If you missed the 20th annual MASHOUT, then you suck more than Bo on CRABS Hill. But more about that later.
I arrived just after noon on Thursday with Marty and Traci (aka Trixie). The trip was a bit rough because she drove and she's not used to sitting upright in a vehicle.
The weather was quite nice as CRABS members and affiliates set up our tents. Jim and I found the bottle opener that we had wedged into the crotch of a tree about 5 years ago. Interesting how everything looks like a crotch to CRABS folks. In fact, Trixie found a tree with not just a crotch, but also a dick. And she has the stretch marks to prove it.
Venom and Sawtooth graced Keg Row under the Duclaw banner, and more than half a dozen CRABS kegs were lined up under the CRABS banner like a row of stainless steel penises. (Sorry. Milhouse asked me to print that. When you're as queer as he is, everything looks like a penis.)
CRABS dominated not just the Hill and Keg Row this year, but also the bottom of the field. Brian set up Camp du Saison and served a myriad of great Belgians and homebrews, including a keg of very nice sour saison which by the end of the weekend was floating like Natalie Wood on vacation.
The second(?) annual CRABS chili cookoff took place at dinnertime, with about 10 entries. Congratulations to Kevin Schenk, whose delicious seafood chili took top honors. Donna McLaren's chili took third place. In second place was Thad's motherfuckin' hot chili. I swear he was trying to kill us. I called it his 10-year-old-girl chili, because it made me cry twice: once when I ate it, and again when I shit.
Friday was a bit cooler. We loaded up on fat and cholesterol and some of us started drinking early. I brought out my saison and Trixie offered some bloody Marys. Bo partook of both. Later, when I brought out my witbier, a deep-throat fest ensued. I went down on a bottle between Trixie's legs. She went down on a bottle between mine, imitating Madonna in "Truth or Dare". Then she and Bo took turns on each other. Bo came away bleeding, and as we all know, it ain't MASHOUT until Bo bleeds.
Various fags played poker, which didn't seem very exciting to me, so I suggest that next year we play Islamic strip poker. The way it works is every time you lose a hand, you lose a hand.
Someone dug up the jar of sausages that had been buried two years ago, and I heard that someone took a bite out of one, but I was not a witness so someone else might want to relate that story. Fortunately I got to witness plenty of other sausage stuffing throughout the weekend.
There was a big homo volleyball game featuring Grover and his entourage of turd burglars.
At 4 PM Jim tapped a firkin of Venom double dry-hopped with Amarillo hops. It was served from a beer engine. Then CRABS presented Chuck Popenoe and Bill Ridgely with gifts to remind them of the kind of people we are: cock rings and anal lube.
For dinner we pigged out on all sorts of artery-clogging fare: chicken, ribs, brats, and fried veggies. I asked if anyone wanted a tossed salad, but the only one who wanted one was Grover. I told him to see Milhouse.
By the way, CRABS was the biggest single source of alcohol. We had 28 kegs on CRABS Hill (26 beer, 2 mead) and about 8 at Keg Row, for a total of about 36 kegs. There were only about 32 non-CRABS kegs at Keg Row. We were also the biggest supplier of offensiveness. Speaking of which, thanks to Dan for making the "Now I'm offended" T-shirts. They made up for last year's "I got sodomized at MASHOUT" shirts.
Oh, and I'd like to thank whoever made these lovely tap handles:
For the first time in the 7 or 8 years we've been doing the Death March, people got lost. In fact, most of us got lost. Now, I don't want to suggest anything that might offend anyone, but maybe this wouldn't've happened if you turd brains had LET ME USE MY FUCKING FLASHLIGHT! Every year in the past I used it, and every year people whined like Democrats at a Get-a-Job-You-Lazy-Fuck convention. But we never got lost, did we? This year I turned it on about three times for a total of eight nanoseconds, and once again you morons complained:
| Someone: | "Turn that fuckin' light off!" |
| Me: | "I can't see shit!" |
| Someone: | "I don't care!" |
| Me: | "Fuck you!" |
| Someone: | "Suck it!" |
| Me: | "I hate all of you!" |
| Someone: | "Whose cock is that in my ass?" |
So I kept my flashlight off, and guess what happened. Somebody in front took a wrong turn and about a dozen of us wandered around aimlessly like a bunch of recently graduated philosophy majors. We stumbled along several wrong paths, and I consoled myself with the knowledge that if we got stuck out there for any length of time, I had a large supply of fresh meat with me, although Walt would have been rather stringy.
Oh, and once we were lost, folks asked to borrow my flashlight. THE SAME FUCKING FLASHLIGHT THEY HAD TOLD ME NOT TO USE. Not that I'm bitter.
We all made it back about two hours later, except Dan's 19-year-old son Dan (aka DK) spent the night in the woods. Rob S. found him on Saturday morning. At first I thought the fuzz had picked him up. I asked Trixie if she'd ever been picked up by the fuzz. She said, "No, but I've been swung around by the tits."
As a result of this escapade, DK was forced to wear the "I Was That Guy at MASHOUT" T-shirt, which had been hanging at CRABS Hill proud and high like a pair of giraffe testicles. It had been earned the previous year by Rob S., and now DK had to don the Shirt of Shame.
After another morning of cholesterol, bloody Marys and beer, some of us went to Rocky Gap to swim and shower. There were more Mexicans there than at a Walmart job fair. I suggested that Lake Habeeb be renamed Lake Pedro.
By the way, congratulations to Rick Croop who won the annual MASHOUT wheat beer contest.
We had fun riding Chuck's go-cart around the field. Then DK re-earned his "That Guy" status when he managed to do a Lady Di. Apparently he went to the Ted Kennedy School of Driving.
The annual CRABS Big Beer Tasting attracted campers like Republicans to a Fuck-the-Poor convention. First we drank some preliminary beer. In order they were:
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We then gorged ourselves at the annual Saturday night banquet, where all MASHOUT attendees shared food that they had brought. I swallowed more meat than Chris did at her bachelorette party.
Many of us headed down to the barn to hear the Tom Principato band, and others hung out at Keg Row. Then we gathered at CRABS Hill for jokes and smokes. And Joel's dangling participle. That's right - in case you haven't heard, while Joel stumbled around blotto, Russell the One-Eyed Muscle was one step ahead of him. We got him safely back to his tent, after various abuses of course. What kind of abuses? Well, for one thing, Bo made Joel give himself a hand job. The censors won't let me tell you any more. Let's just say that after Joel sees the photos, he'll never pass out with his mouth open again.
I was getting worried that Jim would let the weekend go by without gracing us with one of his usual intestinal expulsions. Well, he did not disappoint. He let one rip that cleared half the CRABS tent. I couldn't breathe. It's like I was assmatic or something.
The next day we cleaned up all the trash, food, bottles and butt plugs from CRABS Hill and enjoyed the annual MASHOUT Sunday breakfast before heading back east. I'll end this account with a list of quotes that I heard during the weekend.