Run #419 Shit Never Strikes Twice

Shithead, the erstwhile Hare for the evening’s festivities, had the presence of mind to lay trail from one of the most Sacred Locations for the Gypsies Hash -- none other than the Pig & Whistle. Yet our Hare seemed disturbed by notions most foul, visions so alarming that even the sight of Naked Hasher, Twinkle Dick and Ben Gay locked in an unholy love triangle paled by comparison. No, it was not another playful daydream of a naked Grim Rimmer galivanting in poppy-strewn fields that haunted him so. Rather, burdened by advancing age and the weight of 200 runs on his conscience, our Hare found himself compelled to visit onto the Gypsies the sins which for so long had been inflicted on him.

For who but IR Stupid -- and maybe Dickless Namehole -- could doubt they were in good hands when Shithead’s palm grasped the chalk? How cruelly the pack’s hopes were to be dashed once Handjob for Humanity and Hung Juror strode forth to lead the way onto trail, a long and little-winding road that would have made the Whine and Chowder Society proud. Distinguished only by surprisingly clear and regular marks – the better for Whippet In and Whippet Out to drag along their unsuspecting master, Fits In (who, while temporarily free of the Svenjolly-like powers of Tongueless nevertheless found nothing better to do with her time) -- trail bounded across long stretches of the Western Addition, eventually alighting on Alamo Square, whereupon Dr. Kimble and Bag Lady dropped out for some romantic excesses helpfully filmed by tourists against the city skyline.

South and east, south and east the trail pounded. Chickless Boner found himself right at home in the lower Haight, with Blue Collar Buttfuck and Mother Cerveza his willing guides to the local dens of iniquity. As the pack huffed into Hayes Valley, Scarlett O’Hairy and Wanker’s Island were seen scouting out locations for their luxury love hotel development. Scabass Faggot said he and his right hand would be the first guests. Nutless Sac, convinced he could walk the entire trail, gave up at this point and invited Just Moira to see how he got his name. Bone Marrow cautioned her against it, noting that Snakeless was known to try the same trick. Don’t buy what you can’t try, the wise Hasher advised.

As the long and endless trail wound around Jefferson Square and finally turned back home, D’anglin Anglin managed to convince eager runners Just Bob and Just Rich that he knew a shortcut. The three disappeared in the direction of Mission Bay and were not seen again. Dick Chick, making up for lost time, grabbed Just Fitz and told him she knew how to keep him off the Stupidity Watch. But she lost interest as her bestiality buddy Sammy ran by, leading No Hands to remark that he’d never seen the dog so happy. Enter the Gerbil, bringing up the rear, found himself drafting behind Soggy Biscuit, whose sonorous emissions would have parted the hair of a better-endowed Hasher.

Eventually the pack straggled back into the start and the piss started to flow, although for reasons unknown the Sacred Bucket remained untapped for crucial minutes. Glory Hole insisted that he’d meant to mix the bucket, but unlike IRS he couldn’t find any water to put in it. The Bucket was soon put to good use for down-downs, where it elicited vocal complaints because the cups weren’t filled up far enough. Visitors Flying Shithead and Win Toes 69 were honored with down-downs for their visitorhood, and Our Hare Shithead was invited to join them thanks to the uncanny similarity in nomenclature. Our Hare, in fact, was feted multiple times, to celebrate his diligence in laying such a lengthy trail and his staying power in lasting 200 runs with the Gypsies. Just Murph -- unsuccessfully shushed by Just Lauren -- insisted that the trail hadn’t seemed that long, and was sent out again to prove it.

Likes to Lick, convinced he was going to give someone else a down-down for their car, instead was screwed by Drill Me, who was heard laughing maniacally as Badger drove her off in the new Maserati he purchased with funds from his medical experiments, swerving to narrowly avoid the latecoming McTaco on the way out. Open Wide proved to be a down-down magnet for the evening, failing to understand when discretion is the better part of valor, but redeemed herself by passing down-downs in exchange for passionate smooches with Phone Sex and Cream-Filled Buns.

King Rongjon, looking disturbingly like Bob Dylan and sounding much like he was in fact in Australia, strapped on his guitar and harmonica and then struggled to recall the song he wrote in honor of LCB, who was celebrating his 13th birthday, a song lovingly entitled LCB You Flatulent Fuck or something along those lines. Bigfoot, seeking to avoid certain punishment by showing up shortly after the circle was dissolved, soon accepted her guilt and awarded herself down-downs for the remainder of the evening. The party moved downstairs to the Pig and continued until the curry fries ran out. On on.