Chud Spivin's back and he has his own page too. Check it out here. Meanwhile let's take a look at one of Chud's past adventures...
Chud’s behavior has become self-destructive. Trout is no longer around to guide him, as he’s left for a surf trip to Sri Lanka, then India. Openly drinking in the commentary booth, slurring, and belching, even breaking out into bizarre, poetic rants. That, only the local vagrants seem to understand, as they’d be heard yelling back, as they rummaged, through the contest sites bins. It wouldn’t be long before Chud was amongst them.
The Contest Director had finally had enough and started his way towards Chud, who’d caught his approach out of the corner of his eye. Before the director could grab him, Chud takes evasive action. Springing up from his chair, he side-steps while throwing a quick ‘dummy,’ as if passing a Rugby Ball. He changes direction, finds time to clip ‘Judge Five’ over the ear, and is just about to break into the Goose Step when he runs out of judging tower. Unceremoniously, Chud falls from the scaffold. Mind you, halfway through a burp. Only to find himself wedged, in one of the rusted, forty-four-gallon drums, surrounded by the Winos, face up in the ‘Bomb’ position. Chud, with shirt now up around his eyes, asks the Winos to get him out of there. They oblige, tipping the bin over and commence rolling him away. Meaning well, they lose control, sending Chud hurling, out of control, down a dune towards an even steeper street. Into the distance, all they hear, fading as he goes, is Chud letting out Slim Pickins-like ‘Yee Ha’s’! A La Dr. Strange Love’s, final bomb-riding scene. Until finally, all is quiet. Eyebrows raised and jaw’s agape, the gathering look around at themselves. Momentarily time stands still. Suddenly the spectators are shocked back to reality as the contest siren blasts, signaling the end of the final. Along with it, most likely, Chud’s days on the mic.
But not the end of Chud.
Jammed inside the bin, he careens down the road, between cars and through intersections before smashing through the window of the local bikers’ tattoo parlor. Guns pulled, a beating imminent, Chud escapes what surely would be enough to warrant being buried, by continuing with his drunken prose and stumbling out through the front door, performing a pirouette and returning through the ample hole in the shop front. Apparently very dizzy from his method of transport, he spirals to the ground and starts snoring.
After a few days sleeping it off in the cellar of their clubhouse, and only mildly battered and bruised, not from the bikers but his wild entry, Chud awakens to a bucket of icy water in the face. Acceptable really. Punches would have been par for the course considering his company. Ten or so denim and leather clad rough nuts. They weren’ your usual biker gang, but a real mixed bag, made up of sure, mostly Whites but there were Blacks, Mexicans and even possibly an Asian. Chud let out a laugh when one turned around so that he could read the gang’s name on the back of his jacket. “What’s so funny?” the head guy grunted. “Sorry, nothing, nothing at all.” Chud quickly replied.
They were called the ‘Carbonaras’!
The parallel between their skin colours and the Pasta Sauce apparently lost on them. Come on. A creamy white sauce with browned bacon bits, and black pepper!
Honestly, did they run that name by anyone? Anyone? It would appear, no Italian members to date.