LSD 25000

"Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover." -- Mark Twain


Where to begin? That always seems to be the hardest part. I shall let my mind travel across my travels and begin where it chooses to rest. Past my childhood fantasies of Huckleberry Finning it down the Mississippi on a raft with Tom Sawyer. Beyond hitch hiking On The Road to California and the rising peaks of Big Sur. Over the Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test over flowing with Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas. I stare Through The Looking Glass at myself jaunting down notes in my Rum Diary, on the shores of Treasure Island, as I watch The Old Man And The Sea. Perhaps the beginning is 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea or on an Animal Farm I visited back in 1984. The beginning is always a Catch 22.

Traveling seems to have been the one thing I wanted to do since birth. Anywhere but here has been my life’s motto. Some of my travels were spur of the moment, like the time I rode my bicycle twenty miles to my grandparents house to avoid my mothers wrath for flunking English at nine years old, or fifteen years later I found myself hastily packing up a backpack full of dirty clothes in order to flee the state, before I heard the splintering screams of my front door’s death song as Johnny Law came storm trooping through it. No matter what the circumstance the road is always whispering sweet nothings in my ears. Telling me lies about greener pastures and streets paved in gold.

My only explanation is there must be a mighty river of Gypsy blood coursing through my veins. My eyes have witnessed 33 frosts, thaws, and falls across the entire United States and the inside of five different states cell walls along the way. Regrets, I have none. The memories of my past are tattooed on my soul, friendly reminders of my twisted journey down life’s path

Many of these memories are hazy as I saw them through the bottom of a bottle, from the end of a pipe, cross eyed down a rolled up bloody hundred dollar bill, or blasted into my veins 40 units at a time with a soul killing cannon. So what I remember of them, may not be the way others remember them. But some form of the truth is always there. As I’ve said before the truth is all in the eyes of the beholder. Take my hand and dance into the past with me, lets watch the world pass us by from the windows of planes, trains, automobiles, and the fart filled cushions of the hound.

Some days I look back at my travels, and wonder how I’m still here in one piece? Why haven’t I been locked away in a cage or mental institute for the rest of my days? Many a person close to me ponders these same questions. Perhaps, it just wasn’t in the cards for me. Fate is a fickle beast.

March 18th marks the anniversary of the day I was spit out of my mother into this cruel world, sopping wet, covered in blood, and guts, kicking and screaming. One year this day brought a special present. A surprise spur of the moment trip to Las Vegas. I refuse to write about Vegas. Some one else has already written of the seething madness that is Vegas. It is theirs, and theirs alone. Any tale I could write would only be viewed as some two bit dime a line hack’s attempt to duplicate it. Nobody likes a biter. Instead, I’ll write about my flight home from Vegas.

5:30 AM the alarm clock on my nightstand is a freight train running through my spinning head. My tongue is coated with the taste of stale Scotch. I’m wondering where the hobo who obviously took a shit in my mouth, Judging by the rancid flavor over taking my taste buds, has gone to. I stagger to the bathroom to scrub this foulness from my mouth. My bladder is swollen. I opt to relieve the pressure from it first. I look down into the toilet and see a spunk filled condom swirling around in the bowl. A steady blast of deeply colored yellow, toxin filled urine causes it to almost dance around in the water. I shake the last sticky drops of seaman laced urine from my prick. I then flush this final reminder of the call girl with the tattooed Mons-pubis down into the sewers, Good riddance.


What had I been thinking? Oh, yes-- all my companions had left on a trip to California earlier in the week. I had been left to fend for myself. Drunk, alone, with a head full of speed never makes for the wisest of choices. I begin cringing at the thought of having my cock flossed with a dry Q-tip, by some intern with a thick Middle Eastern accent, in some clinic filled with the shamed faces of the burnt. Perhaps I’d take quick shower to wash the filth of Sin City off of me, before shoving my belongings into my suitcase, and calling a cab. I had enough time to spare.

Twenty minutes later, I’m in the back of a cab heading towards the airport. My brain is throbbing against the roof of my skull. I begin cursing the Gods of shit- lord- fuck- luck for allowing me access to the previous night’s carnival of sex, drugs, and debauchery. “Just get me on this flight, with no delays, I promise, I’ll never ever do this again.” I offer this as penance to the Gods as I cross my fingers behind my back.


With in minutes of my offering, I’m at the airport lugging my overstuffed suitcase into the airport. Somehow I’ve lost one of the wheels. I’m stumbling through the airport dragging the lopsided beast behind me, like some sort of wounded elephant. Every three steps or so the broken side of my case catches the rug. The case twists violently behind me. I nearly fall several times wrestling with this sack of booze, sex, and God knows what soaked clothing. I feel a thousand glaring eyes burning through me. I arrive at the ticket desk to find a sea of angry souls corralling into the gates of airport hell. “Damn you! Damn you! Damn you!” I silently scream inside of my aching head.

I take my place at the end of this wretched line, behind an octogenarian couple, fresh off of a gambling away their lives savings to the sugary clean sounds of that sweet Mormon boy, Donny Osmond, filled bender, and a group of Korean tourists, speaking in some strange ,angry, loud, dialect, that I can not comprehend. Moments pass like eons, as I have small talk with the elderly couple. They are dragging bags large as buffalo behind them. “ You bastards are never going to let this go smoothly are you!?” My angry inner voice shouts to the Gods, as I smile, and offer my elderly comrades help with their luggage. 38 minutes later, I’m at the ticket agent.

A small plump woman with the smiling eyes of a person ready to loose all control, then happily stab my eyes from their sockets with the ball point pen behind her ear, if I so much as think of making her day any harder, greets me. The usual rigmaroles are played out and she asks me for my ID. I remove my wallet, and pull my ID out. I suddenly notice the small Mylar bag containing the leftover five hits of the acid I had, is stuck to the back of it. “FUCK!” Is the only word blasting through my skull at maximum decibels. I grasp my ID between my thumb and middle finger. Then in one smooth motion, I slide the bag into the palm of my hand, like Chris Angel performing street magic on the strip. Praying my hands are quicker than those smiling eyes.


She hands me the ticket, I eagerly smile and walk briskly away towards the gates as she suspiciously eye fucks my broken case of unmentionables. Sirens of paranoia are screaming through my head like nuclear winter is upon me.

Had she seen it? “Jesus, are you there?” No! Now is not the time to ask for help. Not that I’m deeply religious, but I find only talking to God when you’re in desperate need of help is just wrong. Old smiley eyes had probably already called the Gestapo on me. I feel the Mylar bag begin to float in the ocean of clammy sweat filling my palm. I spy a row of one armed bandits trying to lure fish into their nets to squeeze any remaining pennies, or winnings from their pockets. I dart down the aisle and sit at a machine next to some land whale, hoping her mass would somehow shield me from the eye in the sky. There was only one thing to do, eat the acid. I muster up an academy award worthy fake cough, and cover my mouth with my acid filled palm and suck the bag into my mouth, chew it to pieces and swallow.


Ha! Now there was no evidence. I couldn’t have risked taking any chances trying to dispose of it in any other way. I made my way to the security screening line. I observe the procession of shoe less, belt less wonders, stuffing their pocket’s contents and carry-ons into plastic tubs before shoving them into the open jaws of the X-Ray machine. My eyes find amusement in the sneering grimaces of seasoned air travelers, every time some rookie hasn’t removed all the metals from their pockets, or was beyond the T.S.A’s liquid limit. These rookies only slow down the progress of the salty air dogs to the gates, and the silent hatred of the rookies is evident in their snarling eyes.

I’m three people back from the mouth of the beast when the paranoia really starts seizing me in it’s razor sharp claws. My thoughts race to visions of a gang of TSA goons tackling me, and dragging me off to some interrogation room away from the eyes of decent Americans, where then a large man of Eastern European descent would force an unloving gloved hand into my terrified rectum, and probe me without even the common decency of a reach around, then hook a car battery up to my testicles in order to force confessions about anything they wanted out of me. I try to go to my happy place, as I walk into the beast’s mouth.

I manage to look calm as a duck on the water as I stroll through and quickly snatch up the contents of my tub. Five steps, six steps, seven steps, eight steps, nine steps, and finally ten steps away the fear washes off me. I don’t dare to look back, this would only arouse suspicion. I then make my way quicker than it takes for two fleas to fuck into an airport bar, to bask in my victory, and drown whatever lingering remnants of the paranoia beast in the bottom of a glass of the sweet brown nectar of the Gods.


I take an empty seat at the bar between a beer barrel bellied Texan wearing a world champion sized gold belt buckle, and a pencil pusher, who’s eagerly crack berry-ing his time away. I order my glass of Johnny Walker on the rocks with three olives. This arises curiosity in Tex.
“Well shit fire son’a bitch boy, I say, I aint neva seen a man put olives in his scotch before.”

“ No?, it’s an old Italian tradition.”

It’s not, I just love mind fucking people when I travel. Who’s going to be able to find out if I’m telling the truth or not?

“ Them I-talians are a strange bunch.”

“Yeah, a bunch of grape stomping savages if you ask me.”

This causes Tex to erupt with a thundering laugh from deep in his beer barrel.

“ Shit boy, I like your style, names Billy Joe Butler, but you can call me Tex, everybody calls me Tex.”

How’d I guess?

“ Pleased to meet you, my names Jones.”

“Well Jonesy, What brings you to viva Las Vegas? Broads, booze, gambling?”

Let the mind fucking begin.

“Well I’m really not supposed to say, but you seem like a decent American, I think I can trust you.”

“Sure as shit you can trust me.”

“Well I work for the NSA.”

“Really, dealing with terrorists and them sand niggers?”

“Yes sir. You see we had intelligence that one of Bin Ladin’s head honchos was here in Vegas trying to buy up white women for his harem.”

“You gotta be shitting me! Them A-rabs is in Vegas buying up white women?”

“They sure are.”

“Well, did ya catch em?”

“Bet your ass I did Tex!, Nobody gets away from Jones.”

“Well what happened?”

“He was holed up in the Presidential suite over at the Bellagio.”

“ Shit, I was at the Bellagio all week!”

“Well, you should thank your lucky stars they have sound proof suites, he made some awful noise.”

“What do ya mean.”

“Well, Tex I needed to get some information out of him.”


“How’d you do that? Chinese water torture?”

“No, we don’t use that any more, but you’d be surprised at the type of information you can get out of a man when you got his nuts hooked up to a car battery, and a white hot pair of vise grips clamping down on his asshole.”

“Shit, I bet boy! You’re a goddamn American hero Jonsey! Bartender get Jonsey another drink on me!”

“ Now Tex, I trusted you as a God fearing American with this information. If this were to get out we’d both be getting worse than the vise grip treatment.”

“Don’t worry, Jonsey I won’t say a word.”

“You’re a good man Tex.”

With this I sucked down my drink and headed to the gate. Leaving old Tex smiling knowing people like me were keeping this great countries white women safe from hostile foreigners.

I approach the gate just in time to hear my flight will be boarding shortly. I send my praises to the Gods of shit-lord-fuck-luck for getting me here with no delays. I take my place in the line of ants entering the mouth of the mound. I’m starting to feel my cheeks pull back into a Cheshire sneer, my joints are starting to feel a strange electric tingle, the acid is beginning to creep up on me. I’m greeted at the gates of the sky vessel by a tall lanky sky waitress who resembles an ostrich. I mosey down the isle and find my seat in row 12, seat A. It’s a window seat, thank you Jesus! I clamber into my seat and sit back. I watch the line of boarding passengers slither through the aisle towards me. I might as well be on a game show, inside of my head, the grand prize, who will be my travel companion. “Come on big tittied blondey, big titties, big titties, no fattys, no fattys, big titties, big titties, no fatty‘s and stop!” I get neither. A slim man who looks like he just left a Star trek convention takes the middle seat, and an middle aged house wife rests her mom jeans covered ass in the aisle.

Soon the ostrich and a very effeminate sandy brown haired gentleman named Chip are giving us our bend over and kiss your ass good-bye in case of an emergency speech. Then I hear the rumbling scream of 50,000 horses, as the sky chariot blasts down the runway and into the sky. My head snaps back into my seat and I watch as the earth becomes an alien planet beneath us as we ascend into the heavens.

By the time we’ve reached our cruising altitude the acid has me wrapped tightly in it’s tentacles. The ostrich is now pushing a cart down the aisle towards me. I’m frozen in fear, wondering if the economy is really that bad, that the airlines have actually took to training large flight less birds to work as stewardesses, I find this strangely ironic. Soon the ostrich is upon me squawking about what I’d like to drink. My mind scrambles for an answer and before I can even think I blurt out. “Burger Buns?”

The ostrich snaps her head back and the trekie and house wife’s eyes snap to me.

“Excuse me sir, what was that?”

You fool what the hell are you thinking? Surely she’ll have the sky Marshalls on you in no time.

“ A cola and some rum.”

The ostrich cocks her head, smiles and gets me my drink. That was a close one. I slam the drink down in a single gulp. I then decided that looking out the window will probably be my best bet to avoid any eye contact or conversation that could throw me straight over the edge and into the back of beyond.

Now I’ve stared up at the clouds from the Earth countless times, but never had I stared from 25,000 feet in the heavens down through the clouds at the Earth. My breathe was taken from my lungs as I looked down upon God’s brush strokes on the Earth. Perfect blends of greens, and blues. From here I could see the Earth truly is a living being. I could make out her veins sucking the life giving water from the soil in deep darkening spider webs across the landscape. Rivers cutting through her in winding wild paths. I watch the soil rise and breath. I was captivated. Never in all my years have I seen such beauty. I now knew there was a God, and why he loved her so much. It is beyond any words. I spent the rest of the flight with my face pinned inside of that window.

Hours passed like seconds and soon I heard the captain’s voice snapping me back to reality. We were about to begin our descent into Dayton. I watched the earth slowly grow below me and come into focus. Tom Petty was right coming down is the hardest thing. The plane touched down smoothly and soon the ants were again filing out of the shuttle and into the world. I walked off that plane forever changed and humbled by my God’s eye view of the world..

Satans furry little helper

Shit Happens…..

I’ve recently returned home to Massachusetts to aid my family in caring for my grandfather, or the “Chief” as I affectionately call him. He’s just about ninety years young. He’s a funny old bugger, full of piss and vinegar. He’s for lack of a better term your typical proverbial wise ass, a constant flirt and practical joker.

Yesterday was my Uncle Billy’s shift to care for the Chief. I haven’t seen my uncle in years, so I decided to keep him company on his shift. One key factor you should know about the Chief’s home before beginning this tale is about his cat. A ferocious feline, which I swear Satan himself must have tossed from the fiery pits of hell into our lives. Megabucks is this infernal beasts name. It has the eyes of a wild beast and the temperament of a rabid wolverine. Her favorite activity is attacking people without warning nor provocation.

She’s a sadistic animal that lures unknowing victims into here claws by walking up innocently like your common variety house cat wishing to be pet, but this is not your common feline. Once said victim gets their hand just close enough to pet this beast, she unleashes all hells fury upon her victim with razor sharp claws and fangs. Claws she sharpens to surgical perfection on every piece of the Chiefs furniture mind you. I’ve been awakened many a night from my peaceful slumber on the Chief’s couch to the sounds of Megabucks sharpening her claws inches from my head. I’d lay there paralyzed in fear staring straight into the beast’s eyes trying not to make any sudden movements that may provoke the calico demon to attack.

If my grandmother, God rest her soul, was still around Satan’s furry little helper would have been put in a box and mailed to Antarctica years ago. But sadly she is not, and
Somehow this four legged demon brings the Chief untold amounts of happiness. I have no clue how anyone would want to keep such a beast.

Whenever this reject from the bowels of hell is not present the Chief gets worried that I’ve let the beast outdoors. A search party must be formed immediately, to look under every bed, table, and couch in the house until the damned beast is found. Only once Megabucks is found will the Chief be able to rest his mind. He’s worried that wild animals will eat his precious pet if it gets outdoors. I fear for any wild beast that crosses this domestic demon’s path.

Blood N' Dust In The Steerts of Dayton

Blood N’ Dust In The Streets of Dayton….
By Edaurdo Jones.
Sunday, September 26, 2009- I’m cramped in the backseat of the Canuck’s car on a rainy day. We’re off to cover some sort of drunken bicycle race. It’s unclear to me at this point exactly what the rules are, but from what I’ve gathered it involves racing at top speeds to area bars that double as check points. The racers must check in, pound a beer and down a shot before they are able to depart to the next check point. It should make for some rather spectacular introductions of bare flesh to wet asphalt. I have no way of knowing how the hell I’m expected to cover this. I highly doubt I’ll keep focus on the races. I already know the real story lies in the sex, drugs, and debauchery that surround such things as pedal bike races, underground midget knife fights, and all the other assorted activities that only strange freaks seem to follow or partake in.
My contact, once in Dayton, is a world yo-yo champion known only as “Bubba.” A strange hillbilly gorilla pimp with a taste for techno-geekery and ultra-violence, I’ve known this savage fuck for quite some years now. So I know I can count on him to get me to the seedy underbelly of the pedal-bike racing circuit, or at the least provide me with some soft female flesh to dance the horizontal mambo with by the end of the night. That meeting is still about an hour away.
At the current moment I’m listening to the Canuck and Skinny blabber on about God only knows what as the radio pumps out a song about “California being ok and somebody needing to check my brain.” “Check my brain?” is this some sick subliminal message the machine is pumping into my psyche? My brain is fine isn’t it or is it?? Damn, the Subliminal Corporate Media Greed Machine (SCMGM) is yet again trying to distract me from the task at hand. But I will fight it, by tooth and nail I will fight it. I must get to the bottom of this…
One of the fuckos I’m riding with keeps releasing foul methane from their puckering sphincter. I suspect it to be that foul Canuck. The Canadian’s are not known for being well mannered people at all. A foul race of beer-swilling, ice-fishing, toothless hockey players even the French refuse to claim as their own! Despite the afore-mentioned facts, she’s been a distinguished colleague of mine for years now and has made for the most excellent of resources in my search for the freaks one needs to meet in situations such as these.
Well we’ve just exited interstate route 70 and should be rendezvousing with Bubba and his strange pack of bagmen, whores, and bottom of the barrel dope-fiends with their wild shifty eyes and questionable motives; good people, my type of people. Not exactly the types John Q. Public would find himself surrounded with. But then again, my name’s not Johnny Public and we‘re just one exit away from Wonderland. It’s on this car ride that I again have the epiphany; I am a savage mutant, hellbent on unearthing truth by any means necessary- even if that means tying poor fools up in chairs and hooking a car battery to their testicles to get it out of them.
Our band of rejects from the isle of misfit toys has safely made it to our “Top Secret” destination, Bubba’s compound. After successfully navigating our way through the minefield, scaling barbwire fences, and traversing the alligator infested moat which surrounded his mighty fortress of solitude, I suddenly realized I’d forgotten the secret password. Fuck! After a few minutes of debating with him through a small window in the door, my associates and I were finally granted entry. The scent of sweet ham and beans baking filled my nostrils quite instantly. My stomach began growling.
“Shut up, you foul beast. The time will come, patience, patience.”
Hello’s have been said, introductions made, and the mood is easy. Skinny quickly makes himself busy, editing footage of last year’s race. It’s being aired at the various check point bars. Bubba has informed me that I should fit in perfectly with this crowd and getting to the bottom if it all should be no problem. It’s still two hours until race time and I’m preparing in my usual way to get total “Gonzo” coverage. One question does fill my mind as I prepare. What would the good doctor do in a situation like this?
I’m not exactly sure how, but I missed the start of the race. I decided the beginning would mean nothing. A race is all bout the ending. After all, it’s not how you start the race, it’s about how you finish it that counts. So I made my way to the Century Bar. The location that would serve as the finish line for the riders. I would witness the victor in all his glory as he towered over ground zero. The rest of my crew missed the entire damn race. They spent the duration of the race trying to find the route, so Skinny could film it. The tape of their escapade should make for interesting viewing.
As I stood sipping a glass of Crown Royal in the doorway, I noticed my colleagues had finally landed at HQ. I began making my way over to them as a man steps to me and says,
“ Do you like money?”
“ Of course I like money! What the hell kind of question is that!?”
He then proceeded to hand me what looked like a crumpled up dollar bill. “Jesus, this must be some kind of set-up.” ..naturally, was the first thought to enter my mind. He didn’t look like a junkie trying to score; he looked more like, “some-middle-aged-homosexual-who-hides-his-dildo-under-the-mattress-from-his-wife” out maybe cruising for some late night sodomy. Then I looked at exactly what the hell he handed me it was a small book of religious propaganda. The right wing Christian type. I began reading aloud from a random page. “Sex is only for those in the unity of marriage if you engage before marriage in sex you are a fornicator and a sinner.”
“Well, Jesus H. Christ!, I’m a fornicator, imagine that? Sorry chief but I kind of love fornicating, debauchery, and madness a little too much for this shit.”
“ Well I was the same way a horrible sinner, crazy as hell, but then I found Jesus.”
“Where the hell did you find Jesus? I’ve been looking for him for years!”
“ I found him in Illinois.”
“ So that’s where that bastards been hiding! That fucker owes me a bunch of money! Next time you see him, tell him he can’t dodge me forever an I’m coming to collect!”
With that his face twisted into disgust and he walked away. I love fucking with radical religious types. Don’t get me wrong it’s not that I don’t believe in higher power or whatever but I don’t need people pushing their Dogma on me like it was crack cocaine. So a little sheep’s mind being fucked never hurts.
Within this time the winner of the race came speeding on his chariot, dropped his bike to the ground and sprinted towards the entrance of Century. Suddenly a group of savage freaks appeared their eyes full of wild fiery mischief, throwing a white powdered substance all over him. Could these be terrorist committing an Anthrax attack? or perhaps some geeked out fiends fresh off a burn throwing copious amounts of cocaine in the throws of some form of a savage drug induced psychosis, but alas it was only flour. The gold medal flour posse continued performing this act of terrorism on every last contestant making their way across the finish line.
Soon I discovered the next event was double-decker bike jousting. A truly savage event for warriors with nerves of steel. As they made the call for participants one of my associates decided to register yours truly and the white spy to my black spy, the Mayor of scum-ville….. Tito to do battle in the joust. I’d consumed enough liquid courage by now and gladly agreed to the challenge, regardless of the fact I’d never really even seen a double-decker bicycle, never mind ridden one. After a quick tutorial on how to mount this mechanical steed I was up and peddling this towering cycle of doom around a vacant parking lot.
By now it was high time we departed from Century and made our way to the jousting field. I listened to the music bumping through the night air as I surveyed the battle field. The air was alive with the electric blood lust of the gathering crowd preparing to watch these brave warriors do battle. The crowds chatter about the contestants buzzed like a swarm of angry wasps as they gathered along the sideline, sizing up the contestants and placing wagers.
I watched the first two combatants mount their war machines and grasp their lances. I watched as they barreled head long at each other. The rider on the bottom end of the field aimed his lance at his opponents left elbow. It hit it’s target squarely and knocked the riders arm violently to side causing him loose control and crash to the unforgiving pavement. This was slightly more dangerous than I had first thought. A fall to pavement from four and a half feet in the air combined with the velocity of your opponent’s strike would not tickle.
Soon it was time for me to do battle. I watched as my adversary prepared himself. He was clad in a gold sequined sleeveless top. Was I about to duel Richard Simmons? My trusty corner man Mr. Martin gave me some last minute instructions as I mounted my mighty stead. After a quick conformation from my opponent and I that we were both ready, we were off. Adrenaline surged through my veins like white lightning as I focused on my opponents eyes. My aim was not true as his, his lance caught me square in the shoulder knocking me backwards but not hard enough to flip me off my steed. I landed squarely on my feet my lance still in my hand. The crowd roared and demanded a rematch. My opponent and I gazed into each others eyes and nodded in agreement. Once again I mounted my steed, and barreled at my shiny golden armored enemy. This time my aim was true as his, our lances slamming into one another, the ends ricocheting, and barely grazing both our faces. We both rode on and the match was declared a draw.
Next up was Tito. His Joust was not a long one he careened off into the crowd ten feet away from his opponent. He blamed his loss on mechanical issue’s and an inattentive crew. Other’s argued he lacked the sack for such high risk brutality. No one, but- Tito knows for sure.
The matches continued on and soon a late night pyrotechnics display alerted the pigs to our gathering. Soon the man was there in full force questioning our motives. A few moments of explanation as to our activities from Mr. Martin and the head pig in charge said we could continue on with what ever the hell exactly it was we were doing provided we didn‘t discharge any more fireworks. Then the pigs loaded up in their patrol cars and made off to the local donut shop. But not before Tito challenged the female officer who showed up to a duel, She refused on the grounds that she was too great a physical specimen to engage in bicycle jousting with someone who obviously was not in the proper shape to battle such a phenom as her self.
By this time we’d had our fill and made our way back to the mighty fortress of solitude to say our good byes. A sleep deprived Canuck some how got us home in one piece and I’m about to shadow box with the sandman now. All in all it was an exciting day full of madness, mayhem, and good friends…..