At about noon on Friday August 19 I left Baltimore with my old friends and MASHOUT virgins Marty and Mike. Both of them have brewery hopped in Belgium, so obviously they have good taste, except for the fact that they hang out with me. Although not homebrewers, they have a lot in common with CRABS folks, especially the part about enjoying sex with farm animals.

It was pouring buckets in Baltimore. The weather was wetter than a zucchini in Rosie O'Donnell's bedroom. At Rocky Gap it was much better: overcast but not raining. But it smelled like New Jersey because Jim had spent the previous night there and the air was rife with his butt coffee. We found him sitting on his hemorrhoid cushion and vowing never again to drink Kangaroo Love because it made his ass sore.

There was a nice Mini Keg Row happening at the CRABS site. Joel's box-o'-sheet-metal housed a nice frambozen and a hefeweizen. Art's peach ale had a wonderful aroma. In fact, the nose was so huge it was Jewish. Will had a Scotch ale. There was a mystery beer that was like a Belgian blonde. CSI's Crustacean Station of Inebriation dispensed Chris and Walter's hefeweizen, a "Belgiany" Scotch ale, an APA, and an orange-flavored saison from Bob Rupprecccchhhhht. (Sorry, a few of my computer keys are sticky because some priests were visiting last night and they surfed to the NAMBLA Web site.)

CSI also brought the Pissoir d'Or, which they had won for bringing the most beer to the National Homebrew Conference in June. Ironically, it was the only object we didn't pee on.

At 5 p.m. Jim served up a firkin of Duclaw Twisted Kilt (a Scotch ale). A group of drunks-in-the-making lined up for this treat. I hadn't seen a line that long since Paris Hilton gave out free blowjobs at the Democratic National Convention.

We then headed down to Keg Row to punish our livers. There were great-tasting goodies. And I don't just mean beer; there were some nice tits to stare at. (But then I put my shirt back on.) By the following afternoon there were at least 30 beers and 2 sodas including:

It was at about this time that Jay passed out. We thought about Dirty Sanchezing him, but we came up with a better idea. I won't disclose what it was; let's just say his asshole grew three sizes that day.

After some food it was time for the annual Death March. I don't know how many of us went, but in any case we had a combined IQ of 23. It was very humid; when you shone a flashlight, you saw a shaft of fog. Then we turned off our lights and there was no shaft, although we all had poles. Except Jim of course, who had to stop to drain his vagina. Neb fell, once again proving that mixing alcohol with hiking over uneven terrain in pitch darkness is a great idea. As we returned to the MASHOUT field, our screams of "Unga-bunga!" scared no one as usual, except MASHOUT's mascot, the retarded penguin.

Some of us headed to the barn to hear the Channel Cats play blues. Several folks danced. Not me. When I dance people look for my Medic Alert bracelet.

The weather stayed nice all night except for a bit of rain as we engaged in the usual drinking, joking and sodomy.

Saturday morning it was foggier than the inside of Jim's tent after six burritos. I opened up some saison as folks cooked up the world's scariest omelet, with eggs, butter, scrapple, sausage, and fomunda cheese.

The fog soon burned off and the weather turned hot and sunny. Dominic, Marty, Mike and I visited most of the campsites and sampled lots of good beer. There was oak beer, imperial IPA, a few pilsners, a couple of alts, ESB, a pale ale, smoked beer, and old ale. FOAM had their own Mini Keg Row, with a marzen, a cider, a "half dubbel" and a bitter. One tent had a cooler of Dominion Millennium. A few folks played and sang bluegrass. One guy had a filtered lens through which we could see the sun and sunspots. There's another brilliant thing we do while we're drunk: look directly at the sun.


Fags playing poker.

After a bit of rest, food and hydration we had the Big Beer Tasting. Joel emceed it, handing out the potables in an orderly fashion and directing the people who brought them to say a little something about them. This lasted for about 8 drinks, after which it degenerated to the stinkin' drunkfest it always becomes. Oh, and we started with meads - a drinking strategy that's about as useful as the United Nations. Anyway, the beverages included the following. (Last names were omitted because I'm a moron.)

By the end of the tasting, all of the more than 40 people - except me - were drunker than Ted Kennedy on St. Paddy's Day. I was embarrASSed to ASSociate with them. Speaking of ass, Marty, Esther and I gave everyone a 6-bun salute, which folks must have enjoyed because they yelled, "What a bunch of assholes!"

Dominic had been passed out in his tent for a while, so naturally we Sanchezed him. He was on his belly, so the cigarette and chocolate went on his back. We thought about Sanchezing his ass, but we didn't because it would have looked too much like me.

There was a volleyball game, but I didn't see it so I can't tell you exactly when it was or who played. All I know is that Grover must have been the star because no one can handle balls like he can.

The banquet featured large quantities of gut-churning, port-o-pot-filling food. There was even ice cream, thanks to Will and Art.

Later on we did Last Comic Standing. I got up there first. Everyone laughed. Then I told some jokes. When the Funny Bus came to a stop, Bo took over, and others contributed. Then Grover played some hysterical Dave Chappelle humor on a battery-operated video system. Boy did we laugh. Our pants were wetter than a laundry basket at a nursery home.

Around 11 p.m. it began to thunderstorm, with bright flashes of lightning. Some of us retreated to our tents while others stayed up. I emerged at around 1 a.m. and went down to Keg Row. A few people were playing and singing bluegrass under the tarp. There was a full moon, and I'm not just talking about my ass.

When I went to sleep at 3 a.m., I was treated to Marty's 95-decibel snoring and Mike's mustard gas. Our tent was louder and smellier than a French whore with Tourrette's syndrome.

By 7 a.m. some of us were drinking as both the sun and moon shone from opposite directions. The day became bright and sunny. Some of us hung out at Keg Row, where there was still a good amount of beer. Others partook of the brunch buffet. We packed up and left as another MASHOUT had passed more quickly than chili through Jim's sphincter.