Six years ago, several friends were drinking. "When's Oktoberfest again?" one asked the others. "I dunno," came the reply, "I think it's in February." Thus began the tradition known as Febtoberfest, which has, predictably, gotten bigger and more out of control with each outing. Our bartender, who is in a chain-mail hood and Viking-style horned helmet, offers us our choice of three taps, each with a delicious home-brewed beer.
Now it's time for the traditional Febtoberfest Two-Story Beer Bong. Someone is upstairs, wrangling men into doing hits on the back porch: "Do you have too much sand in your pussy to hit the beer bong?" This prompts a wrestling match, which inspires another partier to shout, "Less homoeroticism, more beer bong!" Outside, a man is getting ready to strap on the boozehammer when a woman, eying him suspiciously, approaches: "I thought that you said Timmy the Tank wasn't coming to this party." He looks mildly offended. "Timmy the Tank isn't coming... I'm just taking one hit off the beer bong." She shakes her head and goes back inside.
Soon, everyone who fought head-to-head on the bong is way out in the backyard, either projectile vomiting or giving comfort to those who are projectile vomiting. Up on the porch, it sounds strangely euphonious, as though there are three or four fire hoses gushing into the depths of the woods. The cops arrive, investigating a noise complaint—"It's not even midnight yet!" several pukers complain, hugging their stomachs—and it's time for all the Febteutons to head back inside for plenty more good beer.
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