The forecast was far from fat, for the Brookings boys that day
40 degrees and snowing, “WTF its almost May.” And when Skylar posted, he made it very clear “It hurts to say this fellas, but they’ll be no Chugger this year.” Dejected and neglected, Karst’s lips trembled with shame For three years in a row, he championed this game. He thought “If only the sun would shine, and melt up all this shit, We’ve got a lot of beer to drink and wiffle balls to hit.” And then the clouds receeded, the snow disappeared It warmed up a few degrees, and Karst’s hope reappeared “Get Roy on the phone and get wookey in tow, we got to get ‘em all, Rain or shine we drink and grind. Let fucking play some ball.” All the boys assembled in the greatest park in town And they drafted their teams, to go for Karsty’s crown. Everson and his cronies tried to assemble a squad, But Karsty shouldered his slugger bat, and labeled them a fraud. “This tourney is mine you little bitch and it is every year. I can’t believe I live with this kid, here J-slay hold my beer.” A mustache sat on Karsty’s lip, his teech were stained with chaw. He stumbled his way up to the plate. His goal: to touch ‘em all. And now J-Slay holds the ball—now he gives it a fling My liver still trembles in fear from the might of Karsty’s swing. Somewhere in this big, cruel world, bookies are getting paid LeBron missed the playoffs, and Aaron Rodgers is getting laid. But all is right in Brookings, the land of fun and sin. Because we still had the Chugger—and Karsty won again.
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January 2018
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