"You Think You Know...But You Have No Idea."

Here is a quick profile of the Drunken Donkey, written as promotional material to their 2004 Reunion in the Bend:

Well gents--it has come to this. September 10-12--the fantastical, magical, most triumphant return of the Drunken Donkey to South Bend Part Deux. Like Star Wars, Raiders of the Lost Ark, Rambo, Rocky, and Back to the Future--a sequal would not be denied.

After a five-year hiatus, the band is back together for their 2004 reunion tour. From all parts of the globe and the farthest reaches of this great country. From the urban heights of New York to the emerald shores of Washington, from the down-home heat and hotness of the Dirty South to the melodic craze and clamour of Nash-Vegas, all the way to heartland of the nation, we have come to keep the dream alive.

We don't care who's party this is--we want a bad time.

Rules will cease to exist, barriers will be overcome, and carbombs will drop like incendiary gut-bombs. Standards will be overcome and raised to new heights, customs will be broken and forged anew, and plenty of Mario Kart races shall be won, and lost.

El vino will flow--brumfast will be consumed--and naps shall be had by all.

In the midst of it all, four gents will tear at the fabric of time and space and transport the Bend back to 1999--a time where class was irrelevant.

A time where responsibility was something for grown-ups.

A time where all MBA students were welcome at our house.

A time where Shamoo was gay, where floor vents creeked and moaned, and where pure entertainment could be had by all.

A time where truck seats, grungy carpeting, and front lawns were all mattresses, and kegs, coats, and hats were all pillows.

A time where fish sticks were outlawed in every form.

A time where the refrigerator magically distributed frothy goodness without fail.

A time where the only sports we played were bowling with 40s, 2 story beer bonging, and dexterous feats with plastic cups on warped wooden tables.

A time where you saw the gobbler not just at Thanksgiving.

A time where a clay monster named Grego, horribly mutated by excessive use of the microwave, inhabited basements and emerged only to feast upon processed pasta products and starch-bombs.

A time where ruthless land barons collected rent from his vassals in exchange for meager housing.

A time where country crooners would sing proudly at 100 decibles at 5am in the morning.

A time when women weren't nothin' but bitches and ho's, where we fucked shit up, and where we kept the dream alive.

This is the place, gentlemen. Now is the time. As I sit back watching the ND
game this weekend, boyos, I will be thinking about the here and now. But
my mind will be on the there and then. Cannot wait to see everyone back in
the Bend.

--His Gayness, BGJ