Ogling scantily-clad buxom beauties on a beach in the Caribbean was something Bob Ryan's conservative midwestern roots didn't seem to find offensive at all. Sunglasses discreetly veiled the felicitous leer seemingly Gorilla-glued to his eyes as a parade of bikini-adorned ladies marched by; it was truly a cornucopia for the lecherous hunger burning within his ravenous loins. Ryan was as faithful as Old Faithful, but that hardly prevented him from enjoying a strictly visual sightseeing adventure while stranded on this paradisaical island of St. Kitts. His fantastical delusions were abruptly interrupted by two sufficiently sloshed tourists staggering across the islet. "Hey," Ryan barked, "you're blocking my view!" Taken aback by such a blunt and unsolicited verbal cannonade, Ron Oetting and Phil Baker stopped in their tracks to see what 'view' Ryan was talking about. At that moment a drop-dead gorgeous woman of generous proportions appeared like a vision in front of their blurry eyes. Without hesitation, Oetting and Baker respectfully removed themselves from Ryan's line of sight as the three of them questioned what in the world kept her thong from being enveloped by the ample curves of her feverous body.
"God, I love the sights down here," Baker exclaimed with a pronoucned degree of breathlessness. In that instant, Ryan, Baker, and Oetting became fast friends. On a small blanket stretched out atop the blistering sand, Ryan had a large cooler filled with ice and beer; a small packet of gaunchy; four glass tumblers adorned with Budwieser logos; and two chilled bottles of Brinley's Gold Vanilla Rum, a delightful concoction manufactured on the island. "I was really hoping to share this with some of these beach babes," he joked, "but - what the hell - I guess you two dudes will do. Besides, given the outside chance that one of these hot bunnies might actually want to join us, with the likes of you two sots, my chance of getting lucky probably just gets better!"
Oetting and Baker weren't even insulted by the remarks. After all, Ryan was inviting them to share in his bounty of alcoholic splendor, and - after all - Baker and Oetting's two favorite words in the English language were "complimentary alcohol". As Ryan relaxed in a makeshift chaise lounge, Oetting and Baker plopped themselves on opposite corners of the multi-colored blanket. The afternoon quuickly drifted into early evening as the rum mysteriously disappeared from the bottles, the beer bottles magically emptied, and the ice melted into warm puddles. Eyes strained to the max, the three had managed to make a "business meeting" out of the afternoon as they discussed issues relating to O.U.T.R.A.G.E. As the sun was sinking below the horizon, a tall, lanky shadow danced toward the three effectively-inebriated men on the blanket. Wearing the kind of head gear normally associated with a court jester, Patrick Hamilton bounced toward them, oblivious to the fact that he was about to crash their party. He seemed to be drawn by the distinct aroma of gaunchy blending with the salt air from the nearby sea. As he pranced forward, he could be heard mimicking the words to 'Come Sail Away with Me' by Styx - a musicial group that had reached the peak of its success in the mid-1990's. Sure enough, Hamilton fell face-first into the sand, his nose just inches away from what was left of Ryan's stash of St. Kitts-grown marijuana. Hamilton was in St. Kitts to appropriate more funding for his Patrick-Patrick tour around the United States to promote the legalization of narcotic, hallucinatory drugs. His partner, Lynn Patrick, had accompanied him to the island, but the last he saw her she was racing naked across the beach with a gaggle of male admirers who seemed intent on doing anything necessary to please her every whim. She had conceptualized a kind-of relay match where teams would run across the tiny isthmus of St. Kitts that separated the Caribbean Sea from the Atlantic Ocean. It was a total exercise in futility as they apparently tried to join the two waterways. But it also - apparently - didn't matter as long as tanned muscular males followed Lynn like lemmings, eager to drown in a sea of lustful debauchery.
Ryan chuckled in his traditional low-keyed manner as Hamilton lie passed out cold in the hot sand. Oetting cackled like a diseased hen in a roomful of roosters. Baker guffawed like a horny moose in heat. The next sight anyone remembers was Lynn Patrick running in front of the Shiggity Shack, faking a fall in the sand, and seven sweaty, dark, handsome half-naked men falling on top of her in a heap of humanity, high on life and kiss-ass crocked on some of the best shit they'd ever smoked. Suddenly the beach went silent. Oetting, Baker, Ryan, Patrick, Patrick and her seven drawfs had all passed out in a collective stupor. A Snow White fairy tale it wasn't; but life was good.