Run #410 Pacifica Bites the Dust
Mardi
Gras mania bit last Thursday’s hares, Scarlett O’Hairy
and Wankers Island, on the ass so they lured the
Gypsies down to Pacifica, the bay area’s answer to New
Orleans. Promises of Jell-O shots and Hurricanes echoed from their
honeyed lips and hashers being only of half a mind (Gypsies
qualify at a somewhat lower level) no one questioned what they’d
have to do to earn these libations. The pack was called to order at
El Toro Loco; Wankers’ cousin’s establishment where the
pack huddled for warmth while the like of Nutless Sac
and IRS sent real customers scuttling off in terror. Open Wide
was the chief whiner over warmth but she really heated up (in horror)
when Grim Rimmer offered to warm her with his loins.
The night wasn’t getting any younger when another of Bigfoot
and Enter The Gerbil’s virgins, Roger, read the
Sacred Missal with all the lust usually reserved for
reading the directions on a tin of oatmeal. At this point the pack
was anxious to trade one form of misery for another so it was on-on.
Trail almost instantly dissolved into the circle jerk from hell. The
night was blacker and colder than LCB’s love life as the
pack climbed a hill only to find it necessary to descend a steep and
slippery pitch. The ground was stonier than the silence as on-ons
went unheard over the weeping of T/BC who butthole surfed down
the face dragged to a certain and certainly deserved fate by the
hellions Parker and Duncan. It was hardly necessary for
Fits In to plant her toe under his butt and launch him
down that last section but her maniacal laughter was proof that
someone was having a good time. By the time legion of lost souls
negotiated their way to the bottom the more suicidally inclined
members of the pack were nowhere to be found. Bigfoot, Roger,
and Grim Rimmer along with Fits In and
T/BC were soon doing their impression of the Children of
Israel lost in the desert. Once T/BC’s torch went out he was
reduced to searching for marks on his hands and knees. The mini-pack
eventually found Enter The Gerbil and Matt who by now
was wondering why he ever left the great white north. Still the scent
of his constant cigarette smoke wafting on the night air made him
easy to find. What a pleasure it was to traipse around Pacifica in
the dark enjoying the presence of more guard dogs than a Colombian
drug compound. Trail eventually went through a tunnel that took the
pack towards the sea. There was a forsake all hope ye who follow this
trail split and while those like good King Rongjon
seeking a higher level of fitness stormed over the hills our band of
bravos took the lesser of two evil trails and eventually wound up at
the Jell-O check overlooking the ocean. The wind howled and the surf
roared but those little cubes of vodka slid silkily down throats made
hoarse from crying (need we mention who’s). From the check it was
straight on till morning and a chance to be blown away by a
Hurricane. The pack was together at the start when the hares
remembered that they had know idea how to actually mix the stuff but
the Sacred Bucket was soon filled with a passable
version of the big blow. As always the pack swelled with the approach
of cocktail hour. While Thurston Bowel The Turd and
Electrical Testicle went unseen on trail they were
highly visible around the Bucket. Sadly Shithead was
gone before the festivities started something about evil computers
taking over his life. Don was busy nursing his back by not
nursing those Hurricanes the potent punch raced down his gullet like
an express train, later he looked as though one had hit him. Pied
Piper was busy drinking in enough courage to face his wife
when she finds out he’s been hashing. Snakeless was busy
chugging down drinks in his never ending attempt to look even more
dissipate. His three day stubble combined with Hurricane breath left
him looking and smelling like Don Johnson as a bag lady. Not to been
upstaged Boneless Chicken was once again adorned in his
tatty robe leading D’anglin A’nglin to wonder if
the rumor that Boneless just gets out of the institution on Thursdays
is true. No Hands and Meat Pie were busy
swilling the stuff and when last seen Meat Pie was
slung over Sammy’s back waiting to be poured into her Mazda.
McTaco and Manhole, drinks firmly in hand were fiercely
debating which was a more likely candidate for a DUI. An equally
possible Likes To Lick declared the contest a
draw. Jambalaya was supplied by the hares and while the pack dined
and drank Gerbil, jester’s cap in place, administered the
down-downs. He started out as Matt but finished as Camel
Blower and the newest member of the Order of the Sleepless
Knights. Dickless Namehole took the floor in
another lame attempt to convince the pack to do something or other
with the usual result. Perhaps he should consider a career in
politics. This was Midget Digits last *un with the
Gypsies sadly he lost his extradition hearing and Florida is
getting him back. Craig was once again unnamed. Not that he’s
innocuous but Dick Chick finds it necessary to check
his pulse on a regular basis just to be sure he’s still here.
Here’s to another Fat Thursday. Cheers.