Come in, come in, my dear. Sit down. You have questions?

 

Worry not. Have a sip of tea. I will see to your answers.

 

This is not, I suppose, the first time you’ve had this issue? A long, hard *harrumph* week of partying, and you still expect a different result? Let us gaze together into my crystal ball, and we shall remove the fog from your memories of Monday night.

 

My vision is going clearer and clearer. It appears you spent your evening in the company of a most unusual ballet, headlined by Just Get It Over With… …

 

You know, I am a lady. If you want the explicit version, that will be an extra twenty. No?

 

Headlined by Just Get It Over With, Private Teeth, and In A Moment, Mother…

 

That’s better.

 

With the guidance of Just Get It Over With, Vagina Dentata, and Cuming Mutha, it appears you gallivanted along with your troupe through downtown San Francisco. While some like Hoseblower were fit to best the Sugarplum Fairy at her game, it seems that others—Weiner I Am—were far too eager to pull a Banana In Public. Tres passé. At least Circle Jerk managed a plié, though I’m fairly certain he pulled his groin. It was either that or Just Jaci and Just Elle running past shortly thereafter.

 

Stretching is important, if you’re going to engage in strenuous activities.

 

Take Cockamole and Twerxes, for instance. A nice example of a downward dog, and they definitely earned those dollar bills from a passing tourist. They’re doing much better than Head Queen, who despite posing erotically with a traffic cone, wasn’t able to pry open the wallet of that PG&E worker. She should definitely hit up Stinky Floss, who I hear has a pile of credit cards from the weekend. Too bad whatever frat you lot rolled out of didn’t teach you how to close a tab.

 

Oh, does the truth hurt? Please, feel free to leave. I’m all caught up on Game of Thrones, so I rather fancy watching how this turns out.

 

On All Fours and Roman Showers managed to waylay Stinky Floss before hitting the mall, and both were able to convince Ska Skank to try out a new do. Luckily CSI was able to recruit some rent-a-cops to secure her personal line of credit. Deftly, Slug bypassed security in camouflaged her traditional French Maid outfit (Macy’s assistants have new uniforms, it seems), but LCB and Fucker were not so lucky and had to drop to their knees to beg for forgiveness.

 

Gaining and losing assets was apparently a theme for the night, because Brown Eye and Zippercised were quick to find that serving as tour guides for the trolley crew was quite lucrative. Enticing tourists with the Hashshit was enough to fill their bank accounts for another month’s rent, though Brown Eye risked another public urination ticket, taking aim at the third rail after stepping off his ride.

 

Buck Fucka, on the other hand, was forced into dumpster diving in hopes of securing orange food for the hares—a noble thought, but unfortunately all he found was sustainable fish and organic vegetables. Blowqueen joined him, but couldn’t find the brassiere he was seeking for Tears of Semen—no worries, though, I’m sure Doucheicorn can find a use for the sweaty shirt he grabbed.

 

Somehow all, including die-hard DFLs Deadbeat and Gloryhole, managed to make their way back towards the keg as a group. Largely this was due to the caring attentions of new hash Mom, Miss Delivery, who was granted the hashshit as his new back massager.

 

Luckily Double Dildo Dick My Daddy was willing to entertain the antsy crowd with an encore of her last minute B2B taco show, which was appreciated to no end by Can’t Rush Anal—good advice—and Rent Whore. Shaft shouted that he couldn’t see, but Udder Moron was quick to advise that everyone knows masturbation doesn’t do that. Wrinklepecker begged to differ, but before the argument could ensue, Bitch’s Bitch promised to serve as seeing eye dog. Allahu Aqbark was quickly removed from the premises by Masterbaster, swearing they’d leave for Bali at any moment, as soon as he finished one more beer.

 

The pack eagerly assembled for circle, and Doggy Style and Splat were quickly accused of avoiding a good time, having shown up only for the Monday after Bay to Blackout. Rent Whore disagreed, relating the good times that Doggy Style was having at her place, and Red Hot Vagina promptly volunteered her sofa for their next staycation.

 

Head Queen rounded up the rest of the Bay to Blackout stragglers, all who agreed they couldn’t recall what had happened, and they definitely wouldn’t remember to avoid us next year. Perfect Woman groaned and chugged water in agreement.

 

Good Shit Lollicock finished up the night by admitting he wasn’t actually a Mexican, and that he had stolen Just Erde’s passport for the lie, leading to Just Erde admitting he was actually Columbian, and had stolen Craven Morehead’s passport, who then admitted she had stolen Just Cam’s. Confused, Sir Menage-a-lot asked exactly how many of them needed to be married for a green card. Finding it was no one, he promptly cancelled his trip to Salt Lake City.  

 

Seeing a way out of the shenanigans, Zippercised swung you low, my dear, and sent you packing off to the bar, where… oh my. Well, I’m not sure you can afford me to tell this much…

 

 

Right, then, off you go! See you next Tuesday, Dick Simmons!