Every time I step into an office, it’s like walking into a clubhouse of unpaid benchwarmers. Middle aged men in polo shirts huddle together, recounting last night’s “performance” like they’d just walked off the field themselves, rather than waddled from the fridge to the couch, chewing through nachos at a rate that would make a ballpark seagull blush.
They don’t talk about watching the game. No. In their heads, they played it. They got the home run. They slid into third. They “gave it 110%.” And of course, they are also the proud owners of $90 polyester shirts stitched in Bangladesh, bought to prove allegiance to the millionaire strangers who don’t know they exist.
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The Ingenious (and Slightly Creepy) Origins
Now, to give credit where it’s due, the marketing brains behind modern baseball pulled off something almost un-American in its efficiency: they took a slow, pastoral sport, and sold it to people with the attention span of a beer commercial.
The trouble? Baseball started life as a nine-year-old girls’ summer pastime. Think picnic blankets, warm lemonade, and cricket bats swapped for something easier to swing. But the suits in the early 20th century saw potential… if they could just fix three small problems.
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1. The Nine-Year-Old Girl Career Ceiling
Turns out, building an entire sports league around pre-teens is tricky. By the time you’ve hyped up your star player, she’s aged out, gone goth, and started a zine about hating gym class.
American marketing needed lifelong athletes who could still perform into their 30s, ideally with the stamina to run 90 feet once every ten minutes without collapsing.
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2. Merchandising That Wouldn’t End Up on a Police Report
Selling small girls’ uniforms to grown men? Yeah… someone in the boardroom said, “We’d better not.” They learned quickly that creepy merchandise markets are best left to shady politicians and their friends with private islands. Instead, they rebranded the uniforms onto burly men with forearms like ham hocks, and voilà, the pedophile problem solved.
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3. Fixing Cricket’s Fatal Flaw
Cricket — baseball’s boring older cousin, already had the lethargic pacing nailed. But Americans wanted coliseum flair. The marketing fix was simple: smaller field, more steroid-fed athletes, and the occasional fight. Same nap-friendly pace, but now with the threat of someone pulling a muscle live on camera.
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The result? The perfect office sport.
A pastime that’s just engaging enough for a couple of minutes every half hour, yet slow enough that a man can watch an entire game and still write three emails, take a bathroom break, and microwave lunch without missing a single moment of “the action.”
So yes, baseball marketing men did something good. Not in the wholesome sense, but in the you accidentally invented a money-printing machine sense. And now, decades later, America’s cubicles are filled with armchair MVPs, proudly recounting the night’s game like they were on the roster, blissfully unaware that they’re just extras in a sport’s century-old marketing campaign.
Bathrooms are like freeways. And no, we’re not just saying that because we spend half our lives in traffic and the other half sprinting to find a clean stall.
Let’s break it down.
Each toilet is a porcelain throne, a gleaming lane in the great highway of humanity’s biological schedule. And just like the Department of Transportation, some facilities try to solve the issue of congestion by adding more lanes—err, stalls.
More thunder boxes must mean less wait time, right?
Wrong.
What we’ve witnessed in the wild—at festivals, skateparks, rec centers, and even that one suspicious gas station with a Bluetooth speaker in the ceiling—is that the more toilets you add, the more people show up to poop. It’s like there’s some psychic plumbing hotline telling the masses, “Hey, there’s an open stall in the northeast quadrant. Drop everything.”
Like freeways, expanding bathroom capacity doesn’t reduce demand—it just invites a fresh surge of urgent travelers to the bowl-based bottleneck. First world problem? Absolutely. But it’s also a real one. Because nothing ruins your chill like a full bladder and a locked stall with someone’s cargo ship still mid-dock.
The result? A game of chicken with human dignity.
An arms race of cheeks versus seats.
A logistic nightmare painted in graffiti and half-used toilet paper rolls.
So what’s the solution?
We don’t know. But we do know that Kevin the cat from triage would have flagged this case as critical.
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🧻 Deathjuice: reporting from the front lines of stall warfare since forever.
Department of Misremembered Science and Corporate Mythology
In a shocking revelation that has baffled botanists and amused historians, it has come to light that Polaroid, the iconic instant camera company, actually invented photosynthesis in 1972. While previously thought to be a natural process developed by plants some 3.5 billion years ago, new “marketing documents” unearthed from a filing cabinet marked Do Not Open, Contains Ferns suggest otherwise.
A Light Bulb Moment… Literally
The breakthrough came when Dr. Leonard Snapple, head of Polaroid’s Department of Light and Other Bright Ideas, noticed that when you shine light on certain houseplants, they don’t die. “That’s when I said, ‘Hold on a minute, Margaret, these things are using light… like film!’” Snapple reportedly exclaimed to a very confused intern and a ficus.
After years of Polaroid engineers accidentally growing tomatoes in the breakroom under intense halogen bulbs, a eureka moment was reached: the green parts of plants were doing something with light. Naturally, the marketing team slapped a trademark on the concept and named it Photosynthesis™, combining the Greek word photo (meaning “light”) with synthesis (meaning “we don’t really know but it sounds scientific”).
Science Tries to Reclaim the Narrative
Up until this moment, the natural process was clunkily referred to by scientists as Conversio Dioxidi Carbonii in Oxygenium, a Latin phrase translating to “that thing green stuff does with sunlight when it’s not dying.” But once Polaroid’s snappy new name caught on, scientists begrudgingly agreed it was easier to put on grant applications.
Botanist Dr. Enid Chloros, speaking from a greenhouse in mild protest, said:
“It’s a little irritating that a camera company gets credit for what moss has been doing since before trilobites had opinions. But I’ll admit… ‘photosynthesis’ does look great in Helvetica.”
Marketing Mayhem
Polaroid wasted no time capitalizing on their newly named invention. In 1973, they released a line of household products including:
The Photosynth-O-Matic™: a lamp that did absolutely nothing but claimed to “optimize chlorophyll vibes.”
Instant Oxygen™: a canister of fresh air collected from a Boston park bench.
The SunCam: a camera that was solar-powered but only worked between 10am and 2pm in Arizona.
Despite the success of their branding, Polaroid quietly dropped their campaign after receiving several letters from confused biology teachers and one particularly aggressive ficus who felt exploited.
Conclusion
While modern science insists that photosynthesis is a natural process developed long before the idea of film or corporate branding, there’s something undeniably satisfying about imagining a world where ferns owe their entire existence to a company best known for birthday party selfies and washed-out vacation photos.
So next time you’re basking in the dappled shade of a tree, take a moment to thank Polaroid—not for inventing photosynthesis, but for making it slightly easier to spell on science fair posters.
Polaroid was unavailable for comment, but did send a leaf pressed between two expired film cartridges.
Salt Lake City, July 18–19 July. The ramps were hot, the vibes were real, and the air was thick with skate wax and second chances. Tony Hawk’s Vert Alert 2025 wasn’t just a contest. It was a cultural reset.
We went for the skating. We left lifted emotionally, spiritually, and with a fresh pack of stickers.
But let’s rewind to the moment the roof nearly cracked.
🚴♂️ Tabron Still Soars
Simon Tabron, UK vert legend, dropped in like it was 2004 all over again. And just like that, he sent 540s so clean and high above the deck, you could feel the arena pause. It wasn’t just nostalgia, it was a reminder: style doesn’t age, and the vert ramp still owes this man airtime.
For us, seeing Tabron again 21 years to the day since NASS 2004 was amazing. BMX might not have had its own bracket this time, but Simon’s reappearance gives us hope. Hope that BMX isn’t done here. Not by a long shot. Hawk’s event may be built on skateboarding’s spine, but the heart? That still pumps for all the vert soldiers.
🛹 Legends and Legends-In-The-Making
Viking Destroyer (yes, that 8-year-old phenom from Springville) met both Tony Hawk and Arisa Trew — the queen of competitive vert skating at just 15, already carrying Olympic gold and more medals than most of us have board stickers.
“Meeting them made me want to skate harder… and be nice to people.” — Viking Destroyer
And that’s what’s wild about Vert Alert. Every conversation with these pros felt real. They weren’t in hiding. No velvet ropes, no PR filters. Just athletes and fans, sweaty and grinning in the same air.
🔥 This Wasn’t Just Inspiring — It Was a Rocket Boost
Some events make you clap. This one makes you want to go home and build a ramp in your driveway, call your old skate crew, and throw your phone into a ditch. Because the only thing that mattered was who showed up and who showed out.
Vert Alert is what happens when respect meets rebellion, and both bring their boards.
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We’re not just grateful. We’re fired up.
Let’s bring BMX back. Let’s keep the next wave rolling. Let’s stay very alert.
Today was our first time hitting the Scera Pools in Orem, Utah, and let me tell you it felt like wandering onto the set of Sum 41’s “In Too Deep.” Chlorine in the air, classic summer tunes bouncing off the concrete, kids launching cannonballs like they were training for the Olympics, Scera Pool has that laid-back Americana feel that makes you forget the chaos of the world, if only for a minute.
The $3 shave ice was glacier-level dense a frosty wrecking ball that took nearly an hour to conquer. Somewhere between the brain freeze and the sticky hands, the vibes were high. Boys dancing like they were auditioning for TikTok stardom, girls rolling their eyes in synchronized mockery. It was peak youth-in-motion energy.
And then it happened.
We all saw him the guy. Confident. Probably in his mid 40’s. About to show the kids how it’s done on the diving boards. One solid run up. Too solid. His foot slipped on the wet board. He hit with a flat slap to the back that echoed like a gunshot. His head snapped back to the board. The board buckled and flipped him like a pancake, slamming his knees against its corner. Then blood red threads unraveling into the blue pool. And a sound you never want to hear from another human: that kind of yelping.
Lifeguards dove into action. The kids stopped. The whole summer vibe shattered. Emergency services arrived, but so did the reality: This is America. And help comes with a four digit meter ticking.
The man was hurt, maybe a busted leg. The paramedics stabilized him, but the question wasn’t “Is he okay?” It was “Can he afford to be helped?” And that’s what kills the summer buzz faster than anything. Because getting broken in America isn’t just painful. It’s financially dangerous.
His wife pulled up in a Texas-plated car, a private Texas taxi. The paramedics helped him in, and off they went. Because here, if you’re from out of state? Out of network? Out of luck.
We wish him well. We really do. He tried to inspire some kids and caught the cruel edge of fate. But we can’t let that part slide:
Why do Americans in their moment of most human vulnerability have to fear the price tag of their pain?
Walk, don’t run. Not just on slippery concrete, but through this system that can turn a diving board into a financial death sentence.
DeathJuice.com
Summer’s hot, the pool is cool, but America’s got broken bones and broken systems.
If you blinked in July, you missed it—because BMX wasn’t just alive, it was throwing elbows. We’re talking elite gate battles in Latvia, freestyle fiestas in Brussels, next-gen shredders dropping hammers, and Chris Moeller himself stirring the pot in Colorado like a BMX witch doctor. This wasn’t a quiet month. It was a thunderclap. Here’s the full blast:
🇱🇻 Valmiera, Latvia – The Euros Go Nuclear
Date: July 10–13 Event: UEC BMX Racing European Championships Winners: Mathis Ragot‑Richard (Elite Men), Beth Shriever (Elite Women)
What Went Down: Valmiera became the Roman Colosseum of BMX—no lions, just French dudes snapping gates like their lives depended on it. Ragot‑Richard threw down a clinic in power starts and smooth transitions, looking like he was genetically engineered in a wind tunnel. Meanwhile, Beth Shriever broke Dutch hearts with a line so dialed it could’ve been drawn by CAD software.
DeathJuice Analysis: Valmiera’s soil ran red, white, and blue—France and the UK locking horns while the rest of Europe caught their breath. The track rewarded aggression, punished hesitation, and if you weren’t snapping like a mousetrap, you were out.
Big Question: Will this momentum hold into Copenhagen? Ragot‑Richard is hot, but racing’s a mood, not a guarantee.
🇺🇸 Minnesota Meltdown – Land O’Lakes, Land of Legends
Date: July 11–13 Event: USA BMX Land O’Lakes Nationals
Pro Podiums:
Men’s Pro: Simon “Smooth As Swiss” Marquart
Women’s Pro: Molly “Breakout” Simpson
Vet Pro: Big Jeff Upshaw, eternal ruler of the aged and angry
The Next Ones: Addison “Alligator” Thompson and Ethan “Epop” Popovich tore the Futures class wide open—riding with the kind of raw horsepower that makes coaches cry and rivals quit.
DeathJuice Take: Marquart rode like a monorail—clean, silent, unstoppable. Simpson proved she’s more than a prospect—she’s a problem. And Upshaw? Man rides like gravity owes him money.
🌆 Brussels Urban Sessions – BMX Joins the Street Party
Date: July 4–6 Status: UCI’s first-ever Hors Class Freestyle event Location: Parc du Cinquantenaire, Belgium
What Hit: BMX, skateboarding, 3×3 hoops, parkour, DJs spinning breakbeats and techno—this wasn’t a comp, it was an Olympic fever dream fueled by Monster and subwoofers.
DeathJuice Verdict: This was the Freestyle blueprint. No bleachers, just a crowd of sweaty humans vibing to tailwhips and tre flips. It felt like BMX finally got invited to its own party—and didn’t puke in the punch bowl.
🧠 Grassroots Grind – Where the Real Work Gets Done
🛠️ Dale Holmes – Pro for a Week Tour
The legend’s still out here doing the Lord’s work. Dale Holmes toured SoCal and Arizona tracks, running bootcamp sessions and handing out pro tips like a BMX Mr. Miyagi. No livestreams, just kids learning how to carve lines and stay clipped in.
🥷 Chris Moeller – Rollers’ Realm, Colorado
You heard it right—Chris f’ing Moeller brought the chaos to Colorado. “Rollers’ Realm” was a mix of secret sessions, pump line showdowns, and whispers about a new steel prototype. It felt more like a BMX cult gathering than an event, and honestly? That’s the point.
🐍 Fast & Loose Crew – Frisco Bike Park Takeover
Mid-July, the Fast & Loose gang lit up Frisco, CO like it owed them something. No UCI medals, no energy drink banners—just raw transitions, lip-hunting savagery, and POV clips that’ll melt your retinas.
🛹 VERT ALERT – AND WHERE THE HELL IS BMX?
When: July 18–19, 2025 Where: Jon M. Huntsman Center, Salt Lake City, UT Event: Tony Hawk’s Vert Alert – elite vert skating, best trick, legends demo, Olympic hopefuls, sold-out hype, and one glaring omission…
No BMX. Again.
💢 DeathJuice Rant: Vert Alert Needs BMX Like A Coping Needs Coping Wax
Tony Hawk’s Vert Alert is the last bastion of high-flying vertical madness—exploding with crowd stoke, legacy riders, and Olympic buzz. But guess who’s not invited?
BMX. The sport that made vert famous in the first place.
This isn’t a new snub. It’s a slow cultural bleed. But in a year when freestyle BMX is shining on global stages, how is it still left off the ramp roster?
🧨 Remember the BMX Vert Gods
This isn’t just about today—it’s about legacy. Look back at the real X Games gladiators, the BMX vert monsters who built the foundations of modern air:
Dave Mirra – The miracle man himself. Gone too soon, never forgotten.
Kevin Robinson (K-Rob) – 27-foot flairs and a heart the size of Rhode Island.
Simon Tabron – 900s like clockwork. Style, power, poetry.
Jay “The Beast” Miron – Canada’s vert hammer before retiring to build furniture and rewire brains.
Jamie Bestwick – The most decorated BMX vert rider of all time. 13 X Games golds. Rode like gravity was optional.
Vert Alert should honor these legends with a tribute ride, a banner, something. Because this isn’t just a missed opportunity—it’s a missed responsibility.
🔥 Who Should Ride Vert Alert Today?
Look at the Olympic BMX Park roster and you’ll find prime vert-tier senders—riders who’ve got the air awareness, bike control, and aggression to dominate a 14-foot ramp:
🚀 BMX Park Olympians Who Could Crush Vert:
Logan Martin (AUS) – Tech meets torque. Give him a vert ramp and a little time? Game over.
Daniel Dhers (VEN) – Veteran precision and one of the most adaptive minds in BMX.
Anthony Jeanjean (FRA) – French flyer with amplitude and consistency.
Declan Brooks (UK) – Not just tricks—he brings grit. Could go vert easily.
Nick Bruce (USA) – Wildcards need wild walls, and he’s built for it.
Kieran Reilly (UK) – Young blood with triple flair energy. Born to fly.
Jose Torres (ARG) – Big transfer energy and fearless pacing.
And don’t forget Dennis McCoy—the eternal beast who competed in vert into his 50s. Invite him and give him the mic while you’re at it.
✊ DeathJuice suggests
Vert Alert needs a BMX division. Full stop. The riders are ready, the legacy is undeniable, and the crowd would lose its collective mind watching a 900 barspin tailwhip hit the rafters.
Here’s what should happen:
Tribute Run for Mirra,.
Legends Demo: Jamie Bestwick, DMC, maybe even Jay Miron rolls back through (Has he had his surgery yet).
Pro Showcase: Invite 6 park elites. Give ‘em the ramp. Give ‘em the mic.
Crossover Battle: Skate vs BMX best trick. One ramp. One crowd. Pure chaos.
🎤 Vert Alert take from DeathJuice
Salt Lake City’s Vert Alert is poised to be the event of the vert season—but it’ll never be complete until it stops pretending BMX isn’t part of its DNA. Whether you ride with pegs or trucks, vert belongs to both bloodlines.
So while skaters fly this weekend, BMX stays watching. Unless we change that. Next year, give the ramp back to the full family. Bring the bikes. Bring the legends. Bring the fire.
And someone call Moeller. He’ll bring the coping wax and a shovel.
💼 Sponsorship Moves – Quiet Money, Big Shifts
Tactics Racing scooped Luna Arpagaus, European Junior assassin
Federal Bikes reupped Merlin Spencer after he upset a seeded rider in Latvia
Oakley x Kimmann: Whispers say Niek Kimmann’s about to become the face of Oakley’s new park line—freestyle finally getting that corporate shine
🔮 Looking Ahead
🔥 Event
📍 Why It Slaps
UCI Worlds – Copenhagen
End-of-month firestorm. The fastest riders in the world in a city that bikes better than most cities walk.
Fast & Loose – Worldwide Tour Stops
New lines. New clips. New scars.
Grassroots Coaching Expansions
Rumor: Dale Holmes is launching a “Pro For a Month” pilot. Get the wristbands ready.
Vert/BMX Integration
Either we show up next year or we keep getting iced out of our own history.
🎤 Final DeathJuice Word
July was a full send. Racing cracked wide open. Freestyle got a new crown. Moeller stirred the dirt gods. And the scene—still scrappy, still steel-toed—is mutating again. The energy isn’t coming from boardrooms or energy drink decks. It’s coming from fast laps in Minnesota, fast lips in Frisco, and fast minds like Dale, Chris, and the kids chasing roost.
Stay loud. Stay fast. And next time they forget to invite BMX to the party, crash it with a shovel, a shovelhead, and a suicide no-hander.
There are moments in life where time slows down — where the only thing that matters is the temperature of the river, the squeal of a tube scraping a rock, and whether your buddy remembered to pack the Costco tub of wet wipes. This past weekend, DeathJuice Nationdescended en masse (40 something strong, give or take a flip-flop) on the mythical yellow hills of Big Rock Candy Mountain, a place that sounds like a nursery rhyme but floats like a fever dream.
🐉 THE DRAGON COMETH
Our armada was equal parts tribal and absurd: half rubber tubes rented from the very kind and questionably sane folks at Big Rock Candy Mountain Resort, half inflatable chaos born of late-night Amazon orders and group chat dares. There were sleek blue rafts, flamingo-shaped inner tubes, and, towering above them all like a suburban Norse god, a massive inflatable dragon, tail whipping in the wind, wings that dared the sky, and an onboard crew of four snack-fueled maniacs who refused to paddle.
Big shout-out to the Resort crew not only did they rent us the tubes, they ran a tight shuttle game, herding our sunburned masses to the river launch like wranglers at an inflatable rodeo.
🌊 THE FLOAT: A CHLORINE-FREE BAPTISM
The Sevier River was exactly the kind of gentle chaos we needed. A liquid conveyor belt of sun and shade, rolling us between red rock cliffs and green cottonwoods, with enough twists to keep things interesting and enough calm stretches for the more Hawaii-jetlaggedmembers of our crew to just… vibe.
(Yes, four of our friends had just returned from life in Hawaii. Yes, they were still glowing like salted caramel mochi. Yes, we all question why you’d leave paradise for Utah)
There were moments of peace dragon drifting in meditative silence, and moments of sheer panic, like when three tubes got caught in a low-hanging tree that turned out to be a full-blown beaver dam. Nobody died. Everyone screamed.
🍗 THE INTERMISSION: WINGS AND WHIP
Around the halfway mark, we stormed the shores of Hoover’s like dehydrated pirates. Wet, wobbly, and slightly feral, we made our way into the restaurant still dripping river water and adrenaline.
We ordered chicken wings like we hadn’t eaten since Y2K and devoured Dole Whip in volumes that would make a Disney park blush. The staff either loved us or feared us. Probably both.
Someone suggested we just stay there and become river hermits. Another (possibly hallucinating from heat and sugar) claimed they could still hear the dragon whispering battle cries from the riverbank.
🏁 THE FINAL STRETCH: CABOOSE OR BUST
We re-launched with less dignity but more determination. The final leg was pure joy, floaters sun-kissed and full of fried poultry, our numbers holding strong as we coasted downriver toward the finish line at Caboose Park Holiday Home Rentals, where someone had the foresight to pre-position towels, Gatorade, and adult supervision.
By then, we were part water, part sunscreen, laughing too loud, shouting too much, and completely untethered from whatever stress we’d left behind in the cities we came from.
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🎒 Takeaways from the Candy Mountain Collective:
• A giant inflatable dragon doubles as a spiritual anchor and occasional navigational hazard.
• Hoover’s wings taste better when eaten shirtless and barefoot on a wooden bench.
• Dole Whip can and will revive a sun-fried brain.
• Floating the river is the cheapest therapy you’ll ever get.
• Friends who tube together… clog every river exit and restaurant hallway together.
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40 humans. 1 dragon. 3 hours on the river. One legendary day at the crossroads of Americana kitsch and aquatic absurdity.
This is why we do it. This is why DeathJuice exists.
Next time you see a candy-colored mountain in the distance, grab a tube, call your crew, and float like legends.
Filed from the chlorinated warzone of the Quality Inn Pool, Main Street, USA
The DeathJuice crew is on location.
This week, we’ve taken our caravan of chaos to Richfield, Utah—gateway to the Big Rock Candy Mountain, yes, the candy mountain of folk song fame, sugar-coated lies, and long-forgotten boxcar dreams. But we’re not here for your nostalgia. We’re here to tube the river, wreck our shins on underwater rocks, and wage chemical warfare in the Quality Inn’s pool area with Dollar General pool noodles and watermelon White Claws.
To say we’ve “taken over” the pool would be like saying the Berlin Wall was just a local zoning dispute. Our dominance is total. Germans on the Costa del Sol would bow to our towel placement strategies.
Tubin’ and Baitin’
Fueled by vintage glory and arcade pixel violence, we resurrected the 1980s via a few sweaty rounds of Toobin’. Spirits soared higher than a Mary Poppins kite on an Adderall wind. Floating the river tomorrow is the mission, but tonight was about hunting meat and testing faith.
The eternal travel question arose:
Do you risk local flavor, or submit to the predictable embrace of national chains with beige walls and half-frozen ranch dressing?
We rolled the dice. We went local.
Welcome to Boren’s: Where Fat Is Flavor and Flavor Is… Absent?
Boren’s Steakhouse is just a block away from the hotel. Naturally, we drove. Because this is America and walking a block is an act of either penance or felony suspicion.
The subwoofer growled Get Dead’s “Bad News” as we rolled up like punk rock cattle to the slaughter. Inside? Picnic tables. Sparse decor. The sound system was dripping Jason Aldean-style country twang—music that screams “Try That in a Small Town,” while offering you a lukewarm Dr Pepper and a side of condescension.
The staff? Polite. Hopeful even. You get the sense they wanted us to like it.
We ordered. Ribs and brisket. The sacred cuts. The test of any true smokehouse.
Back at the hotel, full of anticipation (and brisket-scented shame), we unwrapped our bounty.
What followed was a meaty betrayal.
Fat. So much fat. More fat than a British chippy’s fryer during peak hours. Lean option? That was a lie. It was as if someone whispered “beef” over a bag of suet and called it brisket.
BBQ: A History Soaked in Smoke and Something More Sinister
Let’s have a real talk. BBQ in America is complicated. Its roots are entangled in deep, often painful history. Developed out of necessity and brilliance by the oppressed, it’s been colonized into a flavorless parody by the same folks that now charge $23.99 for gristle wrapped in a wet napkin.
“Low and slow” is the slogan, but what it really means is, “We took trash meat and cooked it until you gave up and paid for it anyway.”
And the sauces? Nashville, Memphis, Carolina, Alabama White Death… all of it is a desperate attempt to distract you from the fact that what you’re eating would have been a hard sell to a feral hog.
Chains vs. Charms
Now here’s the kicker. Some of those national chains people sneer at? Yeah, they started out as local joints that actually nailed it. Before the investors, before the franchising, before the soul dilution.
Meanwhile, the restaurants that stay small town?
Sometimes it’s because they’re community treasures. But more often? It’s because they think slapping Toby Keith on the stereo and wrapping a napkin around a wad of fat passes as “authentic.”
TL;DR
We gambled. We lost. And now our insides feel like a smoker full of regret and Crisco.
But tomorrow… tomorrow we float the river.
We cleanse the sins of Boren’s in the holy waters of the Sevier.
Before we had foam pits and triple tailwhips on YouTube, we had Nicole Kidman robbing banks on a Mongoose in 1983’s BMX Bandits. Yeah — that Nicole Kidman. Bright orange jumpsuit, curly mop of hair, and way more steez than any of us had at 16. That movie wasn’t just camp — it was punk. And for a lot of girls, it was their first time seeing themselves on a bike, not just on the sidelines.
But the BMX world didn’t exactly throw open the gates.
The Gatekeepers and the Ghosts
For decades, women were told BMX was too dangerous, too aggressive, too… male. Early contests barely acknowledged women existed. Coverage? Nonexistent. Sponsorships? LOL. Even when women showed up — and they did — they were treated as a novelty act.
Racers like Cheri Elliott in the ‘80s and Tara Llanes in the ‘90s were beating boys flat-out in races and still got less recognition than a spilled Monster Energy drink. Meanwhile, Nina Buitrago and Stacey Mulligan were sneaking into skateparks and sessions, carving out space in a freestyle scene that refused to give them any.
Let’s be clear: The women didn’t “emerge.” They stormed the scene, ignored the gatekeeping, and started stacking clips — even if no one was watching yet.
Social Media: The Great Equalizer
Enter: the internet.
Suddenly, the guys at the top couldn’t pretend it was just a “guys’ sport.” Girls like Angie Marino, Perris Benegas, and Hannah Roberts were posting clips that demanded your attention. DIY edits replaced industry approval. It wasn’t about waiting to get filmed — it was about grabbing a camera and proving your worth.
Now? You’ve got girls throwing flair barspins, footjam whips, and 540s in backyard ramps — while also editing, filming, and uploading the whole damn thing.
Who Blew the Roof Off?
Let’s shout out the changemakers:
Nina Buitrago – OG trailblazer who kept showing up when there wasn’t a women’s division.
Angie Marino – Built platforms like Yeah Zine and The Bloom BMX to spotlight women riders.
Hannah Roberts – Olympic medalist. Has more medals than most dudes have tires.
Perris Benegas – Flow, power, and style like it’s 1996 all over again — in the best way.
Macarena Perez, Minato Oike, and Sakiko Komatsu – repping the global stage with style and grit.
Chelsea Wolfe – Rider, voice, and activist for inclusion in the sport.
The Bloom BMX: Cultivating the Scene
You want community? You want consistency? That’s The Bloom BMX.
It’s the go-to platform for women in BMX. Run by Angie Marino and Beatrice Trang, The Bloom is part news hub, part community space, part hype machine — and all heart. From rider interviews to product collabs, they’re documenting history while shaping the future.
It’s not just for the girls — it’s for anyone who loves the roots of BMX: fast, fun, creative, raw.
A Style We Can Follow
Let’s face it — men’s BMX has gotten burly. Tricks are so dialed, so tech, so spin-to-bar-to-whip-to-manual-to-decade that most casual fans are lost. You’re not sure if it was a 540 or a black hole collapsing.
Women’s BMX? It’s not behind — it’s different. And for many, it’s better to watch. The style is creative, inventive, raw. Street lines feel like actual lines, not just stunts. It’s closer to the soul of ’90s BMX: rough spots, loud outfits, weird tricks, and undeniable style.
So What’s Next?
We’re calling it now:
More global takeovers: Women in Latin America and Asia are growing fast. Expect a Tokyo-to-Bogotá pipeline of street edits soon.
More inclusive events: No more “demo” status. Equal pay and equal platform are coming — whether they’re invited or not.
Women running the brands: Expect women-led BMX brands, crews, and events to dominate. No one’s waiting for approval.
Tricks getting gnarlier, but not robotic: Progression without losing flavor.
The rise of dirt and trails: Watch for women to take over dirt in the next 5 years — mark it.
In Conclusion: Women’s BMX is BMX at Its Best
It’s hungry. It’s stylish. It’s not overbuilt, overproduced, or overfunded. It’s real. And for a generation that grew up watching the same six dudes on every cover, it’s finally giving BMX its punk rock pulse back.
We’ll keep riding with the rebels. Catch us in the comments when you’re ready to admit: the girls are stealing the show.
Want some rider tags to follow? @perrisbenegas @hannah_roberts_bmx @thebloombmx @sakikomatsuuu @chelseawolfebmx DeathJuice-approved. Go get lost.
