And they were off. Catmunch and Blorthog were probably two of the finest free roasters in the northwest territories. Catmunch was bongloading hash as it was dropping out of a camel's ass. Blorthog was slamming toad piss and hotboxing a wigwam with alcoholic carnys.
Come get your cotton candy you fukin loadie stoners!
It was time for lunch. Blorthog's mom was an excellent cook. During their lunch break they were each treated to an exquisite meal of broasted fresh fillet of beef stump. Each course was followed by a delicate snowcone of the world's finest weeds. The apertif was of course Madam Squelchbone's magnificent Three Carlods of Gypsytang Furrball Skidbelt. And for a dessert they were treated to an unforgettable jubilee of singed rodent felch.
Catmunch should have squeaked ahead during the third phase. But the hernea he got last night from toadstooling the farmer's daughter had caught up to him. He was forced to forfeit the title to Blorthog. Thus marking Blorthog's first sanctioned win on the professional circuit.
If there's one lesson we could learn from this, you'd be a better person. But since I am too high to think of one, I'll have to resort to: