Run #1366 Into the Gulag!

When you hear that the hare apologized for the shear brutality of the trail you know instantly that the hare had to be Che Gayvara. Last week he set the trail for the Gypsies and amazingly all survived broken but unbowed. The pack was gathered in the parking lot for the Randall Museum on Roosevelt Way and Museum Way; San Francisco’s summer answer to winter in Siberia. As the pack put down pints of Lagunitas IPA, hey when ice crystals are forming on the outside why no bring your innards a little something cold, Cream Chugger rolled up with Just Lily and announced that she wasn’t properly attired for the cold so she was leaving. Just Lily had other ideas since she knows a sucker when she sees one and she saw Tongueless and that ubiquitous treat bag. Just Lily was happy to get her fill. As cold and windy as it was, One Night Only is going to thank Banana In Public for stopping her from setting her clothes on fire for warmth. BAP took away ONO’s matches and told her to just dress warmer. Our hare took off to lay the trail live and announced since he was fat and considerably slower to give him the full
15-minute head start. Generous souls that they are the pack just stood there stamping their feet, flapping arms and pounding pints. Religion was abjured in favor of huddling for warmth which Dick Ass Mother Fucker didn’t seem to mind and finally the pack was off into the night or at least twilight. Trail instantly took the pack down a long set of steps to Market Street. Manhole and Mans Best Hole opted to try doing the trail backwards, um, if they could find the last mark before the on in. Tongueless and Fits In along with Tongue Depressor, who was adamant about not going down that long narrow set of stairs, and Qaeda Cunt opted to find another way down. The pack that stuck to true trail had the joy of climbing over Twin Peaks where the condensation was so thick that they were at serious risk of drowning. Our hare allowed that the trail was simple, “Oh just all the places I like to *un”. Mt. Sutro would have been a terrible hill to waste not going over and clearly the pack really had to go over Tank Hill. Our hare could hardly have avoided going through the Castro, hey; June is Pride Month after all. It would have been silly not to bring the pack back over the top of Corona Heights Park. Eventually the entire pack was back together arriving from every direction of the compass since basically most of them had given up all hope of the trail ever ending and tearfully quit wherever the came to that revelation. Cuming Mutha decided that the end was called for when at 4.5 miles in he found himself seeing triple instead of just double. One Night Only led the pro-lynching faction of the pack but her arms were too stiff from cold to wield the rope and her legs to tired from carrying her sodden body through the “rain” on Twin Peaks to let her be more than riveted in place. The kinder, gentler spirit of Lois Lame prevailed and Che Gayvara was saved from his own, “Well I thought I was cute when I did it” moment. The keg was tapped and the table laid street-side with an abundance of Vitamin J and a Sacred Bucket filled with Cuba Libré in honor of our hare who tasting one declared it potent. How odd that regardless of the cold and wind once the keg was tapped and the Bucket filled no one other than One Night Only found it necessary to leave. Bitches Bitch’s hands were so cold that he couldn’t operate the camera on his phone but they were more than warm enough to scoop up that Vitamin J and get that booze to his lips. Dr. Kimble managed to hang on until Jack The Ripper was back just in case his nonexistent medical skills were called for, they weren’t. It was clear that nothing should impede the warmth giving alcohol so the pack unanimously opted for continued eating and drinking rather than having a Circle. 5 Angry Inches eventually was warm enough to try *unning to the Caltrans station. Dick Ass Mother Fucker once again held the bets on his being able to remain upright long enough to get there. Cheers.