Being a fine, upstanding, belligerent bastard, I too took part in the muddy festivities at Chez Wonko. How could I resist a chance to enliven my otherwise dull and mudless summer? It also presented itself as the perfect chance to get dirty and grope unsuspecting participants. Given the prestigious honor of cook for the evening, I was forced to remain semi-sober in order to prepare the fine feast that the thankless bastards (that's partygoers to you kids out there in TV land) later consumed. By the by it was delicious if I do say so myself.

The Blue Man (WonkoDSane) and the Green-Headed Wonder (his roomie) were the perfect hosts providing alcohol and mud to all who would partake. After the mud soaked free for all the actual matches began as was outlined by Wonko. I have to say that never so completly have I experienced the sensory numbing effects of alcohol. The morning after it looked as though I had practiced gymnastics on a trampoline coverd in glass. I had slashes (not cuts mind you, but slashes) on both knees, gouges in my hands, various and sundry other wounds in exotic locales best not discussed in mixed company. My crowning achievement in self mutilation was a giant, gaping HOLE in the bottom of my foot that I had to call out of work for, as I cannot stand for 8 hours with half of my foot missing. I have to say that it was worth it and if you have the means I highly suggest you do it. I do believe that the best part of the entire thing was not having to clean up afterward. Cleaning myself was chore enough. I was digging mud out of my ears for days afterward...try explaining THAT to friends and loved ones!

The event was overall an orgy of food, fun, mud and beer and it don't get no better than that.

Mud. Mud, everywhere! I have mud in my crevices. Yes, even those crevices, not to mention ears, mouth, and nose.

As no account is given of the morning-after bout between Bry and myself, I feel compelled, nay, morally obligated, to rectify this most greivous error.

The day was warm, and the sun still young when our heroine pulled up to Chez Wonko and stood, hands on hips, surveying the wreckage of a normally pastoral and bucolic residence. The Rorschach scribblings of some deranged madman sprawl over the once-pristine walls of the devestated home, and the grass bears mute mourning testimony to thousands of fallen brethren, crushed under the marauding feet of hordes of drunken partygoers. Shaking her head, our heroine sidesteps toppled lawnchairs, piles of soggy clothing, and discarded beer bottles and makes her meandering way into the house. Kissing her comrades in depravity hello, she sits to listen to epic-style retellings of last night's bachanallia while enjoying a fresh and frosty Shiner Bock, pressed into her entirely unwilling hands by her hosts. One bottle later, marvelling at how the curses of genetics have given her a Scottish last name and a Japanese non-tolerance of alchohol, the lass and BAR wander out to the pit. A soupy, fully mixed miasma of goo awaits.

After 15 minutes, it is realized that mud is perhaps the grittiest lubricant known to man, making it impossible to fully lock one's opponent into any wrestling hold, while still scraping tiny fragments of glass over bare skin. Even after both challenger and defender have both shed all clothing possible while not causing amazingly tolerant neighbors to call the police, and seeping slow amounts of blood into the swamp, no winner has been declared, not even by the objective WonkoDSane, who stands nearby, watching and cackling madly at our heroine's plight. Finally, after baring teeth at each other and realizing they even have mud between those bits of anatomy, a draw is called, and the two opponents pose for pictures, mostly-naked, bleeding, and grinning. And then pause to throw mud at the photographer and at his house, before washing up.

Scott and Bryan: I want those clothes I left over there BACK. NOW, boys. Especially the underwear.

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