All right people, it's time to hear the story of Stu. For the first time, the history of Stu will be told as it was...no hype, no fluff. You will hear the story of what really happened. So, send your children to bed, make sure your wife is not going to be home for a while, and, for the love of god, keep all volatile liquids far away from the computer. This story will not sit well with the timid, and it has NOT been kid tested-mother approved.
To truly appreciate Stu, we must go back, far back, all the way back to the very beginning. No one is quite sure where Stu came from. Some say he was raised by a clan of gypsies in Northern Romania where he learned the arts of theft and fortune-telling. Others say he is not of this world, sent from a far off place...a place of advanced capability to consume drugs and alcohol. Yet, others will swear it on their mothers' blessed souls that Stu was raised by hyenas in the southern plains of Africa where he picked up his well developed sense of humor and learned to hunt by the scent of fear. In fact, the rumors of Stu's upbringing are practically endless in number and variety, but no one really knows the truth. Stu is a man of myth, shrouded in mystery, adored by women (especially the fat ones) and worshiped by natives. There is so little known of how he survives that he is more baffling to scientists than the giant squid or the even the black hole phenemenon.
The first recorded sighting of Stu was reported by a Scottish freelance photographer vacationing with his new bride at Lake Tahoe, Nevada in 1969. Apparently, he gave the couple quite a pants full of fright. A local reporter interviewed the couple shortly after their experience:
"We were out on the dingy, 'bout to flip up our kilts and consummate our marriage, when a shadow arose from the depths. As it came towards us, me wifey cried out in terror and I put meself between the hulking shadow and me little lamb of a wife. I thought we were both about to be devoured, but all the super sexy beast did was reach onto the boat, grab our bottle of Hennesy and our six-pack of stout, tickle me wife's backside for a moment and then it disappeared into the darkness again...as if he were made of it. As soon as it seemed safe again I checked on me wife, but all she would do was lie on the bottom of the boat and convulse her body, moaning loudly and mumbling something about 'man meat yummy', or somethin' like that."
At the time of the interview the woman involved in the incident was a bit more under control, but still the only sounds she could utter were, "oh oh oooh oh yeah, man meat yummy."
After several similar incidents that left many hot young couples fresh out of alcohol and thousands of young busty babes in a state of permanent sexual frenzy, the F.B.I. and the Attorney General recognized that they had a problem that could potentially have a catastrophic effect on the delicate structure of American society. This concern was outlined in a speech given by the president in May of 1969:
"American mothers and fathers, brothers and neighbors, patriots and community leaders...a terrrible evil has befallen our great land. There is a creature whose name is not known, yet whose signature is left in many once clean sheeted bedsand once full liquor cabinets. A creature whose only purpose in life is to consume mind-altering chemicals and turn our young, hot, busty daughters and sisters into uncontrollable, insatiable little sex kittens. As president, it is my humble duty to warn all of you to keep your alcohol and good drugs hidden. Keep your daughters, wives, and sisters behind closed doors and under the watch of a vigilant eye until we, your loving and faithful government agencies can resolve this issue and purge our homes of this vile pestilence forever...for ourselves and for our children. Until then, I am declaring a national emergency and imposing curfew on anyone under the age of twenty eight with a healthy sex drive. Your cooperation is desparately needed. This is your president speaking. Good night and God bless American family values."
And, so , it began. America declared war on Stu. The chastity belts were pulled out of the attics and dusted off. Windows were boarded up and liquor cabinets were rigged with primitive booby traps. No one was getting laid, but no one dared to speak out for fear of being accused publicly of being a Stu sympathizer. Young hepcats found out on the streets after ten o'clock under the influence of anything were being arrested by the hundreds. It took a while, but people began to realize that this just wasn't cool, not cool at all. In fact, as one young protester later put it, it really blew.
Meanwhile, as tension mounted and patience grew thin across the very sober and sexually frustrated country, Stu was in hiding, fearing for his life, but, more importantly, fearing for his buzz. With all the alcohol under tightly guarded lock and key, Stu began to suffer something far worse than any pain he had ever experienced, the pain of sobriety. He lurked in the shadows, he slept in ditches (really pimped out ditches, but ditches nonetheless), he began to think clearly and contemplate the meaning of his existence. In short, Stu was losing his mojo. That's right, mojo.
As the nation grew more and more restless, and Stu grew more and more thirsty, the fat cats in Washington decided now was the time to lay out the trap would capture this beast of drunkenness, this scourge of casual sex, this creature of the dark, this Stu. The plan was a simple one. The bait was booze and every conceivable drug under the sun. A few thousand young people were gathered together in a place called Woodstock, New York to consume the chemicals and party like mad horny animals. Surely, the Stu would have to surface. His hunger (I mean thirst) ran to deep to resist this much non-sobriety going on in one place. And so, the party began.
The party raged for a couple of nights with no sign of Stu. And then, just when the national guard troops hidden behind a giant sound stage waiting to execute the ambush started to lose all hope and the partiers began to pass out and throw up, an image arose from the west. A dude of unprecedented coolness arrived and started drinking beer and consuming chemicals at a rate that would soon kill any ordinary man, but this was no ordinary man, no, this was Stu. The chicks at the party got real happy real fast, started screaming and dancing like Elvis just walked in...the men responded to this sudden outpouring of female horniness as guys often do, with dumb one liners like, "hey, you wanna a beer?" and, "that shirt's very becoming on you, then again, if I were on you, I'd be coming too." The coordinators of the trap knew this was the one they were waiting for, this, indeed, must be the Stu they were seeking. The soldiers rushed out from behing the giant soundstage and surrounded our hero. It appeared that the Stu was caught, the party was over, so Stu quickly downed about eighteen beers and shoved another fourteen in his pants, just in case they'd let him drink in jail, and prepared to surrender.
But, off in the distance a sound was heard. A low rumble like a herd of stampeding elephants gradually increased in intensity until it could be seen that thousands and thousands of people were on their way to the party. Stu was reported as saying something like, "man, I hope they don't think they're gonna drink any of this beer." But, these people were not coming for free beer. They were coming because they were bored as hell and they weren't going to take it anymore. They were coming to save Stu. When the people arrived (with an unusually large number of fat chicks) they surrounded Stu and confronted the national guard. It was a standoff. What would happen next? The field commander at the time quickly phoned Washington and updated the president on the gravity of the situation. The president, well aware that an important election was right around the corner and killing a bunch of citizens would not exactly work wonders for his approval rating, called the whole thing off. This statement was released from the white house:
"Hey, whatever, I'm not a square, let's get twisted, baby."
Among the thousands to come to Stu's timely rescue were a lot of musicians...people like Jefferson Airplane and Jimi Hendrix and a lot of other artists. I think it was Grace Slick who pounted out that there was a giant sound stage on one end of the field and talked the rest of the musicians into getting up there and jamming for a while. And jam they did, for three days they listened to music and consumed drugs and got it on. Stu was there, ask anyone who was at Woodstock. They'll say, "yeah, I remember that dude, he got all the honeys."
It's all true stuff, folks, we couldn't make up anything this crazy. Now, Stu is free to roam the streets and the clubs with the rest of us ordinary humans. If you're lucky enough, maybe one day he'll wander into your favorite bar and get the girls all worked up. Trust me, having his ultra-sexy ass around really cuts down on the amount of work one has to put into getting some. Yeah, so now you know how the legend of coolness that is Stu came to be. Not a word of it a lie, we should know, it's the story he told us when we all first met and the man's club came to be. All else is rumor and exaggeration, so if you hear anyone talking like they know what's up with Stu, just tell 'em, "hey check out the web site, moron."
