Now that the peyote is gone and reality has set back in, we find ourself yearning for the sweet smell of desert air.
Here’s a T$A recap of the 2015 Chihuahuan Desert Bike Fest
as told by CJ West (aka. Monikka Cinnamon Johnson).
The morning air was crisp in South Austin, as the Star ship arrive promptly an hour behind. As it’s E-brake was pulled it skidded into the cul-de-sac with the grace and power of a wounded duck touching down on a frozen lake. As the combination of dust and gasoline fumes settled, the door to the $tarship opened and a silhouette appeared. The body was chiseled like a Greek god, the head resembled a prized pumpkin, and the b.o. reminded me of my favorite Indian restaurant. I could have been blind but still guessed with all of my confidence that it was him, The Overlord. Although I never actually saw his feet touched the ground I knew he was walking towards me. There I was, face to face with one of the most feared men on two wheels. As he approached I felt an immediate feeling of powerlessness. He slowly reached into his denim fanny pack and presented his closed hand in front of me. Completely perplexed, I awaited his next move. He slowly opened his hand until it was revealed he was holding a very large handful of glitter. Before I knew it, the Overlord inhaled so heavily it stole my breath sucking my nards from the sack.. He expelled a breath with the power of a middle aged man passing a stone and blew the glitter RIGHT IN MY FUCKING EYES!!!
It was at that moment I knew, T$A Desert Tranny Camp was in full effect.
As I lay helpless in front of my packed bags, The Overlord proceeded to do a touchdown dance that closely resembled someone trying to fight off a swarm of special needs children.
I heard a thunderous voice booming from the starship as I cleared my eyes. With what little vision still remained, I saw what looked like an over-developed middle-schooler wearing his dad’s cowboy hat. This beast of a man-child leaped off of the $tarship and immediately scooped up my bike with one hand. He place it onto the 4 bike rack and secured it so tightly it blew out both of my tires. I knew as soon as he spoke it was Belvedere. His voice echoed as he uttered his famous expression…”HUH?!?”
As my bike was secured and my vision returning, I boarded the $tarship with bags in hand. At first glance of the interior, one would think that the possibility of a mobile cock fighting venue was a reality. But in all relativity, these guys are just fucking slobs. So I set my bags down and found a seat.
To the right of me was a window & the last bit of reality I would see for the next week. To the left of me was a sleeping giant. His sunglasses as dark as Kayne’s elbows, and his hair as perfect as Bob Barker’s sign off. I wasn’t even sure that this man was breathing until about 5 minutes in he exhaled and filled the bus with the amount of smoke I’d expect to come out of a tire fire. Without missing a beat he turned to me and said, “This shit ain’t going to smoke itself.”
Panicking I thought he was referring to his schlong, but as he handed me what appeared to be a pipe carved from a fossilized mammoth femur, I relaxed my sphincter. “Are you the man with 4 first names?” I asked.
“That is I” he sluggishly replied.
His name was Brad Joe Scott Howard, and he was the farthest from fucking around.
Just about that time, we skidded onto the curb of a house that was landscaped like someone had held an Extreme Juggalo Home Makeover. The Starship remained idling as we sat in front of the driveway. Minutes went by and the anticipation could be cut with a throat chop. When all of a sudden, the garage door opened and the smell of Aquanet pierced the neighborhood.
“We’re the fuck are we?” I asked #BJSH.
“Where you say? You mean When…”
I looked out my window to see a sight that would make any republican puke during mouth hugs.
A man. A tall man, standing 6’ sexy walking towards the starship. His shaved legs gleaming from Palmers Cocoa Butter, hot pink daisy dukes, a paisley vest and a jacket made out of soggy nutria. He wore the glasses of a blind bingo player, and had the fashion sense of a goat struck by lightning. He had 17 bags waiting to be loaded on the curb. All with hand stitching that read KONG.
As he boarded the bus, a sense of relief came over us as we knew that our crew had been assembled. We took one last look at our city, set our compasses to the West, and embarked on our voyage to the Chihuahuan Desert Fest in beautiful Lajitas, Texas.
The Drive was long and filled with hours of dick jokes, wet farts & Farkle. At one point we decided to make a pit stop to stretch our legs. We pulled into a ratty ass gas station that had bags over all the pumps except for one. A blinking neon sign hung unevenly in the window that read, Welcome To Grapeville, Population You. The neon sign had all the letters lit except for the G. I was scared. I waited for everyone to return to the Star Ship. One by one they boarded with looks of fright & dismay. I asked where the Overlord was, and they just pointed towards an old abandoned shack.
I grabbed my camera and cautiously walked towards the shack. Hung on the side of the shack was a cardboard sign written in fecal matter that read
Mouth Hugs – 50cents
NO COPS ALLOWED
The ground around the shack was littered with soiled underwear, mostly men’s. The smell of broken dreams was thick in the air. As I crept around the backside, I saw The Overlord fully engaged with what appeared to be a Old man wearing a deflated slip and slide as a dress. He was wearing some sort of Yachting cap and was positioned like a baseball catcher. I heard the muffled sound of Pop Rocks as I saw the Overlord’s lower back muscles start to tighten up. I snapped a quick photo and ran back to the Star Ship. Minutes later The overlord returned with watery bloodshot eyes and the smell of vomit on his shoes. I looked out the window to see the elderly man walking out from behind the shack and towards the station. His face covered in vomit, he walked up to the vending machine, inserted his 50cents, and out popped a mountain dew. He opened it up and poured it all over his face, cleansing himself of the chunks. He shook his brittle hair back and forth like a shampoo model and turned to give us a thumbs up.
“See you next year, Merle!” shouted the Overlord. I was so confused.
We arrived to Desert Sports an hour before sundown. We were greeted by their crew with cold beers and fried baloney sammiches. They were delish. After reviewing the most recent trail conditions we picked up a few EPIC RIDE maps and made our way to Maverick Ranch RV Park.
The sky was as pink as a dog dick as we glided through the park. Our presence commanded attention and the other campers were completely captivated. They rose from their foldable chairs and stood silently as we passed. Some bowed their head out of respect while others cried uncontrollably. That night we made our last preparations before embarking on our T$A EPIC RIDE.
The next morning we set out to conquer the trails, riding an estimated 50+miles. Our plan was to ride all day, camp at Tres Turds, and return the next morning. Both Belvedere and The Overlord had religiously studied the route & made months of preparations to make this trip happen. We left promptly an hour behind with our trusty Asian Guide,The Pup. His people had lived in the area to escape internment camps in the 40’s. He knew these trails well, but suffered from an irrational fear of riding further than 10 miles.
The pace of the ride picked up to accommodate our 97degree temp. With the sun high in the sky, we decided to take a quick break at the mine and quench our thirst with some delicious treaty oaks Vodka.
About 15 miles in #BJSH was ambushed by one of the many Sand People that called the desert home. He managed to escape with only a few scrapes but was forced to return to camp after one of the Tusken Raiders pierced his camel bak with a Gaffi Stick.
With The Pup & #BJSH out, only four shredders remained, myself included. An hour later I had managed to get separated from the group. I took a wrong turn and found myself completely lost on the trails. I knew that with every minute that passed I was getting further and further away from the group. After An hour of cycling in the wrong direction I found shade and tried to regain my composure. I had 100oz of water, a few snacks, a whoopi cushion, party favors, an Epic Trail Map & four hours of daylight left. I knew if I didn’t play my cards right I would be stranded in the middle of the desert with no food, no water & no one who even knew where I was. So I did what any smart survivalist would do in my situation, I ate Peyote.
It kicked in immediately and I found myself back at camp with #BJSH & The Pup shortly after sunset. I don’t remember much, other than I turned into a waffle and was eaten by a bird that was consumed by a land dolphin and then I cut my way out. It was a strange trip.
Back at Tres Turds, Kong, Belv, & The Overlord set up camp in a small mouth hug shack on the side of a mountain. A wooden sign hung above the door that read, Welcome To Bonertown. A storm rolled in with 40+MPH winds and dumped a healthy amount of rain. The Inside of the shack was covered in rat feces, a warning that all 3 should have recognized. They cleaned a small space and proceeded to play magic the gathering, to help pass the time.
The day was ending as both parties were worried about the other. Did #BJSH make it back to camp? Was CJ being molested by Sand People? Did the guys make it to Tres Turds? Why isn’t the Pup good at math? All these questions made it very hard to fall asleep that night.
The storm raged on throughout the night, and the temp dropped well into the 20s. The guys at Tres Turds managed to finish off a few bottles of Treaty Oak sending them into a deep sleep. One that would limit their ability to stay vigilant through the night. But sometime around 3am they were awaken by the sounds of The Overlord fighting for his life. Kong jumped up and reached for his flashlight but grabbed and discharged a minute glitter cannon instead. Belv turned on his headlamp and pointed it in the direction of the struggle. There, right in front of them they witnessed The Overlord in close hand to hand combat with the Rat King. Many locals had warned us about a giant rat that lived in the mountains, but we dismissed their warnings as hillbilly gibberish. The Rat King, standing a whopping 4 feet tall, wore a crown of human bones and donned a sheriff’s star pinned straight through his rat titty. They rolled back and forth chocking each other. Gripped tight, they countered each others moves closely resembling 2 sexually frustrated teens playing twister. The overlord made a quick move and mounted the Rat King.The Rat King was helpless, and in one solid motion The Overlord reached directly into the rat’s ass and pulled out his heart from the inside. With the heart still beating and the Rat King on his last breath, The Overlord held the pulsing heart above his head and scream “I AM THE SHERIFF OF BONERTOWN!!!”
Completely in awe Kong & Belv watched as the Overlord ate the heart. He stood over the deceased Rat King, dropped his pants, and took a giant shit right on top of his stupid rat head. He turned to the two cowering in the corner and said ”We ride at dawn.”
Morning Came and snow was falling as they rode away from Tres Turds. They had 4hours of riding before they got back to T$A basecamp. No one spoke on the ride. They just crushed it. They pedaled on through the snowy mountains reliving the nightmares of a few hours before. The overlord proudly wore the sheriff star on his jacket. He didn’t even remove the rat nipple?? He just cut it off and pinned it on himself.
They finally made it back to base camp and the crew was back together again. We shredded trails for the next few days and life was good. We did it. We survived the desert.
On the last night of our stay we went into the main camp to show everyone how T$A gets down. We showered them with delicious Malt Liquor compliments of Austin Beerworks as the DJ played all of our favorite songs. Topless grandmas played chicken in the pool while The Overlord retold his Rat King story over the fire. The party raged on into the night and people chanted “SUPER, AWESOME, SUPER, AWESOME. It was a wonderful time, and everyone was happy to be alive. I thought to myself, there’s no way this could get any better. Just then Kong got this gleaming look in his eyes, he licked his lips and said to me, “Hold my beer, and watch this…”
Many people ask, “how can I join T$A?”. Most of us hear this question a few times a day from adoring fans. There is a formal application process with an even more formal review by T$A elders, but the simple answer is “SHOW US YOUR AWESOME!”…
Here is a great example by CJ Fuckin West – T$A Member since Feb 2014:
So get this shit…
About a week ago I was riding my bike home after a long night of work. As required, I cashed in my shift beers and smoke a little tweeds. In my post work festivities I had totally forgot to charge my lights and once I left I feared I might not have enough juice to make it the whole ride home. I pedaled on as fast as I could, hoping to get home before my lights crapped out on me. But sure enough, halfway home, done. Both fucking lights at the same time just shut off. Boom!
So here I am, hoping to God that no one runs my ass over. More importantly, I fear another cyclist will see me and think that I’m a bad cyclist for not having lights. How would I tell them as they pass? Would I try to lie and say that someone stole my lights, hoping to get some sort of sympathy out of it? Naw, I’ll just ignore them, no, better yet, I’ll make fun of them.
Yeah, fuck them.
But I digress.
As I get within the home stretch I push the pedal to the metal. I come bolting around the last turn, headphones blaring Yaz, no lights & high on Hops.
As I corner the street OUT OF FUCKING NOWHERE I run smack dab over this fucking HUGE BLACK PUG!! As I roll over it’s spine it sounds like someone stepping on a bag of chicharrones. The force causes it to roll off the street, all the way into the sidewalk and up against my neighbor’s (The Jew’) fence.
I blast past without stopping. Fuck it. I got scared. I didn’t want to stop because – A.) I didn’t have lights and didn’t want to get run over from behind while I got my thumb up my ass looking at the body of a dead dog. And B.) I was literally right down the street from my house. I was almost home. My Home. The place where I shit the best. So I made the instant decision to say fuck it, and come back to assess the damage in the morning.
Next day, after I drank a pot of coffee, ate some tacos, and took a short nap, I decided to go scope shit out. Starting to feel guilty as I pedaled closer I thought, “Nothing I could do, I’m not a fucking animal doctor.”
As I ride up to the scene of the accident, I see 3 fucking cop cars! Full blown, lights are on and they’re standing in the same fucking spot that the black pug rolled into the fence. A crowd had gathered. There’s one officer dusting for prints while another snaps photos of the area. The real fucking deal!
I try to lower my head and ride by but one of the officers walks into my path and asks me to stop. By this point, I’m quietly breaking wind because I think I’m about to go to fucking jail for running over someone’s fucking black pug, breaking it’s back, leaving it for dead, and then looking at black chicks on the internet instead of rendering aid. Knowing my luck, the dog probably belonged to someone famous, like the president of Aqua Socks.
He brings me to a stop and asks me to get off the bike. I respectfully oblige. But not because I possess the UTMOST respect for our uniformed dictators, but because I had a GIANT bag of tweeds in my fanny pack. So here I am stuck inside of a fat girl I didn’t want to bring into the bathroom in the first place.
I killed this fucking black pug, and now they’re gonna throw me in the slammer.
The officer says to me, “There was an incident last night and I need you to identify something for me. As the officer turns and points into the back of the car.
I peer into the back seat and see something I will never forget. There, in broad fucking daylight, sitting in the back seat of a cop car, was a GODDAMN BLACK MIDGET WITH DOWN SYNDROME!!! Oh, and he also had a broken back.
Turns out he was robbing houses in my neighborhood. Dumb Fuck.
My name is Christopher Jordan West.
I brew beer, grow beards, & ride bikes.
I want to go fast.
Happy Birthday, CJ!