Per Pirate cXc standards, we post a race report from one of those who actually raced. Please, cover your children's eyes, close and lock the door, turn off your safe search mode and get ready to be totally disgusted or laugh your phuggin' ass off.
Enter the works of the one and only Captain Cuntwat; the teller of fat bike lore, the drinker of Yak semen and the lover of three legged boys.
A Bountiful Booty...
Since my recent sex-change operation successfully made me a master of three-hole insertion merrymaking, I have embraced only the sexiest of night bike riding. So with considerable haste, I signed up for the first Pirate cXc race of the season, which took place on a full moon – my normal night wherein I dismember sundry prostitutes – and was abnormally pleasant weather for late January. In observance of my devout religious intolerance I arrived in drag, as did many, including White Mike who appeared as a transsexual Elmo, countless 11 year old boys stuffed in his pants. The award for most prideful costume, though, went to Mrs. Amazon Monroe, and in the end his amore por de gordo brought him fame and fortune beyond all measure.
Wait just a fucking hour….what the heaven do costumes and vodka flasks on fatties have to do with illegal night racing? Well, let’s just say that a Pirate cXc race gives new meaning to “cross”. Again I get ahead of myself. What exactly happened that night is of utmost importance when one needs definitive explanations of how they awoke Sunday morning with an ache in their anus and their man-bag stapled to their thigh. I can neither confirm nor deny the existence of the Deevil, but if he had a dog in the fight he was without a doubt present at the time-bonus table ( or maybe at the end of the teeter totter licking his chops ).
Powdered donuts pair well with beer, so says the local UCI Cicerone, who checked my tire width on every lap, which disqualified me from my normal spot on the podium. Even after I consumed *348 of Chasm’s tall-boys on the starting line, my virginal Krampus strayed mightily, careening off many tree-shaped objects, otherwise know as trees. On one lap I was “legitimately” forced to taste baby gravy in the back of my throat, as Joel stomped on my glutes, which involuntarily sent my twins spreading across my top tube. I recovered quickly with the help of my cheerleaders, and was able to catch him in the deep, dark forest and deliver a felch on a magnitude of 8.9 on the Richter scale….
And as it has been foretold, I sense in my ADD infested, sixth grade dropouts I call my readers, that a more gay-forward approach is necessary: yes, I will now provide a list of a despicably insufficient narrative that is not without its inherent risks.
1. Chris-go rode my white fatty and valiantly rescued fairy wings that were abandoned after Handleballs had his way with them.
2. Postal Jeff and his trusty MukLuk snubbed the time-bonus table in favor of the free Girl Scout pole dances on the backside of the course.
3. Speeding Jesus smoked me in the single-speed class…as if that is a rare occurrence.
4. Jack Sparrow blew himself…I mean to say that he flatted his fatty during the pre-race rituals and was forced to ride Axel Rose’s Stumpjumper to the start/finish.
5. T-Don was utterly frightened by my blazing speed and because of this he did not race…
6. The Manimal and G-whiz were so slow that they only lapped me *46 times, a complete disgrace for Ethos Racing.
7. The Silent Killer continued his dominance by giving an old-fashioned to everyone who doubted the advantage of an obese steed on a course designed by racist circus midgets.
8. Cotter drinking enough for a small German village and still finishing ahead of me…what the fark?
9. Chasm showing the entire world how imperative it is to dress to impress, and to leave the back door of your PBR jammies open for business.
10. And last but not leased: some poor schmuck tried to be Paul Bunyan and plowed into the flora, breaking his arm in the process. Only the picture leaked of me humping a deer was less embarrassing, which goes to show, a Pirate cXc race is not for the faint of heart: only those born without one.
Captain Cuntwat reporting….