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Mashout #29 took place during the Olympics, where the U.S. outmedaled all other countries, proving to be the best in several sports, including women's gymnastics (or, as I call it, soft porn). Meanwhile the most athletic thing we did all weekend was keep from pissing ourselves. Well, most of us, anyway.
This was our third year at Organarchy. The event began, as it always does, with various hooligans disrupting nature. A few dozen folks arrived on Wednesday August 17, and Camp CRABS was reportedly the place to be that night. When I arrived shortly after noon on Thursday, there were already 10 kegs at CRABS Mini Keg Row. I added my kriek to the mix and then proceeded to taste all of them. I didn't set up my tent like I usually do because this year I decided to sleep in my car in order to protect myself from rain, bugs, and sodomy. More CRABSters arrived throughout the day. Also some normal people. We ate chili and other stuff that would eventually make its way into the port-o-potties.
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Then we went to the George Offerman Biergarten, aka Keg Row.
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BURP's Bill Prewitt brought his polyphonic wind chime, which played various sounds such as frogs, temple bells, cuckoo clocks, and farts.
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Fagner brought the Duclaw tap trailer, which had 8 taps, but don't worry, only 3 of the taps had Duclaw beer on them. The other taps had good beers. The Duclaw beers were Blood Orange Neon Gypsy, Bare Ass Blonde, and Funk. The other beers were Gordon Biersch Mild Thing, Gordon Biersch ESB, Gordon Biersch India Red Ale, DC Brau El Hefe, and Right Proper Astral Weeks.
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After a few beer-soaked hours we returned to Camp CRABS for dinner and bad jokes. Greg's fish tacos were a hit. At one point I sat in the "Couch Pouch", an inflatable lounge that looks a lot like a vagina. It was the second-biggest vagina I had ever been in.
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As the sun set we launched another assault on Keg Row, where the normals endured several hours of our drunken stupidity, which included a lot of hollering and groping. As usual. Sideboob Rob assured us that Lauree was completely lump-free, on one side anyway. There was a big, bright moon. Then I pulled up my pants. Les, Jen, and Jay vied for the most drunken CRABSter award (okay, Jay isn't technically a CRABSter, but he is guilty by association). Les passed out while somehow I didn't. Jay allegedly fell off his bike a few times, one time over the handle bars. Eventually we scared off the straights. The knavery continued until the wee hours.
Friday. That's the last time I sleep in my car with the windows rolled up after eating chili. I walked to the port-o-potties and discovered that someone had dumped a load on one of the seats. How do you do that? I mean, you're sitting down, for shit's sake.
It was a nice warm morning as we sat around eating breakfast and telling bad jokes. A few folks had bourbon or bloodies. As the temperature rose I used Joel's camping shower. For some reason it smelled like gas.
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Pete and Repete made another MASHOUT appearance.
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Sour hour drew a big crowd as always. People shared dozens of gueuzes, krieks, framboises, goses, and Berliner weisses.
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Immediately afterward there was a cornhole tournament. In previous years "cornhole" meant something completely different.
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FryDay was delayed due to the cornhole, and I'm not talking about Mike's butt. In the meantime, a bunch of us whiled away the hours at Camp CRABS. The heteros drank while the homos played poker. I'm told that I passed out for a while, which would explain why my throat was sore and Grover was wearing a big smile.
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Just before 4 p.m., FryDay got underway. All sorts of things got fried: pickles, empanadas, onion rings, mushroom / smoked gouda balls, jalapeños, filet mignon, potatoes, tortellini, chicken, and probably other things.
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Someone put a ball of twine in the Couch Pouch, turning the prepubertal vagina into a postpubertal one.
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Most of us missed Firkin Friday and the food-beer pairing because we were so stuffed that throwing more food at ourselves would have created an explosive situation. Later on we waddled down there to listen to Dom's band Black Falls, who made their third straight appearance at Organarchy. Which is odd because with Dom as a member, you wouldn't think any appearance would be straight.
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Afterward we hung out at Keg Row. It was more crowded than it had been the night before, and there were now 40 kegs. Around midnight we went back to Camp CRABS, where we told jokes and I laughed so hard that I peed Lisa's pants.
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Saturday. Putting only 2 of the port-o-potties between CRABS and Keg Row was a bad logistical decision. Both of them were full. I certainly contributed that morning. Twice. I had to use one of the crappers on the other side of the registration table for my Third Act.
It was warm, muggy, and cloudy. We had our usual artery-clogging breakfast. Joel looked like death warmed over, which is to say that he looked his usual self.
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After another free Nazi shower I walked over to the NoVA HomeBrew camp, where they had 15 kegs on tap.
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A while later a bunch of us walked down to the river to cool down, as well as to wash off our sweat and shame.
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Shortly after returning we had the annual CRABS food competition. This year's theme: food on a stick. The judges were Lauree, Jen, Kara, and Sideboob Rob. They selected Trevor's Buffalo turkey balls as the winner. Sideboob Rob commented, "I really enjoyed having Trevor's balls in my mouth." Actually he said that on Friday morning too.
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Then the big beers came out:
After that we headed down for the banquet, where we stuffed ourselves with much-needed food, as we hadn't eaten in three hours. Of note were the 26 kinds of Oreos brought by NoVA.
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A nearby campsite had a perfect mate for Pete.
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We schlepped our bloated bodies back to Camp CRABS. By this time we were all tired from 3-4 days of drunken revelry, so there wasn't as much joke telling or sodomy as there'd been the previous nights. Fagner et al played poker while the rest of us waited for the food coma to pass. By midnight everyone had gone to either Keg Row or bed.
Meanwhile, at a campsite situated as far away from us as possible, the real poker game took place. These guys come to MASHOUT almost every year and play throughout the weekend.
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Sunday. Another warm, muggy morning. We packed up our belongings and what remained of our dignity, then returned to civilization, leaving behind only footprints and eight filled port-o-potties.
Some memorable quotes from the weekend: