Run #1393 The Vultures Descend

Thursday last was the Gypsies’ Anal Winter Solstice Pagan Fest and comrade Che Gaygavara put the capitalist *unning dogs through their paces. Che gathered the pack in the parking lot of the Presidio Golf Course and Presidio Cafe. One Night Only was the first one to arrive and she dashed into the Presidio Cafe to doff her Dior and down grade to *unning tights. ONO did such a good job changing her appearance and social class that the management thought she’d mugged the Dior lady; only after seeing that no body was on the floor in the Ladies Room did they let her leave. The pack began dribbling in so the keg of Lagunitas Czech Pils was tapped to occupy their hands. The Presidio Café closed, and the staff noting the pack, made doubly certain that all doors and windows were locked tight. To let them know that the pack not a bunch of rabble Stinky Floss read a homily from the Unnamed Missal that led that noted cynic Udder Moron to opine that the Gypsies’ religious activities gave scant assurances to the godly! The pack should have realized what they were getting into when the hare set off to lay the trail live only to realize that his headlamp needed batteries. Lucky for Che that Tongueless’ Penis was packing a spare torch with batteries included. Our hare led the pack into the Vista Point and down a staircase that descends halfway to hell before he took them on the Ecology Trail or at least a branch of it. Closet Twitcher could be heard high on the bluff still looking for a place to lock his bicycle and cursing the plutocrats who hadn’t put any bike racks in the parking lot. The Lost Patrol consisted only of Tongueless and Fits In along with the sniffing snouts of Tongue Depressor and Qaeda Cunt who found myriad reasons to stick those snouts in the underbrush. The trail was well marked and avoided the homes in the area and then came what T called the quicksand and the hare called the quickmulch. Either way it sucked as well as sucking wetly on shoes that sank into it. Apparently the noxious stuff also sucked up any flour our hare insists he tossed on it. Eventually the swamp was exited with shoes still in place and trail climbed back up towards Barnard Ave. Eventually trail climbed high enough to cross Barnard and actually touch shoe soles to cement but that was short lived. Marks put all back on the Ecology Trail until Arguello Blvd. provided an exit. The pack was treated to a triangle jerk at Infantry Terrace then it was back along Arguello until our hare decided that not enough bushwhacking had taken place so he sent them back into the woods and weeds. A good sweat was worked up by all who went back into the bush instead of just staying on Arguello and on in. Lois Lame blessed their action by saying that it seemed like a good idea at the time. It didn’t matter to Bitches Bitch since he’d already gone back to the quickmulch looking for Hand Pump. Dr. Kimble should know better than to tell BB he’d seen HP sinking into the swamp. BB finally came back and tearfully announced that Hand Pump was gone! No one was mores surprised to learn of his demise than Hand Pump who was sipping a cup of Rum Toddy poured from the Sacred Thermi. Eventually the pack was more or less reunited with only Jack The Ripper still on trail. 5150 strolled in with ski poles in hand and insisting that he’d done a bit of this and a bit of that on bits and bobs of the trail. It being the Winter Solstice Pagan Fest the pagans were treated to the usual deli sandwiches and quickly transformed into vultures. While gobs were being stuffed T took up the newly polished Sword Of Power and flogged the pack with down-downs. Stinky Floss got one for being a returner and her excuse was that she’s been away smoking cigarettes and tending bar, perfectly acceptable excuses. The down-downs went downhill from there and Tongueless’ Penis got one just because he didn’t move fast enough to avoid it, enough Rum Toddy will slow anyone down and he had his share. Dr. Kimble decided to leave while he could still find his car even if he had to use Braille. Blow Queen provided tours of the Tesla and only charged minimally for the tour, still it was unkind to refer to Lois Lame as a revenue stream. Tears Of Semen and 5150 were busy dancing like no one was watching, unfortunately they were. Phone Sex who arriving late dropped to the pavement rubbing her eyes and screaming that she could never unsee the sight of 5150 swiveling his hips like Elvis. Rum Toddy and a fine trail can make it “that kind of night”! Cheers.