Run #505 FHAC-U, You
FHACing FHAC
Lacking
a sense of history, destiny, or anything resembling common sense, the
Gypsies once
again convened with their Bizarro-universe counterparts, the FHAC-U,
for another evening of debauchery. In yet another unremarkable
example of life imitating naming, IR
Stupid graciously
allowed the Bay Area’s two greatest collections of drunken
degenerates to gather at his home while he was still at work. It took
virtually no time for Johnny
Ca$h and Ken
Doll to make their
way into the hot tub, undeterred by the cold water and the fact that
it wouldn’t turn on. “We like them small and shriveled,” they
explained, much to Beaver
Spit’s
dismay.
Outside, madness reigned. Foul
Balls and Vee
Dee found
themselves in a farting contest, each aiming to knock over Eager
Beaver by pure
sphincter control. But the boys were put to shame by Bigfoot,
who let out a belch from the depths of her small intestine that not
only flattened the hashers but knocked small birds from the sky.
McTaco,
rushing to the side of his stricken Beaver,
quickly began pumping away to revive her, until Boulder
Holder pointed out
that his ministrations would have greater effect if he were to apply
them to the correct hole. Booger
Hooker, meanwhile,
occupied himself by picking IR’s
tiny lock with his own tiny cock, and once inside the house proceeded
to indulge his plushy fetish in one of his daughter’s
bedrooms.
Tongueless
called the pack to order for some religion. Visitor NecroFeelMeUp
from Portland H3 offered up his current squeeze, Just
Debbie, to do the
honors with the Sacred
Missal, and the
lass did such a fine job that even Ratshit,
visiting from the West London H3, felt his shorts stir in a way he
hadn’t known since the Grim
Rimmer last had his
way with him.
Soon the pack was off. Hares Three
Ball Jay, Morning
Missile and
Manhandler,
although allegedly aware of the r*nning proclivities of Gypsies
and FHACers
alike, appeared determined to lay a trail that would make the Whine
and Chowder Society proud. After a brief arc to the east, trail
headed due south, running along city streets as straight as Rhett
Butthole’s worst
nightmare and as free of shiggy as Ram
Pam’s sex life.
Much to the relief of the pack, trail eventually turned into the
local Steelhead brewery, where a few beers convinced Phone
Sex that 5150
was looking pretty good; the two were last seen heading for the tall
grass and endless seconds of bliss.
Leaving the bar, it
quickly became clear why three hares were necessary to set the trail,
as the pack veered north, then north, then north again, leading Next
Time to opine that
she’d seen jet runways twistier than this trail. D’Anglin
Anglin, longing for
adventure and a chance to get lost, got his wish when a brief detour
through a parking structure and a chance opening into the Gates of
Hell led him deeper and deeper into the realms of the underworld,
where even Bite Size
couldn’t sniff him out despite Drill
Me’s best
efforts. Faithful hounds Whippet
In and Whippet
Out, however, found
the course much to their liking and opened up their throttles, soon
vanishing in a cloud of dust with Tonguess
and Fits In
hanging on helplessly behind.
Back at IRS’s
house, the Sacred
Bucket was broken
out along with copious amounts of beer and Vitamin
J. Stumbling around
in the dark, Deflowered
and Ophelia
finally gave into their heretofore unrequited passion for Sea Breezes
and, eventually, one another. Finally the master of stupidity himself
arrived, the lights went on, and merriment ensued. With the hour
growing late, Accuprick
and Enter the Gerbil
stood before the circle to make fools of themselves for the pack’s
amusement. Upon command Purty
Mouth channeled the
King -- no, not King
Rongjon, but his
notorious Slumped-On-The-Toilet Elvis -- in a striptease almost
worthy of the White Pants Dance. And of course, No
Film arrived in
time to take the much coveted No
Film Award.
The
pack eventually moved on for more pizza and beer, although the
celebrations proved too much for Goes
Down Easy, who
found herself returning to the pizza plate what she had just taken.
Her sister Just
Brandy was heard to
remark that it clearly comes up easily as well. Fortunately for both
harriettes, their brother Morning
Missile was nearby
and ready to come to their aid, despite his brief distraction by
Footloose and Panty
Free for what she
would later swear was a “GM’s conference” in the women’s
bathroom. Thumper,
undeterred by the late hour, swore he would stay until the last
pitcher was drained and led the crowd in endless renditions of “The
S&M Man”
And things likely would have ended there
after Manisex
Destiny flipped
over the table while cha-chaing on it, were it not for the intrepid
tale of Thurston
Bowel the Turd.
Hearing voices known only to himself and Ted Bundy, the Turd
realized it was his
solemn duty to rid the world of newspaper boxes by dumping them on
IRS’s
lawn. With the able assistance of I
Get Named Next Week,
a visiting dolt from Savannah, one of the aforementioned boxes was
soon so moved. All concerned then made prank calls to other hashers
concerning Next
Week’s missing
bag, until
the Turd’s
phone batteries died a well-deserved death. Only upon the arrival of
an officer of the law the next morning, espied extracting said bag
from said box by Scrum
Muffin as she crept
away from the scene of her own passionate evening with Splat,
was one of the evening’s mysteries made clear. Leaving, of course,
many others, about which deponent further sayeth not. On