all over his mouth. This jelly was what the scientists call un-D.T., Undifferentiated Tissue, which can grow into any kind of flesh on the human body. He would tear it off his mouth and the pieces would stick to his hands like burning gasoline jelly and grow there, grow anywhere on him a glob of it fell. So finally his mouth sealed over, and the whole head would have have amputated spontaneous- except for the EYES you dig. That's one thing the asshole COULDN'T do was see. It needed the eyes. But nerve connections were blocked and infiltrated and atrophied so the brain couldn't give orders any more. It was trapped in the skull, sealed off. For a while you could see the silent, helpless suffering of the brain behind the eyes, then finally the brain must have died, because the eyes WENT OUT, and there was no more feeling in them than a crab's eyes on the end of a stalk.