Picture it. The Woodlands. 2010. There were some drunks who felt
they needed to create something. Not just anything. Something
really, really stupid. They would craft beer bongs in the shape of
Jewish toys. They would drink out of plastic drakes that were cut in
half. They would throw stupid prelubes… even prelubes to prelubes.
The setting was perfect. A compound. A house that had people who
knew how to make food and a big back yard, and a house across the
street that smelled like a Cheech and Chong movie and had enough
floorspace for 60 assholes. (Seriously, it happened)
They would lay trails through muck,
thorns, water, and other places they were not supposed to be.
Asphalt? Nay, not for these people. Instead of fancy booze they
would drink malt liquor with a splash of OJ, just enough to fight the
scurvy. They would keep cheesy poofs and jalapeño chips on hand.
Pabst Blue Ribbon wouldn’t just be a song, it would be a lifestyle.
They would travel to distant lands, like College Station,
practically time zones away, to bring their joy, merriment, and
offensive presences to all who would accept them. Even if they
didn’t accept them, they invaded anyway, like Americans to some
southeast Asian country.
They made offensive shirts, silly
patches, even dumb challenges where you would earn nothing but pride.
Possibly a disease, but pride for sure. They would welcome anyone:
gays, jews, gay jews, gingers, scientists, even people who had
mustaches that weren’t first responders. They were practically the
inn for all those who were also rejects in their own right. There
was a couch that everyone slept on – or passed out on – at least
once. If you sat on it naked, you probably got pregnant (regardless
of your gender) The most comfortable couch in the world. Legend has
it that it even started out as a sort of white color in its infancy.
These people were known as the Brass
Monkeys. Like Neil Armstrong planting a flag on the moon, the
Monkeys stuck their rod into the soil of Montgomery County and
claimed it as their own. Starting in February 2010, they began
laying the Brass Monkey Hash. No one thought it would last. People
laughed and wouldn’t let them play in any reindeer games. But they
persevered. No chill, all chimp. They kept going. 10 hashes. 50
hashes. For the 100th trail, they held a formal event and
people showed up wearing fucking monocles. MONOCLES! Like fucking
Monopoly or Mr. Peanut. The built a 6 foot tall Old English piñata
and filled it with condoms, and booze, and clothing – OH MY! They
got kicked out of two bars and a Motel 6. Level Unlocked: Legendary.
Did they stop? No. “Let’s do
three trails and three circles in one day and call it an IronHash!
We’ll tell everyone to meet us in a Wal-Mart parking lot at 6am,
throw them in a U-Haul, then make them forget hours of their lives.”
They did that five times… as far as they remember. Green Dress.
Flock You. Monkeys In The Mist. These events broke people, and
caused at least three arrests. For the scripture says, “Forgive
me, for I have monkey’d.” (Hangover 3:16).
200 trails. 250. 300. These
fuckers just kept going. Along the way, they teamed up with the few
people from Louisiana with enough teeth to whistle and made a
dysfunctional child called “VooDoo Monkey”. May it rest in
peace. Seriously, that bitch is dead. Cremated. Rolled into a
joint and smoked. Then they took that dumb energy and threw a Texas
InterHash with a mechanical riding dick. Everyone say hi to “Moby
Dick”, the toy we could not live without. That Texas InterHash hit
Good Friday, 4/20, Easter Sunday, and was during Passover. When we
saw those days align, we locked in those dates faster than Joel
Osteen locking his church during a flood.
350 trails. 400. These stupid
assholes just didn’t get the hint they should stop. The 400th
trail (five trails, four beer checks) saw broken ankles, broken
hymens, and at least one butt virginity put on the side of a milk
carton. Now… here they stand… 20 trails later. Somehow, with
Mercury in anal glands, or Virgo boner rising or whatever, the 16th
Brass Monkey Analversary somehow aligned with Brass Monkey Trail…
FOUR FUCKING TWENTY. 4/20. 4:20. However you want to write it,
chisel it, speak it, the 420th trail is on our
analversary, and that, my children, is fucking poetic. As if that
was not enough, this will also be Twinkle Toe’s AИAL BIRFDAY
Trail!
So now, come on a journey, nay, an
excursion, nay, a quest, nay, an odyssey, nay, an expedition, nay…
a pilgrimage, to the Brass Monkey Trail #420 slash (the mark not the
singer) 16th Analversary trail. Laid by Cocktor Spork,
one of the hares from Brass Monkey Trail #1, and Twinkle Toes, the
hare from Brass Monkey Trail #2, we will take you on a banana-fueled
safari through the mystic land of Coldspring, Texas. Don’t forget
to wear bright colors, because, you know, guns. Not only will there
be trail, there will be a campout, and AN AWESOME GIMMIE FOR ALL WHO
FINISH TRAIL! It’s not your money back, so fuck right off with
that.
So cum one, cum twice, cum ♫three
times a lady♫, to the
Brass Monkey 16th Analversary AND 420th Trail
AND Twinkle’s Birfday Trail AND last day of February trail (which
means your mom is finally available again). We’ll see you there –
YOU WON’T WANT TO MISS IT!
0n-0n Bitches,
Cocktor Spork
