Run # 477 What a Difference a Day Makes

Actually what a difference six months makes. When last formed up at 2^nd and Main in Sausalito our hare, Bone Marrow, was looking like a decidedly drowned rat and the rest of the pack was treading water. That was in January. In May the sun was shining and all was right with the world as Bone Marrow got a shot of redemption. A number of those present during the original fiasco were still waterlogged and failed to post. Others remembered that awful night and heroes that they are were back for round two. The hare promised a flat trail with no obstacles unless rabid Dobermans would constitute and obstacle. Ben Gay, no fool he, took the opportunity to disavow all knowledge and swear that he had nothing to do with the trail. Estrogen was a rare commodity this night and newboot Just Ben was called upon to give the homily. Talk about getting into character, by the time he’d finished reading from the Sacred Missal Just Ben was forever to be confused with Cynthia, Kelli, and Nanci. Scrotum and Bitches’ Bitch were both looking at him the way Mr. Toad looked at the motorcar and Bigfoot found it necessary to do a little gender unbending with them. While Bigfoot was busy reorienting the lads the rest of the pack was on-on. Trail went along 2^nd toward the Golden Gate Bridge only to turn uphill. The hare chose a path that was a cross between a circular staircase and a corkscrew. As the trail continued to climb the pack really began to feel screwed. Open Wide was pumping along the trail but on a bike instead of on foot. Tongueless seeing an opportunity to make his own life easier tried for a bikejacking but between OW clubbing him with the tire pump and Fits In giving the attack command to Whippet In and Whippet Out (canine Quislings) he was singularly unsuccessful. Drill Me was kind enough to keep Bite Size from sampling the savory road kill but not fast enough to keep the petite Aussie from marking it. The rest of the pack simply ignored the incident and continued on its merry way. While those whose concern was mainly getting to the end and getting toasted were finding the trail easy to follow those who worry about their aerobic debt getting paid were lost in dreams of where the hare could or should have taken them. Bag Lady, Rainman, and Dipsea Shit followed a trail that existed only in their fevered brains and ended up finishing with the DFL brigade. Once the pack had been reunited it was time for the Sacred Bucket to appear and the appearance of the first Sausalito Police cruiser to be awaited. McTaco handled the police pool where bets ranged from an immediate appearance to ten minutes until the first siren. Expecting an early arrival of the riot squad put the pack into the mood for two fisted drinking and since the evening’s potable was vodka tonics the results were inevitable. It wasn’t long before Dr. Kimble’s eyes were both rolling around in the same socket and Bag Lady had to drag his raging tumescence out of the exhaust pipe of a handy Harley. Just as Rocky Mountain Oyster was starting to achieve that level of inner peace that only vodka can provide he was brought back to reality by the thought of his wife’s reaction to yet another evening of debauchery and dashed off for a game of bumper cars on the bridge in an attempt to sober up for the apocalypse to cum. Clothes Horse and Naked Hasher, fashion mavens both, were deep in conversation debating the best places to rag pick from the homeless. Just Doesn’t Get It found himself breaking up the burgeoning friendship between The Ripper and Napoleon Bonerdog although it’s unclear who was to be top dog in the ensemble. By now Nutless Sac had consumed so much vodka that he could have been an ad for either Absolute or a mortuary which ever got to him first. Long away from the Bucket Semenhole was busy renewing the friendship with a vengeance that the Bucket returned. 5150 exhibiting lightening fast reflexes was able to wedge his shoe between Semenhole’s head and the suddenly approaching curb. Meat Pie and No Hands were in fine form. When last seen they were sitting in their not moving car with No Hands turning the steering wheel and Meat Pie going vroom, vroom, vroom. Sans the King, Enter The Gerbil convened the circle and administered down-downs to those who were still standing and to those who, like Likes To Lick, were already prone. Oh what a stirring sight his arm cuming up to accept yet another cup of punch. Go Nad’s last down-down was simply poured over the body while D’anglin Anglin played taps on his imaginary trumpet. Speaking of D’anglin he finally got his Gypsies 100^th *un Shirt. Apparently mistaking the sweet sounds of Gypsies in song for a terrorist attack one of the locals rang the police and requested a SWAT team. Instead a lone officer arrived and your scribe is pleased to report that the Gypsies were untouched by the Curse of Sausalito and allowed to continue with their merriment. Lack of alcohol finally forced the crowd to wend its way to Dario's where pizza and piss were consumed. The Gypsies record with law enforcement agencies continues unbroken. Cheers.