Accompanied by the obligatory Overman in Slack, I arrived in Chataugua by
way of the Miskatonic Parkway during a severe thunderstorm warning.
Lightning strikes burned phosphorescent after-images into my retina as we
ascended the midnight hills of Mina. Upon our tardy arrival, I sought to
huddle under the canopy of Brushwood's main gate with Reverends Matt,
Niki and Kym until the atmospheric disruption from Erie cleared away into
a dazzling display of shimmering star-sponge while the Overman dosed and
dozed with a half-a-dozen cans of suds. As we traveled to our camp site, I
was astounded and amazed by the sight of a huge and hovering flying saucer
in the Brushwood bushes. As Stang was to later remark, "That damn flying
saucer looked more real than most of the real ones I've seen". However, I
suspect the "un-realness" of the disc was a ruse -- a disinformation
campaign to discredit the realness of the reality.
The tranquility of clearing weather and restful sleep was broken at my
dawn awakening on Thursday as I found the Overman unconscious in our
vehicle, and covered with a sticky, viscous, white residue. This caused me
to imagine he was jizzed to death by the Cthulhu-spawn of Lake Chataugua,
or other such macabre creatures of the night, but my fears were allayed
upon the realization that the mysterious webbing was the result of an
early morning wrestling match with a bag of marshmallows melted over the
mantles of a Coleman lantern. We spent the rest of Thursday foraging for
swamp critters and sucking their guts out.
Friday, at four o'clock in the morning, I was awakened by the smell of
burning tent flaps. Our campfire was burning out of control, sending
smoldering cinders sailing into the distance. I whipped out my trusty hose
and emptied my bladder into the hungry flames -- but the fire still blazed
with the fury of Connie's cunny. Reverend Modemac of the Dobbstown Fire
Department arrived and remained on duty until the smoking inferno was
doused, churned; doused and churned again. Modemac's wilderness training
at Weeblo boot-camp had finally paid off. Hail Modemac! After the fire I
settled into what would be the final sleep of the festivities. Friday (the
day -- not the Reverend) saw the arrival of Doctor Reverend Jim (who
rebuilt my central nervous system and materialized a three-dimensional
hologram of a Crown-shaped automobile deoderizer in the sky); Reverend
Mercury (who jerked 100 pounds of chicken & beef -- Persian style); and
Reverend Steve Checkey (who was sure to bring his collection of digital
dildonics and antique anal-probes).
Later in the day I was reminded of the goodness and wisdom of Jesus when I
asked for a facsimile of the Dobbsian pipe, and received it. I still
posses the sacred pipe of Jesus, and promise to keep it eternally aflame
and filled with frop in His honor. Thank you Jesus! Praise the Lord!
Plans were soon underway to shave Stang's ass balder than a buttered beach
ball. A measure of prevention designed to keep the Stangian nipple-hair
(eight nipples makes for a lot of nipple hair) from unduly chafing Rev.
Friday Jones's alabaster flesh during the clothing-optional oil wrestling.
I began to think I knew too much about the strange and arcane hair removal
practices of the SubGenii, until a greater forbidden knowledge was
revealed to me in the form of Sam the Spa Nazi's shaggy scrotal stubble.
Next year I'll have to remember to bring bikini wax. Perhaps fortunately,
the unsightly growth of unkempt pubic follicles was a rare sight during
the Drill, as the odd anti-fashion of wearing overcoats and underwear in
the hot tub was customary for most of the spa-splashing SubGs. That
evening I prepared my dinner of Tofu/Minnow Zygote Pudding (which is
prepared by simply boiling live minnows with a chunk of tofu until the
tiny fish bore their way into the soy in an effort to escape the heat),
and wondered how minnows might act in the hot tub along with the bodily
parts of some nekkid SubGs. MENTAL NOTE: Next year -- Boiled Minnow Pie
The "Annoying Bobbie Assholes Who Just Won't Shut Up" part of our program
must have been scheduled for Saturday's frappy-fingered dawn. The
suburbanized stylings of Bobbie beat-poetry shattered the aural wallpaper
of the twittering swamp life, punctuated with the sounds of saucers
screaming overhead. In my state of sleep deprivation, I commanded Overman
Ron to attack the Annoying Ones with a full-scale, screaming, nuclear
bottle-rocket assault. I observed the battle safely from the rear of my
tent. That morning, some Bobbies began to spring leaks. Ecto-bile slimed
the shit-house, blood oozed from sigmata wounds. MENTAL NOTE: Next year,
tire patches in the first aid kit. It was all fun and games until someone
tried to fuck a stump with a beer bottle. Remember kids: you can fuck the
stump, or you can fuck the bottle -- but you can't fuck the stump with the
I think it was about that time that the "unreal" U.F.O. crashed. I suspect
that alien bodies were recovered, but the complete lack of evidence for
such a scenario suggests a cover-up by Brushwood officials.
On Saturday night Juiceman received "enlightenment. . . well, not
'enlightenment'" ; Rev. Tom-Tom lead the drumming for five hours like the
gorilla in the George of the Jungle trailers; I doctored some young
SubGenii who hitchhiked all the way from Arizona (much other doctoring was
ado, too); my brain started going bad, so I began making irritating
demands of complete strangers ("don't come near me unless you're smoking a
fucking cigarette!"); I inhaled a log; a drunken local yokel pulled his
car up into my campfire, backed up, pulled forward, backed up, pulled
forward, backed up again and parked. He then got out of the car and
exclaimed, "Whew! Now I'm done driving!" Shortly thereafter he passed out
in his backseat with the windows and doors closed and the radio blaring.
I was bright and bushy-tailed by seven in the morning, and opted to drink
tequila rather than prescribed strawberry Kool-Aid. I also opted to
administer my placebo "Warhead" rectally, since I thought that would be
the closest I would come to actually having sex that weekend. Little did
I know that I would soon be humping Suzie The Floozie's left leg like a
rabid jackrabbit. Blame it on the rectal warhead and tequila -- and
unbridled, mad, passionate lust. That was probably the closest anyone came
to having sex that weekend -- except for the honeymooning Mr. & Mrs.
Legume who exuded vital pherenomes and animal sex-panic fumes over the
hills ad dales like the night fog settling in from Lake Erie.
At that point my consciousness crashed to the ground like the "unreal"
U.F.O. and aliens scattered from my head wreckage -- scampering into the
slimy swampland of Sherman.
--- Sosodada, via Lou Minotti
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