The Smack Down...

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- The following is a profane and somewhat foul account of Dirty Crits from the Preacher of all things gospeless, contributing writer Maxithad throws down a view of all things Pirate from deep inside the flask. You have been warned.

The Smack Down of the Century

  I awoke with an aching in my abdomen and a stench burning my braided nose-hairs; something was most definitively amiss. Could it be the six Guinness I consumed that belonged to a pink man named ChrisGo? No, that was just a violent wet dream. The only viable and feasible explanation could only be discerned through careful analysis of the previous night’s Dirty Crit Pirate cXc Race.  As with all the Pirate night races that I have attended, The Pirate -or Jack Sparrow as I refer to him during amorous liaisons -was up to no good, designing a course fit only for the Red Bull addicts and newly –coronatedColoradan weed whores.                                                                  
  But I'm getting ahead of myself…let’s get back to theairborne toxic event (Don DeLillo notwithstanding) . Because of the aforementioned difficulty of the course – where I easily lapped T-Donn *666 times – and the lack of Brownie hand-ups - I was hungry enough to eat the lint in Taylor Swift’s belly button after I flatted on the *347th lap. Beer is a charming meal replacement, and I frequently, and with great passion adhere to this well-known fact, but barley juice just didn't cut-it in the frigid post-race orgy. So, with much haste, I absconded from the bacchanalia and headed East towards the great K-7 death corridor.  At this point I was forced to make a decision: grab Taco Bell and piss my pants in the drive-thru; or speed home and eat a gallon of leftover spicy tortilla soup. After checking my handy iPad app that calculates my weekly intake of roaches and pickled mouse anus’, I decided to push on towards home and have a one-man love-fest with my microwave.  And so this brings us full circle to the inauguration of this emotionally challenged tirade: my enflamed nasal pathways and bloated gut.
  Let it be known that a bicycle seat is not an effective antidote to vehement, ferocious, contaminated sharts.  I put the blame for this nauseating episode solely at the erogenous feet of Capt. Sparrow and his torture-fest of a race; and I am consulting a lawyer so to collect on all damages involuntarily inflicted on me by said affair. As the CDC came to my rescue, and a quarantine instated, I began my recovery effort, emboldened by the memory of getting a hand-job from Handleballs, and a hummer from a rabid raccoon on the course’s detour through the woods.  I would have easily paid a purdy lady on Independence Ave. $11 to succor me through the tribulations that were so heinously forced upon me during this “race”, which resulted directly in the fouling of my chamois, but in the end, victory was mine, and the grand prize of a liter of EPO was immediately shot into my swollen member.
  On a serious note, now that Disney is in the process of raping – legitimately of course - Darth Vader, let me give many an accolade to the man and the legend, Mittens Romney… without which illegal night races and magic underwear-swapping parties would not exist.  In other, more coherent words, long live the Pirate, for without he-who-collates-social-miscreants, we who straddle the saddle would have nothing better to do on a callous Wednesday night than self-pleasure ourselves to old VHS copies of the 1998 Tour De France….or is that just me?

-Maxithad in the closet.  

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