Run #445 What a Difference a Week Makes

The march or die twins were at it again last Thurs. Scarlett O’Hairy and Wankers Island believing that people weren’t already miserable enough decided to add another straw to the proverbial camel’s back. The past two weeks have seen the long and the short of it trailwise. First King Rongjon found that the shortest distance between two points was making them the same and never leaving; on the other hand it did appreciably increase drinking time. Last week our hares decided that drinking time could be increased by adding more alcohol checks while still making the trail longer than Chickless Boner’s life expectancy. The half-minded refuse of society gathered at Front and Union like bright shiny pennies eager to be used and made dirty by the hares. Semen Monster not satisfied with the general male populace of the Gypsies chose to import studs of her own Davey Crock O’Shit from the SVH3, who lived up to his name admirably, and Erection Denied, hoping to no longer be denied. Last Thurs. provided a far different religious experience than the King’s BDay. Just Camille took the Sacred Missal in hand and brought the house down. Her rendition of the parable of the vinyl dick left the pack with barely a pair of dry shorts. McTaco even found himself mopping up after Elliot and the Grim Rimmer’s amen is best left undiscussed. Comes Slowly was so overcum that Golden Receiver swears she saw Comes humping Sadie’s leg. In a definite state of grace the hounds were off in hot pursuit of the first alcohol check. The first check was in the park across from the Justin Herman Plaza. Since the drink of choice was a sour apple derivative and the check was a pucker check it was only fitting that Open Wide poured the potable. Camille announced that the last time she’d drunk this stuff projectile vomiting resulted. O W promptly poured her two more in the hopes of a reprise. Not wanting to be on the receiving end of a projectile Kibbles & Bits visiting from the AganaH3 suddenly became an FRB. As the pack disappeared across the Embarcadero heading vaguely south Enter The Gerbil siphoned off Camille, Fits In, Tongueless and Whippet In and Whippet Out leading them to Pier 23 and a private alcohol check. Camille once again proved to have the right hashing stuff when she came up with the cash to pay for a round. By the time the minipack moved on Whippet In and Whippet Out were functioning as guide dogs for the blind drunk. Back at the start they were joined by the King, Kibbles & Bits, and a non*unning LCB. I R Stupid proving once again that he isn’t as stupid as he looks, could anyone be and still live, arrived after shortcutting the trail. Sadly for the early birds there was no beer to be found Nutless Sac and Bigfoot had hijacked the beer wagon and were holding it hostage at the last check. Fits In quivering with anger and the DTs led an armed response to retrieve the amber fluid and return it safely to the start. Back at the start all the furniture was arranged and the pack having made itself at home the serious portion of the evening was begun. Our hares filled the Sacred Bucket with a chemical agent involving whiskey and Squirt that puts anthrax to shame in its deadly effects. Caution being the new watchword Drill Me and Badger set up and patrolled a perimeter looking for terrorists to dine on. Fear has become so pervasive that Fucking Pesto Chicken announced he’s now insisting that all potential sexual partners not only be tested for AIDS but anthrax, giving him yet another excuse for never getting any. Broken Trojan told Handjob For Humanity that he now triple bags it but he was no more successful in convincing her to step into the back seat of his car than ever. Tits For Hire piped up that she’d trade a blowjob for a gas mask sending Twinkle Dick off in search of a surplus store. Older members of the pack seemed less concerned, Naked Hasher and Dipsea Shit spent more time trading secrets for a healthy prostate than discussing bioterrorism. Becoming steadily more unsteady Spanky declared that the Sacred Bucket contained the universal antidote and the grin on Shithead proved her point. Fearless and horny as ever Dick Chick announced that she was flying to Denver in her never ending quest for the holy grail of orgasm. Shaggy Dog rushed off to play the shaggy dog at a rock concert after turning down a very toasted Just Dave’s offer to toss him a boner. By now Enter The Gerbil, King’s Fool, was busily dispensing down-downs and stamping out the scourge of private parties. An ugly rumor having spread about Just John being named something grotesquely innocuous by another group ETG led the pack in a vain attempt to give John a name he really deserved and could deny with pride. With the pack composed of people who can’t even decide between paper and plastic it came as no surprise that they failed to make this momentous decision and the naming was tabled. Phone Sex arrived late so was way too sober to fall for Tick Dick’s ploy of pleading with her to pluck that rubber tick off his member. Based on alcohol consumption he would have had more success with Lois Lame. By this point Likes To Lick was so hungry that he was looking at Sucks Donnie Osmond in way commonly associated with South American soccer players who’ve crashed in the Andes. Food and more drink were waiting at Pier 23. Enough beer can turn anyone into a Prophet. Cheers.