Cirque de Homoism.......

As I mentioned below. I briefly joined and then was promptly unjoined the CR list. All for the use of the term ASSCLOWN which I happen to think very appropriate in certain circumstances. After joining I was reading through the list about an admittedly french fairy bicyclle party that they have each year. From what I can tell the prime activities are the sniffing of each other's chamois, doling out awards for tightest ass cheeks and see how far certain Campagnolo seat posts can be inserted rectally. The winner of that particular contest receives a size 36 wool jersey and a kiss from an aging bike matron with pubic hair braided down to her knees stinking of petuli oil. They then have awards for (from what I can tell) bike that has never seen a minute on the road. Mind you these are the sportscars of the bicycle world. Many are owned by obese dysfunctionals who parade them around in lieu of their family members who ran screaming years ago..... I am sorry I digress.

One of these particular ASSCLOWNs actually posted on the list his own impressions of Cirque (french name for fag festival). You'd think a piece about old greasy bikes would be...old and greasy. The words whimsy, delicate, fluffy and ephemeral should not be part of the discussion. For your reading pleasure you can find this faggabond's (roving faggot) post at:

http://tinyurl.com/nqbexo


I have taken the liberty of rewriting it with the special RandyD touch. My adds are in italics and bold.....

It's Sunday, the 7th of June, 7:00 am as I swing a leg over the Bruce Gordon for one last ride my belly growns and I emit three intense ass bombs. The extra chili on my nachos at 1am was probably a little much . The smell is horrible and I move away in the wake of innocents coughing. They look at me and I flash a nostril flare like I get the stench but deny the origin. I am an avowed fart denier. I feel another rumble and am concerned that this time I might strike mud. I pull my dainty chunk of leg meat over the bar with help of both arms. I am careful not to pull too hard and release another gas bomb. I return to the hotel drop trow in an overly cramped stall and wait. Several geek bags walk in and I'd rather be alone. I begin to moan like I am birthing turdzilla. I know they will soon leave. What then runs out of my ass could only be described as black gold---filled with methane. I look up and the green cloud looks back at me and smiles. I am one with the cloud. I know I must exit soon or be labelled the horrid shitter by the Cirque. I take a quick wipe, store some TP in my shorts leg for when it sauces up again and I am off. Just then two fellas with sweet hair in headbands walk in. Am I now a Nazi? I just gassed two fags.

MJ gives a cherry toot on the the Black Market Bikes SUV horn as she pulls in to pick up Wayne and the fairground workers, and I wave as I pedal out of the lot. I can tell my ass will be juiced in about a mile. Good planning with the toilet paper. Except I noticed as I walked out that I look like I am hung like Johnny Wad Holmes. I can not imagine that such attributes with appeal to the few pubie braiders running around here. Fleecy banks of fog all the way down to the deck are all around as I cover the short distance to the W&O bike path. There's an organized ride at 9:00, sponsored by the local club, but I just want an hour on the path before I rub one out, shower, pack, load up the van, check out of the hotel and head for the big climax of the weekend, the Cirque du Cyclisme Sunday show. Rolling east on the path, the fog is turning golden as the sun comes up, the honeysuckle festooning (is that a real word?) the fences and trees lining the path are perfuming the air and larks (I need a man on man blow job at this point), thrushes and wrens are providing the grace notes to the Gordon's tires thrumming (I am now jacking off to the thought of George Michael) on the pavement. Ghostly riders materialize out of the fog and disappear behind me. My wool jersey is soon bedewed (I think he means spewed during the circle jerk that occurred after he wrote this) with droplets which makes me sparkley (Which teletubby was sparkley?) when the sun peaks through a break of the fog banks. Wasn't it just 20 minutes ago that I drove into Leesburg? And now it's Sunday already? Why do these Cirque weekends fly by so fast? And I realize, that jeeze, am I happy. Memories crowd in as I roll along: the Thursday night reception at Mel Pinto's old shop, where Wayne allows us to ferret (what no gerbils?) about in the back store rooms. It's an Alladin's cave (current hiding spot for Bin Laden I hear) of treasure for bike nuts, with laminated toe straps (nuts and straps....sounds like S&M) sitting next to scads of cotton bar tape, chrome fenders and stays rubbing shoulders (the manliest piece of this whole panty raid) with rare Stronglight cranks, really too much stuff to take in on a casual run through. MJ pats me down as I leave, to make sure the belly in my shirt (he meant skirt) is all me (and wow was she disappointed by my pencil dick...), not rare bike treasures. I'm tempted to go back so she can frisk me twice (it will still be a short thin pencil...give it up) Friday is rainy, so the fixed gear ride is rerouted to a non dirt route to avoid mud. We are urging each other to get in touch with our inner Belgian (is that like some gay God....) and brave the elements, but my outer wuss is dominant (now he is talking..my next CL ad; sub bottom seek outer dominant wuss), so I hang around the hotel. Bikes are everywhere, leaning against chairs, lining the hallway, a fairyland of cycles (the first realistic admission of anything).....blah blah blah blah .....butt pirate, blew this guy and that saw a small piece of wood all dewey so I cleaned it off and ate it....... All cirques are different, and yet all are the same: you see your good friends again and spend hours chatting, you admire new bikes and see old two wheeled friends, you get in some good riding and the whole thing flies by in the blink of an eye. I hope that those who couldn't come this year will be able to join us again in 2010. A big thanks to Wayne and MJ, and may the Cirque live forever. Support it, if you can.

May Cirque live forever and may a nice sweet spring birdie fly up my ass and entertain the ferret that has been residing there since Flashdance--the Movie. Seriously, who writes like this and does not expect a good solid beatdown? It's old bikes for chris's sake not the unveiling of Ted Williams frozen head



later pussies...........