70 Degrees in February Means One Thing - Getting Totally Pitted

Greetings, uber-dorked-out Team Seagal followers. Here at Team Seagal HQ, this winter has been proof that our monumental, yet secretive efforts to eliminate winter as a real, disruptive season have been going well. Unbeknownst to you, the sheeple, we have been lobbying the cattle industry to have cattle farmers feed their cattle more gaseous feeds, like White Castles, P.F. Changs, Taco Bell, and Dos Primos. Our hopes have been to increase methane emissions from cattle flatulence, ultimately leading to a sped-up warming of our atmosphere through the greenhouse effect. All this, with the grand goal of always having warm weather to ride in, always.

Of course, our long-running jenkem production facilities have been also adding to this speeding-up of the greenhouse effect - but that is really just a nice added benefit to the main goal, which is, of course, to get high as fuck off of some nasty fermented shit-gas.

Weekends like this are proving our efforts are having the desired effect, with 60+ degree temperatures on both days - A.K.A. no reason not to get out and crush some shit. While some superior sonsabitches smashed shitloads of Birthday Bash heinous-ness courtesy of one EK, my mind was not ready for such anguish and pain. And apparently neither was that of one Ward, Jerk and the Drewth. For we had plans to meet at Steinborg Ice Rornk, where we would continue on go all John-Candy-style and point our wagons eastward. Little did we know what Energor had in store for us.

As we rolled down through the super-secret route through mid-town, it wasn't long before Jerkward had to go all "Titty" on us and drain his tiny bladder. Unfortunately for him, he used the Porta-john that we found in what is essentially bum-central, and while it may have smelled like shit, it wasn't that sweet jenk-stank that we love so much, but rather just stunk like the crust that accumulates around a bum's asshole. What a poor decision.

Back on our mounts, we continued onto the Reefer-Front Trail, where DB encountered his first flat tire, which we promptly changed. No big deal - the sun was beamin', it was warm, we were as happy as a handful of turtles sunnin' themselves on a log.

Even happier though, once the first Contender for B.O.D. rolled past (that's the Booty Of the Day.) That increased our sense of urgency to get the tire changed, so we could catch back up to the B.O.D. and you know, confirm.

We laid waste to the RFT, which isn't exactly difficult, but as we approached the Chain of Rocks Bridge, we added another member to our strike force - this one on special deployment from the SCCC. We crossed both bridges into the nether regions of Illinois, but not before catching a glimpse of the newly-blown-up canal bridge:

Up until now, the Missouri side had been very friendly - I'd been jammin' to the internal soundtrack of the Jewish Elvis himself, Neil Diamond:

...and meanwhile, we'd been enjoying a tailwind of totally tubular proportions. However, that totally tubular tailwind turned into a terrible headwind, as seen here, a photo taken of some smokestack smoke going completely sideways:
Looking at that, you can almost hear me saying "FML." Leave it to Illinois to suck!

Anyway, we had traveled for at least an hour or two in Illinois without a flat tire, so we were on borrowed time. Thankfully, as we were exiting that god-forsaken land, DB got his second flat, and noticed it close enough to be able to fix it just across the state line, allowing us to be home good ole' MO soil. Errrr... bridge deck:

not a bad view - of his ass and the city

The sun still out, our adventure far from over, we had a snack, and pressed onward. Despite being stymied on Leanor K. Sullivan Blvd, we rerouted and made new plans. Drew-gonballZ has his third, count 'em third, flat of the day. Turns out, his tires were in worse shape than your average Juggalo:

At this point, our hero decided to cash in his spent rubbers, and split ways with us so he could go find proper tires. The Jerk and I, Crotchward F. Crotchbak, had conceived a plan to head westward, with our sights on the Quicktrip at the Kirkwood terminus of the Grant's Trail, There, we would refuel. And refuel we did. We got some loot:

...and we proceeded to snatch the loot and bring it to a bench alongside the Grant's Trail where we would sit and a) judge people hardcore, and b) spy the next B.O.D.

Sitting there, watching everyone pass by, it is hard to look around and not think about how big of fucking dorks we all are. Seriously, look at me, and at all of us around you - hard to be more dorky. We all may look normal and cool to each other, but had you not ever gotten into riding in the first place, you would look at any one of us riding past and be like "Holy shit, fuck those guys - they are such massive dorks."

Aside from the flurry of flats, we also had many an amazing sight. For example, this old, busted-ass used condom was found at an intersection, where you wouldn't normally be expecting a used jimmy hat to exist:
I figured that our boy Criss Angel had been cruising past, and chucked it out from the backseat window of his blacked-out conversion van, along with any hopes that boy had of escaping.

Not long afterwards, we caught a rare glimpse of the Silver Surfer himself in the wild, helmetless, totally getting pitted on his mega-aggro bike while totally hyper-extending his legs. Probably on his way to hang ten in the Grand Basin next to some sick paddleboats, brah. If only Digiorno and The Brothers Jerk had been there to see it.

But as we rolled down the Grant's Trail, contending with the choked-nature of that trail on a sunny weekend day, we couldn't help but laugh at the King Pathalete who crushed our souls while in an aero-position on his front-suspension hybrid, loose windbreaker flappin' in the breeze.

Arriving back at the the Crotch Station, I was moar than happy to gorge on some food, all the while thinking how happy I was, not being on Emily's birthday death march, which wouldn't come to an end for another 7 or 8 hours. Yowza!

All this riding has me confident in the upcoming ride this weekend, the Rocheport Roubaix. 70 miles of the crunch. Better get YOUR soundtrack ready. I, for one, have new AA batteries in my Walkman, and a fresh copy of this mix ready for some long hours in the saddle:

Remember, don't be a douchebag!
-Casey F. Ryback

P.S. This just in from the New East Coast Syndicate - C-Dubs is hard at work doing some "cross training" as seen in this artist's rendering, as there is no electronic communication coming from the Northeast:


cockpunchOr said...

A glorious tale indeed, Crotch. It is impressive that you are familiar with the stank of a bum's shit-encrusted asshole. The weekend's weather was certainly baller. I, too, did some sweet-ass roAd biking. Pete Goode and our Jerk-ass teammate, Adorm Ryorbor, accompanied me through DBH territory for a few hours. That shit is only two short weeks away. My taint is screaming already.

Orin Boyd said...

Holy titballs Crotch! I feel as though I was there in spirit all day. All the while crushing out some amazOrs epic birthday bash masochism. Pretty sure I didn't arrive back in Kirkwood till almost 3 a.m. sunday morning. My taint is done screaming now. GTF!