Jim took the hill from the Viet Cong on Thursday night, once again ASS-uring us a spot. CRABSers and Cross Street Irregulars trickled in like a stream of urine after drinking Devil's Milk, which by the way was available at our site all weekend, along with Art's peach ale, Grover's Pentagram Porter, Rob's Taps Cream Ale, and something else (a doppel?). I also inflicted my wit (beer, that is; I have no wits about me) and my hefeweizen, which took 4th place in the wheat beer contest because I bent over for the judges. That should give you an idea of how bad it was: I let myself get Deliveranced and I still only got 4th.
Several CRABS/CSI-donated kegs helped fill Keg Row, including Bo and Chris's lemon wheat, Rob's The Leavings, Grover's Raspwheatin, Ron's Hills Street Brews Kolsch, Les's raspberry apple cider, and Jay's Crusty Butt Porter. Also Jim donated Duclaw's Sawtooth and Venom, and Rick donated Ryleigh's Dizzy Blonde. All in all, there were about 35 or 40 beers, ciders and sodas at Keg Row, comprising a setup that would make the Kennedys proud.
We pitched about 9 tents in the woods. The array of colors made it look like a village of gay Eskimos.
We had about 15 people on the Death March, or as it's also known, the Beer Wench Project. For the first time in years (and maybe ever), Bo didn't fall. But not to worry – a few others did. Yours truly fell after someone told me to turn off my 3-billion-candle-power flashlight, which just goes to show you: nice guys get fucked.
A few of us told jokes after the Death March to a largely unimpressed crowd. It was like performing in front of the O.J. jury. Saturday night the jokes got better, what with Bo, Jim and me reading our long joke lists and cracking up while Jim occasionally exclaimed, "I just peed!"
The green inflatable loveseat (inflatable date sold separately) suffered an injury, which Les valiantly repaired while sporting his "6X Therapist" shirt, which some of us thought said "6 Times The Rapist" because we're a bunch of pervs.
The weather was beautiful. We created shade thanks to a huge tarp and a few gazebos provided by Jim, Rob(?), and someone else. How's that for accurate journalism?
Grover brought a television because the beer, ice and inflatable furniture didn't provide enough luxury. Several folks watched some award-winning movies. You've heard of the Golden Globe, right? Well, "Not Just Another Teen Movie" won the Brown Anus.
Jim's ass was in rare form Friday night. He managed to clear out the community tent several times. Rob duplicated this performance on Saturday. Keep in mind that we were OUTDOORS. That's pretty potent stuff. I haven't smelled so much ass since I was a brownie leader.
As usual, the Big Beer Tasting was a smashing success. Literally: one bottle in the Dead Soldier pile smashed when someone threw it in. Here is a semi-accurate list of what we consumed, compiled thanks to my little tape recorder:
About halfway through, Grover gave a "boot n' rally" demonstration as he tossed his cookies in the woods. Let's just call it "un-drinking".
The list is not 100% accurate due to the fact that I was schnockered and I made stuff up in order to fill knowledge gaps. I should write for the New York Times.
There was no saison. What kind of bullshit beer tasting is that?
Now for those of you who are thinking that all we did during MASHOUT was make noise, consume beer and food, and excrete vomit and fecal matter, we did accomplish something positive: Tom won 2nd place in the wheat beer contest. That alone justified our presence.
A few other general notes:
There were no water balloons this year because last year some pansy-ass pussies complained about getting wet IN 95-DEGREE HEAT. This is what happens when you invite the French.
Our neighbors had a "Daiquiri Whacker", which is basically a blender powered with a gas-oil mixture and operated with a throttle like you see on a motorcycle. A few of us had daiquiris because there just wasn't enough beer.
There was a luge with various potent forms of liquor. That ice was cold! It felt like licking Hillary Clinton's pussy.
Someone managed to shit up one of the port-a-potties. What's up with that? I mean, even if you're "hovering", you're half a foot away from a foot-wide hole. How difficult is it to hit the target? That's just shitty marksmanship.
Memorable MASHOUT quotes:
Quotes you would never hear at MASHOUT: