Gather ‘round, you beer-bellied bastards—it’s Gut-Buster Gallagher, still reekin’ of bratwurst grease and regret, here to tell you about the time I rolled into the Great Wisconsin Cheesehead Rally thinkin’ it’d be wall-to-wall tail and cold brews. Spoiler: it was wall-to-wall tail, cold brews, and one hell of a dairy disaster. I thundered into the campground outside Green Bay on my ‘79 Harley Shovelhead, pipes barkin’ like a pissed-off hound. Tent city stretched for miles—chrome everywhere, flags wavin’, and enough leather vests to outfit a herd of cows. First night’s perfect: I’m three deep in Spotted Cow, surrounded by Wisconsin farm girls who think a fat old biker with a gray beard is “rugged.” One of ‘em—call her Becky with the badonkadonk—starts grindin’ on my lap to some Skynyrd cover band. Her cutoff Packers jersey’s so tight I can read the cheese curds on her nipples. I whisper somethin’ filthy about curds and whey; she giggles, grabs my hand, and drags me toward her tent. We’re barely inside when she yanks my belt off faster than a calf roper. Pants drop, she drops, and starts workin’ me like she’s tryin’ to churn butter with her mouth. I’m moanin’, gut bouncin’, when she pulls back, grins, and says, “Hold on, big boy—I got a surprise.” She reaches into a cooler and pulls out a block of sharp cheddar the size of a brick. Before I can say “what the fuck,” she’s rubbin’ cold cheese all over my dick like it’s lube. “Wisconsin style,” she purrs. It’s slimy, it’s orange, it’s cold as hell, and my balls are shrinkin’ faster than a politician’s promise. I’m half-laughin’, half-horrified, but the blood’s still rushin’ south so I roll with it. She bends over the sleeping bag, I line up, and go to town—slidin’ in with a squelch that sounds like boots in mud season. Every thrust makes a wet squelch-squelch like someone’s stompin’ curds. Cheese is meltin’ from body heat, oozin’ down her thighs, stickin’ to my bush like melted plastic. The tent smells like a fondue orgy gone wrong. Then the real shit hits.Mid-stroke, her tent zipper flies open. In stumbles her roommate—some corn-fed blonde named Tara—drunk as a skunk, holdin’ two fresh cheese curds in each hand like grenades. “Becky! You said we were sharin’ tonight!” Tara slurs, then sees me balls-deep in her friend with orange goo everywhere. Her eyes go wide. “Holy fuck—is that my good cheddar?!” Becky shrieks, “Tara, get out!” But Tara’s too wasted. She lunges forward to “rescue” her cheese, trips over my boots, and face-plants right into Becky’s ass. Curds fly. I’m still buried to the hilt, tryin’ not to laugh, when Tara’s hand slips between us, grabs a handful of cheesy shaft, and yanks like she’s pullin’ taffy. I bellow like a branded bull. Becky bucks. Tara screams. The whole tent collapses—poles snappin’, canvas droppin’—and we tumble out into the campground in a naked, cheesy heap. Lights flash from headlamps. Bikers circle up hollerin’. Someone yells, “Holy shit, it’s the Cheese Whore Incident of ’24!” I’m on my back, dick still half-hard and coated in Wisconsin’s finest, Becky straddlin’ my chest tryin’ to cover her tits with a shredded jersey, Tara wailin’ about her ruined block of cheddar. A prospect from some club films the whole thing on his phone. My Shovelhead’s parked ten feet away, watchin’ like it’s embarrassed to know me. Cops show up. They take one look—three naked adults covered in melted dairy, a collapsed tent, and a crowd chantin’ “Cheese! Cheese! Cheese!”—and just shake their heads. “Break it up, folks. No public indecency with dairy products after midnight.” I limp back to my bike at dawn, ass chafin’ from cheese residue, beard crusted orange, pride in tatters. Becky slips me her number on a napkin that smells like Velveeta. Tara flips me off while clutchin’ what’s left of her cheddar like a dead child. Moral? Never trust a Wisconsin woman with a cooler full of cheese and a boner full of bad ideas. The Dairy State’ll fuck you six ways to Sunday—and leave you smellin’ like a grilled cheese gone wrong. Now pass the beer and a wet wipe, ya pricks. Gut-Buster’s still pickin’ curds outta his pubes. Gut-Buster’s Wisconsin Cheesehead Clusterfuck FIGHT BREAKS LOOSE PAGANS VS HELLS ANGELS WAR BREAKS LOOSE PAGANS VS HELLS ANGELS Who are Hells Angels and why is Donald Trump calling them sweet? A Bimbo Named Candy: Arizona Asphalt Orgy