Run # 422 A Clever, Clever Trail

And so it came to pass that responsibility for the evening’s trail fell on none other than Chickless Boner, he of the Perpetual Bathrobe and the Loud, Pointless Music. It is, of course, the Hare’s job to make life difficult for the pack. Not one to take such matters lightly, Our Hare began the confusion even before the run, shifting the start on short notice and communing with his inner mathematician to declare the run an A to A-Prime, whatever that is. Tongueless and King Rongjon both claimed to know the meaning of that strange symbol, but in attempting to explain later could only mumble senselessly, which is how they are both best appreciated.

Fortunately, an abundance of hashers more witless than Our Hare graced the pack, starting with Naked Hasher and Dick So Soft, who so naively believed that Our Hare would surely have alerted them with even the faintest markings of chalk or flour were the run start to shift, even by a few blocks. Little more need be said about these sad excuses for humanity, but for the fact that Dick So Soft eventually did have the presence of mind to call the hotline on his cellphone. Sadly for him, only Fucking Pesto Chicken was available to take his call, who convinced him to take his limp sausage off into the trees somewhere where it might learn something.

Meanwhile, Our Hare -- that’s Chickless Boner for those of you with short attention spans -- was busy regaling the pack with his clever, clever plan for a clever, clever trail. Eventually the pack called for religion, and nearly dragged out Just Lauren for a repeat reading, when Bigfoot obstreperously demanded the sound of an Adam’s apple bobbing before the pack. Uncle Fucker, newly liberated from the Whine and Chowder Society, did his duty and carefully enunciated the difficult words, of which there were many for him, as if his penis depended on it. As perhaps it did.

The trail was clever indeed. Up it went, then down, turning from time to time, even halting for a checkpoint here or there. I Want to Buy a Bowel liked it so much he ran part of it twice. Shithead again declared the trail a waste of his prodigious talents and fucked off before Fits In could demand the Gypsies’ new, improved $5 fee from him, although she did retain the presence of mind to sic Whippet In and Whippet Out on him. Rocky Mountain Oyster, making a rare appearance with Baby Oyster, won the D’anglin Anglin award when he lost trail and decided instead to take a quick jog to Hunter’s Point.

Meanwhile, latecomers were piling up at the unmarked start the way flies gather whenever the Grim Rimmer is around. Thanks again to the copious chalk and flour marks pointing the way to Space Station A-Prime, Enter the Gerbil wandered for several long seconds before deciding to pop an emergency beer Bigfoot had stashed in the car. Just Carolyn, stranded for several even longer seconds, passed the time with a quick diddle in the car. When Fucking Pesto Chicken joined them this circle jerk of losers was complete, and broken only when Comes Slowly zoomed into view in her hot studmobile, shouted out incomprehensible directions to the On-On, then shot away over the hills at something approaching lightspeed.

Somehow the half-minded pack had managed to begin straggling in from the clever, clever trail, only to find Nutless Sac well into the Sacred Bucket, wearing his underwear on his head and looking for a lampshade in which to vomit. Dickless Namehole and McTaco agreed to help prop him up while pizza was ordered, but soon regretted their decision when King Rongjon once again grasped the Sword of Power -- topped, of course, by the Styrofoam Condom of Safety -- and quickly singled them out for an epic 15 minute recitation of a limerick he had written while hanging upside down from the Bay Bridge. Phone Sex spied Scarlett O’Hairy eying Just Fitz, but warned her that what Fits In doesn’t always fit all. Down-downs eventually commenced, with Wanker’s Island drinking for his failure to keep bringing in the free beer and Just Rich leading a passel pack of still-nameless wankers, all of whom the King wished to name Blue Light Special. Will any unnamed hasher wishing to claim this name please go away and plague someone else.

Of course, no gathering of the Gypsies would be complete without a few disturbances of the peace, and Uncle Fucker was happy to oblige by sacrificing his virginal sister to the pack. But even before Chickless Boner -- who so thoughtfully opened his basement, his bathroom, and his medicine cabinet to the Gypsies -- could grasp his electric guitar and make like that fat guy from Cheap Trick, his upstairs neighbor stood above the pack and harangued it for its noise, nudity, and general lewdness. After the cheering subsided, Boring Loud Guy agreed to shut up long enough to do a down-down, which he proved man enough to drink half of, and continued to stand around yammering on about blah blah families blah blah kids blah blah police blah blah blah goodbye. Soon the pack fled in terror, pausing only to ransack Chickless’ collection of his own trophies from the mantlepiece. On out.