Big Bikes

A Rivers Runs Through Me

Alright people I have a confession to make: that total piece of shit Thom P. didn't come back from Costa Rica, Joan Rivers did. I am Joan Rivers and I am now inhabiting Thom P.'s body. Ha! You may have heard about my incident at the Liberia Airport in Costa Rica. They say the gate attendant was confused by my plastic surgery, that she was suspicious because my passport photo didn't match my actual face. Moron! Well it wasn't the plastic surgery, my host body's face was degenerating right there in the airport. I had to think fast. I saw a "great" potential host a few feet away (weak-minded people make the best hosts and this guy looked like an idiot!) and lucky for me, I was able to make the jump to his body before my prior host melted into a puddle of botox and Donna Karan right there on the floor like The Wicked Witch of The West!

Here's the thing people. When I said "“Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery, today is God's gift, that's why we call it the present.” I was bull shitting (oh, they tell me I'm not allowed to swear...thank you good night!). History isn't a mystery, not to me, because I was there! I've always been here. I mean there was this one time back in the day, and I mean waaaay back in the day, I was working this red carpet event. Cleopatra's (oh god, Cleopatra , woof! Woof! What a dog!) about to get out of her slave-drawn litter, when BAM! This slave A-hole ethnic person drops his end and the thing falls over, decapitating me! What a douche bag. I had to think fast, I mean use my head, cause it's the only thing I had and it's rolling down the red carpet! I know I use way more exclamation points than that son of a bitch Thom P., bear with me people. The only host body anywhere in sight was this shitty little hairless cat (no you morons, we didn't call them "Egyptian Hairless" because we were IN Egypt. What do ya think, in New York we say things like "Oh I'm going to get a real New York Bagel right now")? And I wind up as a F—in naked cat for a quarter century.

So I jump into this host body and get the hell out of that damn airport. This host body sucks, I mean it's worse than that cyborg body I had back in '87, what a joke!

I'm going to look like a real queen walking around in a man's body with a Louis Vaitton pocket book, but at least it's not a 76 year-old wreck and they won't be able to give me a mammogram and a pedicure at the same time anymore.

Oh, OH! And this whole "Thom P. is going geared business, wah, wah, wah!" Shut the F— up you whiny bitches! For whatever reason this host body has some sort of vestigial desire to race mountain bikes. It also has a vestigial penis. You should see this thing, I mean get a microscope people! I've seen bigger equipment on a Yorkshire terrier. God! I hate mountain bikes, if I wanted to shave my legs and prance around in hot pants, whining about my weight and how my arms "look too manly" I'd be a f—in' drag queen not a bike racer! But if I'm gong to ride one of those things I'm sure as hell not gonna do it on a single speed. That's just retarded. I'm gonna be out at those races going "why the F— am I here?" This host body is getting old, and I hate old people. Hate them! I spit on old people, pffthbt! I am going to get the most of this thing that I can. Sort of like my ex-husbands.