Run #505 FHAC-U, You FHACing FHAC

Lacking a sense of history, destiny, or anything resembling common sense, the Gypsies once again convened with their Bizarro-universe counterparts, the FHAC-U, for another evening of debauchery. In yet another unremarkable example of life imitating naming, IR Stupid graciously allowed the Bay Area’s two greatest collections of drunken degenerates to gather at his home while he was still at work. It took virtually no time for Johnny Ca$h and Ken Doll to make their way into the hot tub, undeterred by the cold water and the fact that it wouldn’t turn on. “We like them small and shriveled,” they explained, much to Beaver Spit’s dismay.
Outside, madness reigned. Foul Balls and Vee Dee found themselves in a farting contest, each aiming to knock over Eager Beaver by pure sphincter control. But the boys were put to shame by Bigfoot, who let out a belch from the depths of her small intestine that not only flattened the hashers but knocked small birds from the sky. McTaco, rushing to the side of his stricken Beaver, quickly began pumping away to revive her, until Boulder Holder pointed out that his ministrations would have greater effect if he were to apply them to the correct hole. Booger Hooker, meanwhile, occupied himself by picking IR’s tiny lock with his own tiny cock, and once inside the house proceeded to indulge his plushy fetish in one of his daughter’s bedrooms.
 
Tongueless called the pack to order for some religion. Visitor NecroFeelMeUp from Portland H3 offered up his current squeeze, Just Debbie, to do the honors with the Sacred Missal, and the lass did such a fine job that even Ratshit, visiting from the West London H3, felt his shorts stir in a way he hadn’t known since the Grim Rimmer last had his way with him.
Soon the pack was off. Hares Three Ball Jay, Morning Missile and Manhandler, although allegedly aware of the r*nning proclivities of Gypsies and FHACers alike, appeared determined to lay a trail that would make the Whine and Chowder Society proud. After a brief arc to the east, trail headed due south, running along city streets as straight as Rhett Butthole’s worst nightmare and as free of shiggy as Ram Pam’s sex life. Much to the relief of the pack, trail eventually turned into the local Steelhead brewery, where a few beers convinced Phone Sex that 5150 was looking pretty good; the two were last seen heading for the tall grass and endless seconds of bliss.
Leaving the bar, it quickly became clear why three hares were necessary to set the trail, as the pack veered north, then north, then north again, leading Next Time to opine that she’d seen jet runways twistier than this trail. D’Anglin Anglin, longing for adventure and a chance to get lost, got his wish when a brief detour through a parking structure and a chance opening into the Gates of Hell led him deeper and deeper into the realms of the underworld, where even Bite Size couldn’t sniff him out despite Drill Me’s best efforts. Faithful hounds Whippet In and Whippet Out, however, found the course much to their liking and opened up their throttles, soon vanishing in a cloud of dust with Tonguess and Fits In hanging on helplessly behind.
Back at IRS’s house, the Sacred Bucket was broken out along with copious amounts of beer and Vitamin J. Stumbling around in the dark, Deflowered and Ophelia finally gave into their heretofore unrequited passion for Sea Breezes and, eventually, one another. Finally the master of stupidity himself arrived, the lights went on, and merriment ensued. With the hour growing late, Accuprick and Enter the Gerbil stood before the circle to make fools of themselves for the pack’s amusement. Upon command Purty Mouth channeled the King -- no, not King Rongjon, but his notorious Slumped-On-The-Toilet Elvis -- in a striptease almost worthy of the White Pants Dance. And of course, No Film arrived in time to take the much coveted No Film Award.
The pack eventually moved on for more pizza and beer, although the celebrations proved too much for Goes Down Easy, who found herself returning to the pizza plate what she had just taken. Her sister Just Brandy was heard to remark that it clearly comes up easily as well. Fortunately for both harriettes, their brother Morning Missile was nearby and ready to come to their aid, despite his brief distraction by Footloose and Panty Free for what she would later swear was a “GM’s conference” in the women’s bathroom. Thumper, undeterred by the late hour, swore he would stay until the last pitcher was drained and led the crowd in endless renditions of “The S&M Man”
And things likely would have ended there after Manisex Destiny flipped over the table while cha-chaing on it, were it not for the intrepid tale of Thurston Bowel the Turd. Hearing voices known only to himself and Ted Bundy, the Turd realized it was his solemn duty to rid the world of newspaper boxes by dumping them on IRS’s lawn. With the able assistance of I Get Named Next Week, a visiting dolt from Savannah, one of the aforementioned boxes was soon so moved. All concerned then made prank calls to other hashers concerning Next Week’s missing bag, until the Turd’s phone batteries died a well-deserved death. Only upon the arrival of an officer of the law the next morning, espied extracting said bag from said box by Scrum Muffin as she crept away from the scene of her own passionate evening with Splat, was one of the evening’s mysteries made clear. Leaving, of course, many others, about which deponent further sayeth not. On