MASHOUT  2012

First  of  the  Day!


I arrived at high noon on Thursday. Grover and Rob had gotten there a half hour earlier, and I know this because there were three children crying in fetal positions. I set up my tent and accidentally hit my hand with my hammer, which ruined sex for me the entire weekend. Dom and Greg from CSI had arrived the previous day so they could turd burgle without disturbing anyone. I fraternized with these hooligans for a bit before heading down to Camp du Saison for a few beers and a hit of Alan Hew's bacon-infused vodka.

NoVA had around 15 taps and a bunch of hot sauces. Those sauces were hotter than Jim's ass after House is done using it.

That night Camp Belch had their annual taco and margarita bar. I hadn't seen so many tacos since I was a Girl Scout leader.

The night featured the usual array of sodomy and dwarf tossing, and also Joel jamming on his homemade PseudoStradivarius. The weather was beautiful, and we could see lots of stars because there was no moon. Except when Grover pulled Rob's pants down. Keg Row had lights strung up to keep the children safe. One thing CRABS doesn't need is another lawsuit.

Friday morning I wanted to wait until getting to the Rocky Gap Lodge in order to take a dump, but Nature was not kind to me. Since the porta-potties were only slightly used at this point I thought I'd be okay. Well, the drawback to having no "floaters" in there is that when your logs hit that blue fluid, it tends to splash. I ended up with Smurf butt. That's why Jim's finger was blue. Anyway, I took another dump at the lodge, as well as a shave and a shower. After I got back Jeff cooked us some breakfast, thus making him the only guy on CRABS Hill who wasn't a useless pile of excrement.

Later on the Duclaw team of Teabag-ner and Shithouse arrived to soil Keg Row with their bilge water. I don't remember where Blo was. Probably in the back of the truck wearing a ball gag.

Shortly thereafter, the 4th annual Sour Hour featured more than 30 homebrewed and commercial sour/funky beers. It also attracted about 40 alcoholics, retards and pedophiles. But enough about Congress.

We got a good bit of rain, which made the field wetter than Rosie O'Donnell at a WNBA game, but that didn't interfere with our debauchery. Then we went to the communal tent for a food/beer pairing that for once had other folks besides CRABSters contributing. It's about time those wankers stopped mooching off us. The roughly 100 people had more than a dozen food/beer pairs, including a pin (half firkin) of Duclaw's Chocolate Imperial Rye Porter, which won a silver medal at the 2012 World Beer Cup in the rump wrangler category.

By the way, Kevin Berry came all the way from Colorado. His urologist said it was a hell of a shot.

The Tom Principato band played in the barn for the first time since 2009. Dom's band played the previous two years but they have been banned ever since Dom's "farting the alphabet" incident.

Saturday morning I felt like hell. It was from either food poisoning or a dirty heroin needle. Lisa K. accompanied me to the lodge for a shower. I tried to shit but I had already single-handedly filled a porta-potty in the middle of the night.

By midday there were more than 40 kegs at Keg Row. In the field people played volleyball, Frisbee, badminton, and Polish horseshoes. Polish horseshoes is just like regular horseshoes except you use sneakers. Back at CRABS Hill folks engaged in wholesome activities such as music and literature.

Various queers shot wrist rockets, then we reconvened at CRABS Hill for a "spanksgiving" cookoff wherein about 10 contestants cooked dishes featuring Spam. Les won the judging, and was crowned with a championship belt made by House.

The winning entry in the midst of creation

Afterward the poker homos got a game going, and someone retrieved the jar of pickles that had been buried in the woods some years earlier.

Over at the CSI camp there were good times aplenty until Dom took a nap in his kilt. It's all fun and games until you see Dom's junk.

Down at the main area an Irish musical group called Shanty Irish entertained with the help of Pops. He had to stand in because they were missing their regular fiddler, Phil McCracken.

Then it was time to bloat ourselves at the community dinner. Lots of great food made pit stops in our guts on its way to the porta-potties. Then Pops's family read a bunch of haikus and poems about him to celebrate his 80th birthday. Which of course is exactly how I want to spend my 80th birthday. Then Les gave Pops a peach cobbler that he'd made, and former CRABSter Tom Flanders gave 25th anniversary MASHOUT logos that he'd created to Pops and long-time BURPer John Sedlander, who is 10 years older than Pops, making him almost as old as my jokes.

CRABS's own Trevor Rose was announced as the winner of the homebrew contest out of 16 entries. It was a shallow victory since the style was session beers. Then the evening devolved into shenanigans and tomfuckery. Up on CRABS Hill we told jokes while down at the fire Joel once again played his Carnegie Hall Restraining Order.

The next morning nothing much happened other than us packing our shit and Jim packing House's shit.

Some memorable quotes from the weekend: