At this moment I would be remiss not to advise you to close your email, hit the back button on your browser, or simply open the nearest window to your person and let the device with which you are viewing these words plummet to its untimely demise in the briny depths below the vessel you are taking towards newer, brighter adventures. Truthfully the tale that I shall relate is so shocking, so full of derelict characters (Circle Jerk and Bloqueen are only the start!) and horrifying happenstances that I do the world a great disservice by rendering it into text, a misdeed that I shall spend years in the salt mines of Peru hoping to rectify.

 

 

 

Nevertheless, it is my sole duty to relate the occurrences of one April 9th, 2018 at the location of the Ruth Asawa School of the Arts, normally a center of higher learning, that day the platform for a group of debauched and depraved individuals. Could anything be more appalling than the roar of Stinky Floss’s engine as she mowed down Just Rob and Just Ben in one fell swoop? You hesitate, so taken aback by the thought, but you must draw your attention swiftly over to Fit Bitch who has coaxed a trusting young lady into the group’s clutches, along with said young lady’s very new shoes. I shan’t relay the events that shall happen to those shoes later in the evening, as your imagination wouldn’t give it justice anyway. You will, if you are so foolish, have to ask Muff Daddy for the particulars.

 

 

 

As hesitant as I am to begin, I must press forward. Close your eyes, but not too tightly, so you can look around and see you are not, as I was, in the presence of Udder Moron and Just Doesn’t Get It. Sniff the air, and imagine the faint tang of unwashed gym socks and Manischewitz.  Your mouth is as dry as matzah when you see Infinite Butthole and Brown Eye taking off while dribbling the smallest piles of flour here and there, and your smile is a grimace as Dick Simmons memorializes the debacle in film.

 

 

 

There! Your spine is quaking now at the thought of Hand Pump slamming the van’s door shut as the pack takes off, The Uniballer trotting just ahead of you while Little Sissy Pants Hasher Boy turns a cartwheel. The first check is where it all begins to go wrong, the pack spread like shrapnel across the Portola Street intersection, Shaft blown to the wind.  Cockamole has already started plotting dark deeds with Tuna on Top, while Five Angry Inches almost loses one in the bushes.

 

 

 

Imagine a group of recently freed inmates who are confronted by a smorgasbord of homemade sandwiches and freshly poured beer, served by a coterie of smiling and scantily dressed women, and you would not capture half of the exuberance that the pack exhibited at the first drink check. Just Get It Over With was barely within her abilities to control the demands of Slap A Bag of Dickz, and Hepatitis Seeing Eye Dog used his distraction to partake on her own.  Tipper In The Slipper showed Just Evgeni how to slip it his own way, and only asked for just the tip in exchange, but Just Evgeni was able to quickly escape up the trail, and then up some more.

 

 

 

The groans and moans that emerged from the pack at this point resembled that issued from an Intensive Care Unit which had missed its last shipment of sedatives. A Turkey/Eagle split cleaved the group in two, though it can’t be said who was the greater fool here, for the Turkeys climbed nearly as much and did not have the chance to encounter Primal Vagina in the woods. Vagina Dentata, upon exit, compared the scene to that in The Quiet Place, and certainly going by his pale face, he looked as if he had experienced a meditative rejoinder in the interim.

 

 

 

Only upon expending all of their minute stamina could the pack find relief at the top of the climb, where Zippercised and T-Ball waited in the biting winds to give sustenance. But T-Ball shushed the group mightily, for she was engaged in filial responsibilities and her mother did not deserve to look upon the slightly unhinged face of Millimeter Peter or Fucker’s unseeing gaze. It may be said that T-Ball’s mother got the worst of this misadventure, for she did not even have the advantage of alcohol to cleanse her mind of what had been revealed on that fateful Skype call.

 

 

 

Luckily the pack did not linger long, scrambling down the side of a cliff where Pepe Le Poop descended on top of Miss Delivery, who bore the weight of Pepe as easily as he wore the mantle of General Mismanagement. Good Shit rescued them both being led astray by Fuck Norris, who had her own dastardly designs of the evening, for she had been working with Wee Wee on a plan to nourish the hash. Such misaligned, maladjusted visions were not accomplished, as the pack’s dose of matzah had been tempered with peanut butter and cream cheese. Whorifist declared the sight of beer and food to be marginally ‘worth it’ and set about making himself a Dagwood-worthy sandwich, and even Tears of Semen wept at the sight when Cowlick pointed it out.

 

 

 

And so, despite the truly terrifying events that had lead the group to this point, darkness finally fell, allowing Cockulus Oculus to gaze confidently into the night as she would no longer be horrified by the cuteness of Just Boss as he strained against the lead held by Liverdance and Kerry’s Cumcakes. In night’s sweet embrace Leave It To Cleavage no longer had to pretend she remembered her old friends’ names, and Just Jackson did not have to introduce himself with a bodypart no one could see. Fuck Buddy was free to sneak away to the bar, and Sleazy was able to sell haberdashery that she didn’t have, and Dildo Baggins was able to commit misdeeds that hadn’t even been invented. Tricrapylete swigged as much beer as he liked (although it’s sure he would have done this in the light as well). And so, despite the unfortunate events that ensued upon the commencement of the hash, it may be said that this evening had an ending, perhaps even a happy one.