Run #410 Pacifica Bites the Dust

Mardi Gras mania bit last Thursday’s hares, Scarlett O’Hairy and Wankers Island, on the ass so they lured the Gypsies down to Pacifica, the bay area’s answer to New Orleans. Promises of Jell-O shots and Hurricanes echoed from their honeyed lips and hashers being only of half a mind (Gypsies qualify at a somewhat lower level) no one questioned what they’d have to do to earn these libations. The pack was called to order at El Toro Loco; Wankers’ cousin’s establishment where the pack huddled for warmth while the like of Nutless Sac and IRS sent real customers scuttling off in terror. Open Wide was the chief whiner over warmth but she really heated up (in horror) when Grim Rimmer offered to warm her with his loins. The night wasn’t getting any younger when another of Bigfoot and Enter The Gerbil’s virgins, Roger, read the Sacred Missal with all the lust usually reserved for reading the directions on a tin of oatmeal. At this point the pack was anxious to trade one form of misery for another so it was on-on. Trail almost instantly dissolved into the circle jerk from hell. The night was blacker and colder than LCB’s love life as the pack climbed a hill only to find it necessary to descend a steep and slippery pitch. The ground was stonier than the silence as on-ons went unheard over the weeping of T/BC who butthole surfed down the face dragged to a certain and certainly deserved fate by the hellions Parker and Duncan. It was hardly necessary for Fits In to plant her toe under his butt and launch him down that last section but her maniacal laughter was proof that someone was having a good time. By the time legion of lost souls negotiated their way to the bottom the more suicidally inclined members of the pack were nowhere to be found. Bigfoot, Roger, and Grim Rimmer along with Fits In and T/BC were soon doing their impression of the Children of Israel lost in the desert. Once T/BC’s torch went out he was reduced to searching for marks on his hands and knees. The mini-pack eventually found Enter The Gerbil and Matt who by now was wondering why he ever left the great white north. Still the scent of his constant cigarette smoke wafting on the night air made him easy to find. What a pleasure it was to traipse around Pacifica in the dark enjoying the presence of more guard dogs than a Colombian drug compound. Trail eventually went through a tunnel that took the pack towards the sea. There was a forsake all hope ye who follow this trail split and while those like good King Rongjon seeking a higher level of fitness stormed over the hills our band of bravos took the lesser of two evil trails and eventually wound up at the Jell-O check overlooking the ocean. The wind howled and the surf roared but those little cubes of vodka slid silkily down throats made hoarse from crying (need we mention who’s). From the check it was straight on till morning and a chance to be blown away by a Hurricane. The pack was together at the start when the hares remembered that they had know idea how to actually mix the stuff but the Sacred Bucket was soon filled with a passable version of the big blow. As always the pack swelled with the approach of cocktail hour. While Thurston Bowel The Turd and Electrical Testicle went unseen on trail they were highly visible around the Bucket. Sadly Shithead was gone before the festivities started something about evil computers taking over his life. Don was busy nursing his back by not nursing those Hurricanes the potent punch raced down his gullet like an express train, later he looked as though one had hit him. Pied Piper was busy drinking in enough courage to face his wife when she finds out he’s been hashing. Snakeless was busy chugging down drinks in his never ending attempt to look even more dissipate. His three day stubble combined with Hurricane breath left him looking and smelling like Don Johnson as a bag lady. Not to been upstaged Boneless Chicken was once again adorned in his tatty robe leading D’anglin A’nglin to wonder if the rumor that Boneless just gets out of the institution on Thursdays is true. No Hands and Meat Pie were busy swilling the stuff and when last seen Meat Pie was slung over Sammy’s back waiting to be poured into her Mazda. McTaco and Manhole, drinks firmly in hand were fiercely debating which was a more likely candidate for a DUI. An equally possible Likes To Lick declared the contest a draw. Jambalaya was supplied by the hares and while the pack dined and drank Gerbil, jester’s cap in place, administered the down-downs. He started out as Matt but finished as Camel Blower and the newest member of the Order of the Sleepless Knights. Dickless Namehole took the floor in another lame attempt to convince the pack to do something or other with the usual result. Perhaps he should consider a career in politics. This was Midget Digits last *un with the Gypsies sadly he lost his extradition hearing and Florida is getting him back. Craig was once again unnamed. Not that he’s innocuous but Dick Chick finds it necessary to check his pulse on a regular basis just to be sure he’s still here. Here’s to another Fat Thursday. Cheers.