Run #449 Dazed, Buggered and Confused

A might pack of wankers it was, gathered from the dregs of humanity to convene at a misleadingly wholesome-looking playground on Douglass and Clipper. Visitors and virgins alike traveled for miles, if not blocks, to pay homage to King Rongjon, who fittingly enough was then asleep, mostly likely involuntarily, on some street corner in faroff London. (Tongueless, traveling as the King’s unannounced guardian angel, made sure to tip the hapless monarch into the gutter whenever the bobbies strolled nearby.)

True to recent form, seasoned Hare Bone Marrow stuck faithfully to the pavement on the unseasonably warm night, never missing a opportunity to miss an opportunity to lead the pack off the beaten track, into the shiggy or even across vacant lots. The trail, chalked across the hills of Noe Valley and Diamond Heights, reached vistas so dizzying that even Likes to Lick, abandoned for the evening by Open Wide, later claimed to have grown faint from altitude sickness. Drill Me, stumbling on his semiconscious form, offered mouth-to-mouth but the jealous Badger would have none of it. IR Stupid, by contrast, thrived in the thin air, although surely it was lack of oxygen that caused him to follow D’Anglin Anglin when he claimed to find a shortcut up Twin Peaks and down to the Pacific, where presumably they linger still.

With a trail so concrete-bound, various biological accidents were simply bound to happen. Rhedd Butthole was anything but shy about flinging his stream to the wind, with the sad but entirely predictable result that Just Doesn’t Get It did, in fact, get a faceful of it this time. Other Hashers were more coy; visitors Wet Clam and Pet Da Cooter found they could hunker down behind Wet Clam’s dog before emptying their respective bladders onto some unsuspecting homeowner’s driveway. Phone Sex chivalrously offered LCB a hand over the troubled waters rushing downhill, then let him go halfway across, smiling primly as the unfortunate Hasher was quickly washed away. Whippet In and Whippet Out, overjoyed at the chance to finally play Lassie, strained at their leashes and nearly dragged their solo mistress Fits In into the flowing Eighth Wonder of the World, but were cowed back into submission as Manhole backtracked by in a cloud of mud, sweat and beer farts.

It would not be a Gypsies trail if the Hare didn’t lose at least one visitor on trail. Wandering Ozzie Sweet Lips, having earlier delivered a stirring reading of the Sacred Missal, was so shaken by the sight of the pack vanishing in the distance that she sat down to collect what few wits she had remaining. But her spirits perked up when Comes Slowly stopped by and offered her a quick swig of Shiraz and a swat on the bum to get her moving again.

Back at the start, the Sacred Bucket was poured and the festivities began in earnest. No Hands landed his single-engine crop-duster long enough to brush off a thin coating of anthrax spores, partake of the Bucket and enjoy a few good-natured mutual fondlings with male visitor Boob Teaser in from Korea. Shaggy Dogg, too, made a cameo appearance, staying just long enough to drink himself into a vacant stare until this resident International Man of Dysentary performed a quick makeover and zoomed into the night on his Harley wearing a tuxedo.

The Circle was convened and down-downs dispensed to the deserving and undeserving alike. The Hare, having vanished just moments before -- not an unfamiliar sight -- was replaced by her able understudy Shithead, who for the first time in recent memory chose to come to the Gypsies for more than the simple pleasure of r*nning. Speaking of that act, Dick Chick came forward to brag about her recent marathon experience in New York -- uncharacteristically, one involving running and not shagging. Serenaded by the pack with “S&M Man,” the fair Hasher cringed not a bit, even chiming in with a verse about the orgasmic pleasures of pounding pavement on bloody stumps.

A motley convoy of virgins, visitors, returners and the merely unnamed -- Just Rich, Just Mike, Just Paul, Just Anthony, and Just Craig -- came forward to reveal why they remain nameless, but no one can remember a fucking thing they said. Private parties proliferated during this lackluster performance, with Shithead drawing catcalls after his earlier star turn by convening a knitting circle with Naked Hasher, Lois Lame and visiting Whine and Chunderer Pencil Dick. Dick So Soft made a rare appearance and was feted for being the only Gypsy then signed up for North-South Intercourse. Throwing caution to the winds, he offered a free ride to the event in his love van, briefly getting the attention of Scabass Faggot, who mistook the Hasher’s name for Dick So Hard. Handjob for Humanity snapped on a latex glove and lubed up, quick to remind ScAF which master he really serves.

As the Bucket ran dry and attention spans grew short, a pair of long-awaited but tardy visitors finally arrived. After that wanker on the phone Nutless Sac provided emergency directions, Bigfoot ushered in the parents of Enter the Gerbil. The couple was roundly assailed by the pack and made to drink for the crimes of their offspring, as their protests that Gerbil was adopted, that they knew nothing of his unusual sexual proclivities and that he had in fact been disowned many years before fell on deaf ears. Their torments came to an end as the pack drifted off in search of additional alcohol, fortunately happening on a restaurant/bar/dive known as Rock Soup, coincidentally part-owned by Jackoff, long absent from the Gypsies thanks to his work-release program. Many drinks, songs and rejected passes later (even Scarlett O’Hairy and Tits for Hire declined to sample the beer-soaked sausage), the crowd of drunkards moved off in search of more fields to graze clean. On on.