Run #436 Parade Rest

Not content to leave well enough alone the Gypsies once again found themselves at the mercy of D'anglin Anglin, who never saw a hill too steep, a mark too faint, or a sheep too unwilling. Stepping from his home in the back of his panel van, our Hare strode forth to lay trail from the parade ground in the Presidio, or as Das Poop likes to call it now, Jar Jar Binks Land. As D'Anglin's figure receded into the forest, Semen Monster, a visitor from across the Bay, or the ocean, or the gaping chasm between the Gypsies and reality, was called up to take the Sacred Missal in hand and provided a reading that left more than Dickless Namehole's right hand twitching in his shorts, although that twitching went limp after Bigfoot told SM she should have substituted the "penile ligation" entry from the Encyclopedia of Sexual Fearfulness. The pack was ultimately off. A mighty trail it turned out to be, full of broad vistas and unexplored by-ways. Unexplored by the pack, that is, which found itself befuddled and bemused at every twist and turn. Led by half-minds Naked Hasher and Scrumbag, whose enthusiam for long, unsolveable trails is exceeded only by Bitch in Heat's love of the non sequitur, the pack sprinted and splintered and spritzed and splayed. (Although maybe that last was only Barbie Box, temporarily bereft of her newly minted groom and looking for some fresher Road Kill to tide her over.) Other wankers were taking advantage of the new surfeit of shuttles criss-crossing the Presidio, though none could match the gleaming blue Super Shuttle that deposited King Rongjon at his rightful place near the piss. Enter the Gerbil, already two sheets to the wind, had narrowly avoided the extraction of his own fetal stem cells and escaped to the Hash with his inner child intact. But there was no joy among the nonrunners, as Nutless Sac and, more importantly, the keys to his truck, were nowhere to be seen. Slowly the sad sacks that had attempted trail staggered in. First in was Comes Slowly, who came quickly, having decided to run only those parts of the trail that made sense, which is to say none. She and Sadie vanished even more speedily into the gathering gloom in search of red, red wine and some Wailers. Blue Collar Buttfuck returned triumphantly, clad only in a raincoat and dirty socks and mumbling something about wanting more hash. Dipsea Shit, still unable to grasp that Marin has not yet annexed the Presidio, turned up nonetheless, only mildly shaken from his long journey across the Golden Gate. For their EuroHash preview, Tongueless and Fits In had dressed up Whippet In and Whippet Out in lederhosen and felt feathered caps, and staggered in off trail clanking beer steins and smelling like something out of The Producers. The boys didn't seem to mind so long as Tongueless flipped them a bit of his tasty sausage from time to time. Badger was jealous and ready to tear the throats from everyone in sight until LCB stepped up to satisfy him and his mistress Drill Me, a package deal like none other. Nutless eventually reappeared from the woods wearing a shit-eating grin and singing "Moose, moose, I love a moose." Virgins Just Eric and Just John immediately set off to find this proud beast, but returned virginal still. The keys to the truck returned, the Sacred Bucket was poured and merriment commenced. Just KC, still looking for the Sunshine Band, instead found IR Stupid and was soon fleeing for the sake of her maidenhood -- er, maidenform -- er, maidenhead. Not that anyone has seen that in a while. Fortunately Handjob for Humanity stepped in with some timely charity for IRS -- he wishes. Sadly, IRS, not being quite human, doesn't qualify for this particular charitable exemption. Dick Chick, whose FFG was looking a bit ratty by this point, was getting some sisterly consolation from Scarlett O'Hairy, still on her quest for the perfect lay. Indeed, the best is still the enemy of the merely good. It wasn't long before those veteran East Bay pisspots Almond Joy and Spanky were disrupting things again, tripping over the mobile furniture showroom the Gypsies now establish at every hash and pawing at anything that moved, man or beast. Perhaps that's why Shithead always seemed to position himself in front of Spanky's next stagger, as his beast hasn't seen much action recently. Down-downs eventually commenced, and were notable mostly for Just Kim, who announced she couldn't drink only to quickly toss back several Bucket drinks. She immediately fell like a mighty redwood into the waiting arms of Twinkle Dick but flattened him as well. Wanker's Island, still hanging around a week after his "last" run, was tickled to find Likes to Lick still vainly trying to get Open Wide to perform confidential oral services. You missed the deadline, big guy, he was told. The last drop drained, the pack staggered off to the Final Final, where the food was scarce and the beer flowed freely -- too freely for some, who were spotted the next day with King-sized hangovers. On on.