Run #501 Thirteen Against the Storm

Heeding the careless call of hare Thumper to visit the wilds of the East Bay, an intrepid band of Gypsies assembled at the lovely Mel-O-Dee Lounge in El Cerrito for a blustery evening that would not soon be forgotten. As a Force Nine gale raged over the hills, No Hands was heard to express satisfaction that perhaps he’d finally get a blow from Mother Nature, a welcome respite from the usual with Samuel Adams. At the mere mention of a blow, Mr. Bonejangles began tapping his feet in anticipation, and Elliott started looking nervous.

Despite travel advisories from the National Weather Service and the uncommon site of Likes to Lick clinging for life to a lamppost at a 90-degree angle, an intrepid foursome set out to r*n the trail laid by the intrepid hare. Just John was the first casualty, sucked into a storm drain by a freak gust of wind and the vacuum created when Scarlett O’Hairy inadvertently -- and oh! so innocently -- stretched her legs. Cupcake lasted longer, but succumbed once he crested a peak and was fried by lightning shooting out of McTaco’s ass. Guess those brass balls the Marines installed aren’t just ornamental. No Hands finally emerged off trail, a shit-eating grin on his face, to announce that it might not be nice to fool Mother Nature, but she really does appreciate it if you diddle her a bit.

Meanwhile, the saner members of the pack had enjoyed the incomparable hospitality of the Mel-O-Dee, where beers are a pittance and Rhett Butthole provides sexual pleasure for free -- though only for himself, of course. Splat, annoyed because the rain makes him stink like a wet Kodiak bear, expressed his frustration by grinding shot glasses into dust with his meaty bare hands. Awed by this display of power, Phone Sex offered to show him how to grind something that would really do some good, but Splat preferred to howl at the elements. Only later did the source of his rage become clear, as the handle of Scarlett’s lost blue umbrella was finally located protruding from between Splat’s butt cheeks.

In the absence of the Gypsies’ chief enablers Tongueless and Fits In, the task of procuring the Sacred Bucket fell to Bigfoot, who performed ably, providing a concoction neither salty, nor purple, yet still highly alcoholic. The pack gathered round to breathe in the fumes and to imbibe, and soon the tiny alcove where the pack sheltered in this classy shopping district began to reek of fellowship and good cheer. (Or perhaps that was simply the farts of Enter the Gerbil, who was quickly ejected and sent to wander the outer darkness, where he showed the Furies how to really make wind.)

Down-downs eventually commenced and several Buckets full of grog were consumed, with the only truly memorable feature being the unusual sight of the hare standing time and again to give himself a down-down. Alas, poor Thumper, we hardly knew ye; by the time the last drop was drained he lay face down in the gutter, the soft, gentle flow of the effluent streaming out to the Bay lapping at his cheek.

Bereft of food and unwilling to scavenge in the neighborhood, the pack set off for pizza in Berkeley, where a seance commenced and the ghost of Scrotum was pelted with rocks and garbage. Much satisfied, the pack retired to their respective quarters, to dream of wind, and rain, and the day when Thumper’s pact with Satan will finally expire. On out.