Run #445 What a Difference a
Week Makes
The march or die twins were at it
again last Thurs. Scarlett
O’Hairy and Wankers
Island believing that
people weren’t already miserable enough decided to add another
straw to the proverbial camel’s back. The past two weeks have seen
the long and the short of it trailwise. First King
Rongjon found that the
shortest distance between two points was making them the same and
never leaving; on the other hand it did appreciably increase drinking
time. Last week our hares decided that drinking time could be
increased by adding more alcohol checks while still making the trail
longer than Chickless
Boner’s
life expectancy. The half-minded refuse of society gathered at Front
and Union like bright shiny pennies eager to be used and made dirty
by the hares. Semen
Monster
not satisfied with the general male populace of the Gypsies
chose to import studs of her own Davey
Crock O’Shit from
the SVH3, who lived up to his name admirably, and Erection
Denied, hoping to no
longer be denied. Last Thurs. provided a far different religious
experience than the King’s
BDay. Just Camille
took the Sacred
Missal
in hand and brought the house down. Her rendition of the parable of
the vinyl dick left the pack with barely a pair of dry shorts. McTaco
even found himself mopping up after Elliot
and the Grim Rimmer’s
amen is best left undiscussed. Comes
Slowly was so overcum
that Golden Receiver
swears she saw Comes
humping Sadie’s
leg. In a definite state of grace the hounds were off in hot pursuit
of the first alcohol check. The first check was in the park across
from the Justin Herman Plaza. Since the drink of choice was a sour
apple derivative and the check was a pucker check it was only fitting
that Open Wide
poured the potable. Camille
announced that the last time she’d drunk this stuff projectile
vomiting resulted. O W
promptly poured her two more in the hopes of a reprise. Not wanting
to be on the receiving end of a projectile Kibbles
& Bits visiting
from the AganaH3 suddenly became an FRB. As the pack disappeared
across the Embarcadero heading vaguely south Enter
The Gerbil
siphoned off Camille,
Fits In,
Tongueless
and Whippet In
and Whippet Out
leading them to Pier 23 and a private alcohol check. Camille
once again proved to have the right hashing stuff when she came up
with the cash to pay for a round. By the time the minipack moved on
Whippet In
and Whippet Out
were functioning as guide dogs for the blind drunk. Back at the start
they were joined by the King,
Kibbles & Bits,
and a non*unning LCB.
I R Stupid
proving once again that he isn’t as stupid as he looks, could
anyone be and still live, arrived after shortcutting the trail. Sadly
for the early birds there was no beer to be found Nutless
Sac and Bigfoot
had hijacked the beer wagon and were holding it hostage at the last
check. Fits In
quivering with anger and the DTs led an armed response to retrieve
the amber fluid and return it safely to the start. Back at the start
all the furniture was arranged and the pack having made itself at
home the serious portion of the evening was begun. Our hares filled
the Sacred
Bucket
with a chemical agent involving whiskey and Squirt that puts anthrax
to shame in its deadly effects. Caution being the new watchword Drill
Me and Badger
set up and patrolled a perimeter looking for terrorists to dine on.
Fear has become so pervasive that Fucking
Pesto Chicken
announced he’s now insisting that all potential sexual partners not
only be tested for AIDS but anthrax, giving him yet another excuse
for never getting any. Broken
Trojan told Handjob
For Humanity that he
now triple bags it but he was no more successful in convincing her to
step into the back seat of his car than ever. Tits
For Hire piped up that
she’d trade a blowjob for a gas mask sending Twinkle
Dick
off in search of a surplus store. Older members of the pack seemed
less concerned, Naked
Hasher
and Dipsea Shit
spent more time trading secrets for a healthy prostate than
discussing bioterrorism. Becoming steadily more unsteady Spanky
declared that the Sacred
Bucket
contained the universal antidote and the grin on Shithead
proved her point. Fearless and horny as ever Dick
Chick announced that
she was flying to Denver in her never ending quest for the holy grail
of orgasm. Shaggy Dog
rushed off to play the shaggy dog at a rock concert after turning
down a very toasted Just
Dave’s offer to toss
him a boner. By now Enter
The Gerbil, King’s
Fool, was busily
dispensing down-downs and stamping out the scourge of private
parties. An ugly rumor having spread about Just
John
being named something grotesquely innocuous by another group ETG
led the pack in a vain attempt to give John a name he really deserved
and could deny with pride. With the pack composed of people who can’t
even decide between paper and plastic it came as no surprise that
they failed to make this momentous decision and the naming was
tabled. Phone Sex
arrived late so was way too sober to fall for Tick
Dick’s ploy of
pleading with her to pluck that rubber tick off his member. Based on
alcohol consumption he would have had more success with Lois
Lame. By this point
Likes To Lick
was so hungry that he was looking at Sucks
Donnie Osmond in way
commonly associated with South American soccer players who’ve
crashed in the Andes. Food and more drink were waiting at Pier 23.
Enough beer can turn anyone into a Prophet. Cheers.