What is the dopest name?

It is a question which has troubled the minds of both meek and mighty for centuries. You might as well write a crappy DaVinci Code-style beach read about it, because it's the kind of thing that just fills up pages and pages. Hundreds of intricate papist conspiracies, birth certificate falsifications, and forced recantations of assumed names have been hushed up in order to dim the torch of dope-name faith. In the pitched struggle against the lame names of our time, I propose a toast to the dopest names of my generation:
First, to Undundumah Williams-- your tame surname serves to set off the brilliant, jewel-like fire of your first name; its rhythmic pulse conjures the ancestral memory of some primal, unformed time, when the men were free and the balls were danglin'.
Second, to Ahkenahton Bly-- yours is a kingly name, literally, because your whacko parents decided to name you after a centuries-dead Egyptian monarch. Although I've never seen you, and in fact only know your name from a misbehavior report from the middle school where I volunteered, I'm sure your bearing is regal.
And finally, to a humble waiter, at a local pizza restaurant: Your name is the most proudly dope and abnormal name that has ever rolled, burning, in the mouths of your fellow men. We savor the taste of your name on our tongues; the redolence of your name is etched in our nasal passages as by a ravaging line of poorly-filtered cocaine. Yours is a name that stirs the blood of the most oafish and sluggish men; your name refers to the heavily-muscled opening by which filth is expelled from the body--you are Enis (pronounced anus).

Phenomenaeii

Today I was again riding the mountain bikes behind Mr. News Bomb when I discovered a rare phenomenon which only seems possible in a unique set of circumstances. When riding behind a rider of considerable size (i.e. Mr. N-B), on a relatively smooth path (New Quarter Park), the following rider can become ensnared in what I am tentatively referring to as a "jungle draft," from which it is impossible to break free until the leading rider reduces speed. Tonight it occurred about twenty minutes into a lap, on a smooth section of trail that had been tamped down by the rain. Mr. N-B was pulling ahead, and I found myself unable to steer or brake. Instead, the bike was whisked along by the fierce wind caused by the passage of the aforementioned Colossus of Hampton Roads. In terror, I shat my shorts, and my sticky organic-pop-tart diarrhea clogged the freehub pawls. I was immediately condemned to a leg-whirling, shit-spewing maelstrom tearing through the jungle. Mr. N-B's speed approached the ludicrous, and I was slapping my neck into branches and wildlife in excess of 60 miles per hour. Just as my nipples began to bleed from the wind-powered scrubbing of my jersey, N-B hit a steep climb and, in a moment of exertion, busted prodigious ass. The methane blast blew me straight backwards, letting me escape the deadly jungle draft by steering into a tree.
Although this particular experience was clearly very dangerous, I have already begun designing a diarrhea-proof skinsuit which will allow me to exploit this phenometron during the Shenandoah 100. Watch your ass, Floyd.

TRAVEBLOG

ONE LOVE DOPEZ:
transmitting tonight from the ancestral homeland in STRATFORD HILLZ DOGG. Talkin' up plans for some mad ink with my SISTER-SIBLING, ELSABET, and her lesbianating AFRIKAN NATION partner, IDA X. Current incarnation is: shape of College of William and Mary shield, I.N.A.C.T.K.A.G. written in incredibly scripty and illegible fonts, totally suggesting that any forthcoming "s"s will be treated as "f"s, surmounted by the towers of Barad-Dûr and Isengard, and between them the White Tree (non-flowering) of Gondor. So rad.

In other news, in line with plans to murder certain high-ranking members of Richmond-area crime syndicates, Ida X is mastering the long-lost art of gimp. She seems to have to box stitch down, if we can get the zipper stitch I think we'll be ready to go ahead.
I'll wrap this up now, because the power is off and on at the moment, but rest assured that the dopeness will ever flow freshly, as pus from a suppurating wound, at:
BACON AND RAISINS

Restorama review: ICHIBAN

O friends, o friends.
Ichiban was tame and lame, but in faxinating ways. First off it is extremely fancy, which is of course in the wack books for me, as I am not down with cummerbound wait staff. Secondmost, the aforementioned waitstaff was extremely wacky in mannerisms and speech. Our waitress informed us that every menu item we were interested in was "super good." I have news for you, young woman: the Chef's Special Duck was only "pretty good." I was down with the celery shavings, but not down with duck being all dried up and crunchy on top and fatty on the bottom. Duck should be just kind of greasy but consistent, and in little nuggets. They got the nugget thing down. Similar with the dumplings. The fillings were like a magical reward, bequeathed upon those brave souls who could chew through the sock-like dough covering. Sock-like: i.e. it tasted of sock. The water at Ichiban was very dope, and our waitress knew what was up: when she brought it out, she introduced it as "Super-Dynamite" water. She spilled some of it, but I was still down, because we didn't get charged for it no matter how Super-Dynamite it was.
Back to the duck.
There was way-a-lot of it, and I didn't eat the whole thing. It just wasn't my night for big-ass duck portions. Also, we got put in the poor-folks corner under a TV and Star Jones was on Larry King Live, and I kind of needed to puke every time I looked at her or thought of her. She is like a terrifying monster that lives behind the moon--hence her name--, and comes down to crunch children who are up past their bedtime. Please, please, Star, let me be. I'm 11 years old and I shouldn't still wet my pants every time I see your awful teeth ready to crunch me.
ICHIBAN: Overall score: 12/22
Pros: Super-Dynamite Water; celery shavings
Cons: Star Jones crunched me because we were there until about 10:00; flourescent lights flickered, causing debilitating anal cramps.
-- B&R Food Editor, Paolo "Papa Chubby" Chubbiziano

MY OLD LADY / ballz + chayne

B RAGGIN'. SEH ALL ON MY AZZ BOUT SOME EATIN STIH. SHE BE SAY I NEED TO MAKE A DECISION. TIME FOR DINNER YALLS.

THA KRONIKLES OF

NOONER NEENER NOONER. The above is my long-standing traditional pronunciation of "The Chronicles of Narnia," a behavioral anamoly that marks me out as from the Stratford Hills area of Richmond. Other traits of the Stratford people are thick, lolling blue tongues, small, dark eyes set deeply in their orbits, and, of course, our national costume of crotchless chamois chaps. In a celebration of my abiding pride in my ethnic heritage, I formed a folk duo with Mr. News Bomb, which performs the stirring and deeply spiritual ballads and mystic chants of my homeland. We perform under the moniker "The Chapped Chaps in Chaps." Later this week, we're playing a barbecue in Kingsmill, and we'll probably have a go at the anthem, "Oh Fuck Oh Dang." The lyrics, for anyone interested in singing along, are:

Oooooh Fuck,
Oooooh Dang,
dang, dang.

Oh fuck! (fuck, fuck)
Oh dang! (dang, dang)
Robbie Q is in the house!

B There or B Skware-
SKROOFACE

THA KRONIKLES OF

Today saw the first running of the Tour de Some Places, a moanten bike event that involves going to first one park, then another, spending a lap or so at each one before getting bored. Joining me on this sojourn was Mr. News Bomb, who despite having the most gigantic bike ever crafted, still extends a length of seatpost suitable for midget pole-dancing. The only reason I was able to keep up was because the midgets weighed so much.
By the last few laps, I was, as I put it during the event, "drowning in an endless, mirrorlike pool of suffering. No matter how much I thrash[ed], I [was] unable to disturb the image on the surface, which resembled a monstrous, unblinking eye."
Right now I am recovering with the help of chocolate milkshakes, pizza, and whiskey. My body is healing, but my mind is irrevocably shattered by an epiphany which visited itself upon me, like the succubus, as I lay sprawled trailside, huddled around my Camelbak full of warm milk. Descending from some hell among the treetops, it infested my brain: Major players in pro cycling doping scandals are analogous to characters in Harry Potter. Michael Rasmussen is Draco Malfoy. Johann Bruyneel is Professor MacGonagall. Eufemiano Fuentes is Voldemort.

Who's Harry? George Hincapie. Spoiler Alert: He marries Levi in the end.

More on this to come-- I need to figure some things out and pack some clothes.

B-Dang!

It's been days since I used my clenchy ole butt-nozzle to spatter this space with meaningless fudge! And why? B-Kaws I been ridin', is why! Two epic adventures occ'd this week: first, on the Wednesday, I rodd from wilhelmsburg all the way to Richmond, a distance of 56 miles-- which ain't much but O! the heat, it was tremendal. I suffered like a man born to suffer as I trekked through that most vile Sodom, New Kent County, and traversed that abominable Gomorrah, Sandston. It was a ruinous voyage, which sapped my vitals and chapped my noodles.
Then! because I had not paid just penance to the almighty Church of Christ, Cyclist, I made pilgrimage on Friday to the Lake of Sherando, where I commenced a supposedly epic "mountain bike" adventure. However, despite four hours on the bike, I never saw an inch of singletrack. Rule #1: read d' map. I climbed (clamb?) for a while on a loose-azz jeep trail (way-lame), then I thought I'd found the traily-trails, but instead it was mo' jeep trails. Mo jeep trails, mo problems, is my motto.
I got pooped out the Jeep trails onto bald mountain, and I saw some dude trucking along on a surly (with the 650B rayyums, so gully), makin much truck-tracks because he was hedded from Norfucks to CODDYFOHNIA. So hood. I rode with that sir a while, and then he pointed me back doan de moanten, so doan I go. I was so damn out of water, too, B-Kaws that's how I stop, drop, and roll (like I'm on fire). I found a crick, though, and got my fill of vitamin Gee(ardia). O! so rockin'. Not to mention my dang-gone jersey ang shortz was all full of stink because I don't wash those, REPRESENT.
Anyways, I was goan doan d moanten, and I got on the cot-damnt fire road, and rode that fucker much miles until I found my truculus and got in and away's I went. See y'ins at the W-Mill ride (unless I slepp m'awfuks!)
SCOOT-RAH
ps got a new mtb frame pics soon (OH SNAP ESSEPT I DONt GOT A CAMERA)

Disaster strikes

I have been replaced as the object of my girlfriend's affections. My successor is a plush polar bear named Nanu, whose countenance is permanently fixated in bitter scowl. His deepseated disappointment in general springs from his luxurious fur coat, which stifles him in the oppressive heat of an abnormally steamy Virginia summer.
But Nanu isn't the only avenue through which fur has had a sinister influence on my psyche.
A few weeks ago, my dreams were troubled by a dream-- an apparition-- of "Tornado" Tom Boonen. I dreamed that I visited a crappy pizza shop, staffed by Tom. He was flipping dough. I asked-- I asked, Tom, what's the deal? because you used to make, like, eight-millions of bucks a year doin' the sprints? And he said, I spent it all on furs.

Furs.

And I looked at him, and he was wearing this apron which was made entirely of fur, and it was glossy and black and sable all the way. So I weighed things in my mind, and I thought of how I would feel in his shoes, and I said:
Rockin' apron, dude.

Rules of Engagement: Burger Night

Burger Night contenders agree to abide by the following rules:
1. No burger may match the order placed. If the burger you receive matches your order, pass left.
2. Your drink may be alcoholic or non; in either case you must have more than 4.
3. One poop joke per night; anecdotes or jokes in which poop plays a minor role do not count toward this limit.
4. If a contender is standin' in piss, alert him or her by pointing and shouting, "Dude, yer standin' in piss!"
5. Wear shades.
6. Ugly folks / fat titties at Blockbuster dictate that burgers be sidelined until all avenues of comment are exhausted.
7. Contenders who can't hang with the level of gnarliness are asked to leave via the kitchen. This abandonment may be disguised as a bathroom break.
8. Once committing to the Penis game, you must play until victory or forfeit your current PG standings. Standings are on file at the bar.
9. Guppies are to remain quiet and focus on burger-handling skills. All guppy jokes will be panned.
10. You must wait out all other parties in the restaurant. The bar does not count.
11. Levels of gnarliness are defined as follows:
-1 - Silence / Chewing
-2 - The "Knut" song
-3 - Conversations carried out in voices mimicking "Clueless" characters
-4 - Shop talk
-5 - Bodily fluids; release
-6 - Poop jokes (see Rule 3 above)
-7 - VH1 "Top Oral Sex Finishes" TV special
-8 - Lines of conversation transposing shop regulars with Level 7 above
-9 - Mocha Blowouts; blood in stool; genital misconfigurations and deformities
-10 - Any topic surpassing the previous guidelines
12. At the conclusion of Burger Night, take 6-8 Key Lime Starlight mints

Violators will be penetrated.

It B Rainin

Due to drunken requests for more stories from my youth, I give you: The Nastiest Thing.

The Nastiest Thing,
by Scott Moore

When I worked in a bike factory, I had a friend named Rachel. She was a drummer, and so she couldn't hear worth shit, and would always answer questions with "YEH?" She also leaned forward while she drove, I guess because since she couldn't hear for shit she felt like she needed to cram her face in the windshield so she could be aware of whatever was happening out there. So she combined a lot of attributes of cranky old ladies and punk-rock bike factory people.
We were hanging out a talking about all the horrible, nasty shit we would eat when our respective girlfriends were out of town. It seems like a universal thing; your girlfriend's gone, you gotta throw a whole can of salt and vinegar Pringles down your neck and have the nerve to call it breakfast. It's a code you can't break, if you're a dude (or in Rachel's case, punk rock lesbian) with a girlfriend who does that cooking thing. Anyways we were trying to one-up each other on nasty things eaten, and I had some weak noise about cold chicken noodle soup, drank'd right from the can and referred to, mentally, as "soop"-- like when I'm thinking about drinking some soup, I think about the word soop with two o's-- but Rachel wasn't satisfied by my aforementionedly weak noise. She stoney-cold described the nastiest thing: first a tub of Cool-Whip-- just a whole damn tub, with a spoon. But then! she felt like that was just junk, so of course she ate a take-out tub of kimchi, which are some kind of pickleated cabbage snack from the land of Korea and are of course totally salty and pickled. Then, she needed something to dim the taste-memory of all that salt, so down her neck she threw some damn refried beans, straight from the tupperware, cold as a drowned person. I was shocked, I couldn't believe how fucking nasty it was. It was so nasty.

Prayer for the Pudden-Headed

O Sirs, /
Tonight is the night of the Impenetrable Butt-Fudge. /
Tonight is the night of the final English paper of my life. /
If I fail to make the Butt-Fudge Impenetrable, the Professor will Profess that my paper is a load of Keister-Treacle, and I will be given THE F EVALUATION, which is not a ghostwritten Ludlum novel. /
Butt-Fudge protect me from that most Satanic ritual: December Graduation! /
Butt-Fudge shelter me from increased car insurance rates due to the loss of the Good Student Discount! /
Butt-Fudge guide me in the Way of Impenetrability! /
Forever and ever, Heavens to Pepsi, /
Amen.

Welcome to August

the month of my birth. Notable events:
3rd: I graduate from college -- you may be thinking that you don't care, but I've got the drop on you: I don't care either, and I didn't care before you.
8th: I eat an unspecified meal with an ancient and saurian relative from the foggy past. I'm knapping a stone spear in preparation, as this most primordial enemy of fledgling humanity stirs in the deep. I am the St. George of the generational gap.
16th-17th: On one of these days, my father's official age (of which I am studiously unaware) increases by one. I gotta make sure I don't fuck this one up, as he is moving to Maryland for a new job this fall.
26th: The same terrifying numeric aging process which befalls my dad early in the month hits me at the end. The most nauseating part of the whole deal is that while my proverbial penny has made another dizzying revolution around the Science Museum-style gravity well of mortality, I am still unable to produce or maintain an erection, grow facial hair, perform more than a few pull-ups, emit solid waste, chew food, or focus on objects outside of a 6"-14" range in front of my face!
Life's a bitch when you're a hairless, caterwauling infant like me.

Aside from my intense longing for the month of August, burning brightly as a tiny star in my heart, not much has been happening. I pretty much haven't ridden in three weeks. I wonder how much that'll affect me when I start again, which will be Saturday. Off to poop!
Scooter