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.