That pretty much sums up MASHOUT XVII. Of course, that also sums up the previous 16 MASHOUTs, but let's not bring logic into this.
One of the great things about MASHOUT is its location: a big field on a mountain surrounded by woods. The air is fresh and pristine, except for Jim Wagner's farts, which are so potent that the MASHOUT planners are required by law to notify airlines of the event every year so they can reroute that weekend's flight paths. Also, according to Jim's friend Scott, Jim's a fag. Scott bears a striking resemblance to Timothy McVeigh. Along those lines, I've been told that I look like Lance Armstrong. Speaking of which, the French are thinking of taking Armstrong's title away because they searched his hotel room and found three substances that are banned in France: toothpaste, deodorant and soap. Then they searched him and found a spine and a ball.
Those of you who were there on Thursday might want to give us a recap of that evening's activities, because I didn't get there until early Friday afternoon. I arrived with my friend and MASHOUT newbie Richard the Lion Fart. The weather was very nice, and remained so for the entire weekend, unless you count the 19 hours of uninterrupted rain that started at dinnertime Friday and didn't let up until early Saturday afternoon. The field got wetter than a cucumber in a women's prison.
Friday afternoon's activities consisted mainly of drinking. We hung out at Keg Row and enjoyed dozens of different beverages. Here is a list of items that graced Keg Row during the weekend:
Commercial:
Homebrew (brewers' names provided where known):
Up on CRABS Hill there were also several kegs, including:
Anyway, for dinner we snarfed on deep-fried potatoes, Richard's ass-burning chili, Orval cheese, homemade bread, fried chicken, and other health food. Then a bunch of us played Texas Hold 'Em, where Jim proceeded to gas us with a constant stream of intestinal expulsions. This enabled him to take our money because our eyes were tearing so much we couldn't see our cards.
I left the game to go on the CRABS Death March, but most of the other players were too engrossed to get up from the table. Also, Bo was nowhere to be found. Still, we managed to scrounge up 10 people who were foolish enough to slog through a mile of wet flora and mud. My 1,000,000-candlepower flashlight helped light the way, except for the fact that it burned out our retinas. Mark and Grover each managed to fall twice, thereby upholding the sacred CRABS tradition of poise and dignity. By the end of the hike all of us were wet and drunk and tired. And Jim was still a fag.
Another CRABS tradition was upheld later in the night. You might recall last year's boot-n-rally performance by Grover. Well, Joel "Grovered" on the ground in front of his car, which turned out to be a very convenient place because the next morning he simply pulled his vehicle forward about 7 feet to hide the evidence. It was the greatest cover-up since John Kerry's purple heart record.
The rain was incessant all through the night, causing our tents to retain more water than Rosie O'Donnell on the rag. Except Jim's flatulence kept his tent drier than Janet Reno's love hole.
Saturday morning found us huddled under canopies eating eggs, bagels, juice and sticky buns. Speaking of sticky buns, our butts were so dirty that we didn't need a bidet - we needed a biweek. We considered going to Rocky Gap Park for showers, but the rain made us reconsider since driving could have been treacherous. Incidentally, Rocky Gap has a lake called Lake Habib. That's right, it's named after a towel-head. If you want to swim in it, you have to give the ranger the secret passphrase ("Vote for Kerry").
Later on Jim made fried wings, which were a nice treat but still didn't make up for the mus-turd gas he had inflicted on us. Then we did a Baltic Porter tasting (run by Joel, I think). Apparently Baltic Porter is a new BJCP style. Then we had the Big Beer Tasting, which featured the following:
After that things were pretty much a blur. Grover ate a cicada (I don't know if it was alive or dead). People were playing volleyball. We went to the campfire area to heap our plates with food from the community feast. Jim was still a fag.
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I ate at another campsite and passed out just long enough for Jim to give me a "Dirty Sanchez" with cake frosting and stick a cigarette in my mouth. Some pictures were taken, one of which I saw yesterday at the Post Office. You can also see the video here.
Then it was time for Last Comic Standing. This year we had vowed not to just tell jokes, but to do creative comedy routines accented by originality and composure and wit. Well, that lasted about as long as an altar boy's virginity because before we knew it we were just telling jokes as usual. I laughed so hard I thought my pants would never dry.
Grover set up a generator-run TV with DVDs and treated us to bad movies and Chappelle's Show. At the same time, another game of Texas Hold 'Em took place. I wisely refrained from participating, as Jim's gastronomical repercussions made the place smell like a convalescent home for colostomy patients. Talk about ass-isted living.
The night was cool and clear, with thousands of stars visible. Sunday morning was beautiful, and the dry weather enabled us to dehydrate our tents before packing them. Some of us hung out at Keg Row to drink from the remaining kegs before heading home. Another great weekend of beer, food and friends had passed. The only thing that could have made it better would be to put a cork in Jim's ass.