Socks, Riot Control, Man's Best Friend and Sufferin' Succotash!: Potshotting with MK
March 9, 2005
Labor Power Ball, Mega-Slots, Everybody Eats Criterium, Dominguez Hills, CA.
Under perfectly blue skies, on a warm Sunday afternoon, not very far from idyllic white sandy beaches, all hell was breaking loose. The 30 plus slamdango had just adjourned and a rabble of disgruntled nutcutters had assembled around that rolling icon of peace and harmony, the Labor Love Wagon. A consensus was forming having an operational nutsack was a good thing. Having them crudely chopped off in the final 200 meters by an axe wielding madman was a bad thing.
The madman? None other than everybody's favorite gangsta bang-banga: the fragrant, cocoa-buttered ex-Laborite formerly known as G-Spot, hereafter reincarnated as Wet Spot, a living reminder that testosterone secretions during the heat of battle are all well and good until afterwards when they go cold and you got to sleep on it.
Harm Jansen (aka Harmaceutical) politely averred that Wet Spot had essentially stalked with intent to sever, dismember and mangle. Evangelical "BRBs" Testicles joined in, asserting that Wet Spot had taken a radical chop-chop trajectory before the final turn that was so sharp in its angle and violent in its execution that but for the fact that BRBs had popped out from his momma astraddle a BMX and could handle a bike about as well as Einstein could handle long division, he would be an all-you-can-eat buffet for a million maggots lying face down in the gutter. Other roughnecks generally unintimidated by heavy equipment or free fire zones stopped by to lodge their misgivings.
At this point, MKA was conflicted. On the one hand, in a strictly theoretical sense, MKA usually enjoyed the sound of smack cluster bombs exploding. Savage war movies like Swimming with Sharks, Glen Garry, Black Hawk Down and Apocalypse Now strangely filled him with a soaring sense of optimism and hope. But MKA confessed that in the real world of unforgiving concrete, arthritic bones and chubby-fingered ER nurses with 18 gage needles he'd rather avoid unredeeming carnage. Moreover, MKA had an investment to protect.* MKA had become a sponsor of the California Bicycle Racing (CBR) Organization on the expectation that the CBR would be run by cyclists for cyclists. The CBR would take complaints seriously. It would encourage racers to resolve personal disputes maturely. It would crack down on and drum out the dirty rotten black-toothed goons who spoil all the fun. And everybody would move to Utopia and live next door to John Galt, Hugh Hefner and Little Annie Fannie.
After the obligatory 10 minute cooling off period, MKA decided to approach Wet Spot gingerly, as he would a suspicious suitcase that ticked. Wet Spot unleashed a fascinating soliloquy that can best be summed up as follows:
1. "I am not good with words." He said "words" like they were spiked objects that we throw at each other in order maim or kill.
2. "I am the Dark Lord and this is my turf." It was Wet Spot's duty to cull the weak and cast all challengers into the abyss.
3. "Pros cannot invade my turf and show disrespect," stipulating that "disrespect" meant the employment of any maneuver by a rider with credentials designed to beat him. MKA's not sure if this suspect class included ET, whom Wet Spot called a "bee-otch" purportedly for shadowing him, which ET denies, and even if he did, most would consider this a sign of respect if not flattery.
4. "I solve problems in dark alleys using plumbing fixtures." Wet Spot extolled the virtues of holding on to hate and vengeance as long as possible, especially if the sworn enemy was foreign born.
5. "Lawyers are scumbags trolling the drive thru's of McDonald's in search of whiners who spill coffee on their lap." Bats were now streaming out of Wet Spot's belfry. MKA meekly offered that the plaintiff in question had third degree burns that required skin grants, that Mickey Dees had insisted on serving its brew at a temperature 40 degrees higher than the norm, that in the prior ten years Mickey had received over 700 complaints of genital scorching, and besides the lawyer offered to settle for about 1/10th what the jury of our peers awarded. Wet Spot would have none of MKA's sophistry and insisted he got his information from Fox News at which point MKA was ready to turn the subject over to a professional.
MKA asked Blood Clotts, CBR's poobah and chief flamethrower, to put out the fire. Now, for months MKA has been struggling with a nettlesome teaser that frankly had kept him up at night. Where have i seen this caricature of a clean cut kid before? referring of course to Bloody, who cultivated the image of a boorish, badly dressed frat boy you just loved to hate. There was something familiar about him. Bloody wore enormous tent-top tunics in a losing battle to conceal a belly that would make the Happy Buddha frown. The sagging belly/baggy shorts/massive calves combination left one wondering whether his knees sort of connected to his torso without an intervening femur. He had a mug I'd seen before. Thick black bottle brush-sized eyebrows reminiscent of Leonard Brezhnev. A pear shaped head topped by a tuft of rigid, wiry jet black hairs that was anchored by a massive set of Brando-like jowls. A bulldoggish under bite that suggested the ability to consume prodigious amounts of red meat. And a set of nostrils so big, wide and ominously dark to look into the grill of Blood Clotts was to look down the business end of a double-barreled shotgun.
Blood Clotts was in his element. Disaster all around him. Tempers flaring. Insults flying. Adults behaving badly. The threat of violence. An opportunity to put to work his years of anger management counseling. He smoothly avoided direct put downs. He used bad jokes. He softened up Wet Spot with soothing baby talk and drove his points home with a baritone "office voice." MKA began to notice a pattern: baby talk, office voice, faux bravado, playful ribbing, and bad joke followed by a trademark nose burst of cackling.
And then it hit MKA. He knew that sneezy-wheezy cackle. He had practically grown up with it. It belonged to that rotund, mischievous, smart aleck canine co-pilot of MKA's childhood idol, Dick Dastardly. Shackle-razzle-futza-craz! Blood Clotts was Muttley, the patron saint of all smart asses!
MKA had solved the riddle. And it made sense. Both preferred chaos. Neither minded abject failure. They enjoyed the misery of others. They knew they'd never reach perfection (for Muttley, the pigeon, for Blood Clotts, world domination or at least a body mass index impervious to hog rinds and ice cream), so they might as well enjoy the wacky ride.
After that epiphany, MKA's brain pretty much locked on to the hair brained misadventures of Dick Dastardly and Muttley. In turn, that triggered happy travels with the seductive Penelope Pittstop [voluptuous, yes, but the young MKA still preferred Barbara Eden]. Unchaste thoughts about what really went on inside Penelope's pinkish mobile boudoir marooned MKA in that weird cartoon culdesac where these strange furry creatures romped around in dune buggies, calling themselves "Banana Splits." As a child, MKA had no problem accepting that a Banana Split was a distinct animal species, but now, he wasn't so sure. Needless to say, with so many important historical references and biological conundrums to ponder, MKA sort of tuned out for the rest of the day.
MKA thinks Wet Spot and Pharmaceutical resolved to hate without hurting each other. They still wear the same Cajun swamp green jersey, which is bizarre, and somewhat confusing to other racers who are still naive enough to believe that racers behave according to team playbooks. Muttley made a record of all the complaints and issued a general warning that the CBR will ban recidivist nogoodnicks.
* * *
In other news, Turbo Rogers sprinted against 125 racers in the 30 plus race in order to win a pair of socks. These however were not ordinary footwear. These socks were the highly coveted limited edition Punch Power!
Labor anti-stink socks.
Earlier, in the 40 plus race, MKA bestowed a pair on former Labor snagglepuss, Stricky Dicky. MKA did so for two reasons. First, Stricky is fond of Punch, who helped scrape Stricky's splattered leggs from the hot griddle when he crashed and burned last year in San Dimas. Punch, a former marine trained to kill, stifled the urge to laugh at Stricky's misfortune for over 45 seconds, which earned him a spot in Stricky's heart (a very small spot). Second, the trust and devotion of many fine bike racers have been bought with a pair of generic socks. A bargained that the customized graphics might be a sufficiently lucrative bribe to buy Stricky's allegiance at some point down the road when the finish line drew near.
Sure enough, on that very day, with one to go, MKA found himself on the outside looking in as the lead out train tightened like razor sharp guy wire. Stricky spot welded to Turbo's wheel, who was clinging to another teammate's hinder part. MKA didn't attempt to hack his way in. He didn't signal. He didn't even politely ask or pathetically beg. He just sort of expected Stricky to make room like MKA was a bottle blond porn star with really big cans who liked it hard, heavy and dirty. But we all know that winning bike races easily trumps a mercy hump so stricky, Punch Power! socks and all, left MKA in the cold to die a lonely and whimpery death. Stricky's lead out man, Turbo, got 2nd. Wet Spot won. Evander Testicles was third, by the hair on an amoeba. Stricky managed to keep the wheels on for 7th and MKA got beat by 17 idiots the majority of whom are golfers who started racing a few weeks ago.
The only Laborlight of the day was ET's overall lead in the 40 plus, by virtue of his finally beating Wet Spot for the mid race 5 point prime. Nobody accused ET of dirty riding. Gibby "the Bear" Hatton, born around the time rims were made out of wood, proved that old age, BPH, a beer belly and the lack of a safety net can never sidetrack a gnarly sprinter's pursuit of the $1.2k dream. The Bear, to my knowledge, never growled at anyone.
A special thank you to colleague Fer De Lance Coburn in the 30 plus race for offering to escort MKA to the front of the line on the final lap of the 30 plus mad dash. Unfortunately, the world's most lethal pit viper moves a little faster than a mud-loving sand shark so MKA was unable to accept the gift besides which the Fer De Lance sups on fat rats and sometimes MKA oscillates between rat and shark but feels and looks about the same.
Finally, Kudos again to Vera and her Muttley for building the CBR into a viable alternative to the USCF. Nearly 500 racers pinned numbers on and the 30 plus race attracted 115 riders, a course and CBR record.
Max Kash Agro
*Let it be known that neither MKA, his Ego, Id or Superego, nor any Jekyll, Hyde, Sybil, alter ego or corporate or corporal relative thereto, hold themselves out as having any financial interest in, or supervisory responsibilities over, the CBR, or any of its officers, directors, employees, etc. Should any CBR race participant repeatedly and flagrantly refuse to honor the implied promise of good sportsmanship during , before or after any race, or engage in any toxic or unsafe tactics, or incite others to acts of rampant and wanton stoopidity, or go bat freaking crazy, or sprout crab grass-like clusters of glistening acne past the age of 35 contemporaneous with violent psycho pathological mood swings, then certain benefactors with whom MKA remains friendly will be counseled to forego any future charitable donations.
**In a stunning display of stoopidity that rivals the time that big dummie attacked Stinky's lovely wife, MKA witnessed a middle-aged bruno with a sloping forehead in a gorilla suit lose his cookies on a police officer right after the Cat III race. It happened like this. MKA heard shouting and like a moth to light went to the source. A perspiring galoot was screaming and finger-pointing at an officer who was sitting calmly in his squad car finishing up his bakers dozen. "You asshole you cut in front of me!" Asshole? I thought Long Beach cops shot little kids for less than that. The enraged warrior escalated his verbal assault. "I will kick your ass." What? Is this a bad movie? An adult, probably employed, with children, in front of dozens of law abiding citizens, threatening bodily violence on a government employee licensed to put pills in hotheads. MKA had heard of masochistic morons who actually picked fights with cops but had never seen one. This Tysonesque volcanic dingdong wanted to die. He wanted to go down in a blaze of glory. Finally the officer, with his backup, slowly got out of the car, approached the lunk, and offered to give him a ride to a cozy little padded cell if he didn't back off the PCPs and settle down. Good Lord! A Rodney King re-enactment before MKA's very eyes, and the perp's in a skinsuit! A woman attempted to collar the bombastic brawler but he brusquely pushed her away, in a fashion that provoked ugly thoughts of problems back at the trailer park. It was just getting good when MKA had to retreat to the start line of the next race. It is unknown whether our blowhard received a Darwinian Award, but he certainly got MKA's nomination. So, is it bike racing that turns decent people into savages, or does it just attract ill-tempered idiots?