Run #1393 The Vultures Descend
Thursday
last was the Gypsies’ Anal Winter Solstice Pagan Fest and
comrade Che Gaygavara put the capitalist *unning dogs through
their paces. Che gathered the pack in the parking lot of the
Presidio Golf Course and Presidio Cafe. One Night Only was the
first one to arrive and she dashed into the Presidio Cafe to doff her
Dior and down grade to *unning tights. ONO did such a good job
changing her appearance and social class that the management thought
she’d mugged the Dior lady; only after seeing that no body was on
the floor in the Ladies Room did they let her leave. The pack began
dribbling in so the keg of Lagunitas Czech Pils was
tapped to occupy their hands. The Presidio Café closed, and the
staff noting the pack, made doubly certain that all doors and windows
were locked tight. To let them know that the pack not a bunch of
rabble Stinky Floss read a homily from the Unnamed Missal
that led that noted cynic Udder Moron to opine that the
Gypsies’ religious activities gave scant assurances to the
godly! The pack should have realized what they were getting into when
the hare set off to lay the trail live only to realize that his
headlamp needed batteries. Lucky for Che that Tongueless’
Penis was packing a spare torch with batteries included. Our hare
led the pack into the Vista Point and down a staircase that descends
halfway to hell before he took them on the Ecology Trail or at least
a branch of it. Closet Twitcher could be heard high on the
bluff still looking for a place to lock his bicycle and cursing the
plutocrats who hadn’t put any bike racks in the parking lot. The
Lost Patrol consisted only of Tongueless and Fits In
along with the sniffing snouts of Tongue Depressor and Qaeda
Cunt who found myriad reasons to stick those snouts in the
underbrush. The trail was well marked and avoided the homes in the
area and then came what T called the quicksand and the hare
called the quickmulch. Either way it sucked as well as sucking wetly
on shoes that sank into it. Apparently the noxious stuff also sucked
up any flour our hare insists he tossed on it. Eventually the swamp
was exited with shoes still in place and trail climbed back up
towards Barnard Ave. Eventually trail climbed high enough to cross
Barnard and actually touch shoe soles to cement but that was short
lived. Marks put all back on the Ecology Trail until Arguello Blvd.
provided an exit. The pack was treated to a triangle jerk at Infantry
Terrace then it was back along Arguello until our hare decided that
not enough bushwhacking had taken place so he sent them back into the
woods and weeds. A good sweat was worked up by all who went back into
the bush instead of just staying on Arguello and on in. Lois Lame
blessed their action by saying that it seemed like a good idea at the
time. It didn’t matter to Bitches Bitch since he’d already
gone back to the quickmulch looking for Hand Pump. Dr.
Kimble should know better than to tell BB he’d seen HP
sinking into the swamp. BB finally came back and tearfully
announced that Hand Pump was gone! No one was mores surprised
to learn of his demise than Hand Pump who was sipping a cup of
Rum Toddy poured from the Sacred Thermi. Eventually the pack
was more or less reunited with only Jack The Ripper still on
trail. 5150 strolled in with ski poles in hand and insisting
that he’d done a bit of this and a bit of that on bits and bobs of
the trail. It being the Winter Solstice Pagan Fest the pagans
were treated to the usual deli sandwiches and quickly transformed
into vultures. While gobs were being stuffed T took up the
newly polished Sword Of Power and flogged the pack with
down-downs. Stinky Floss got one for being a returner and her
excuse was that she’s been away smoking cigarettes and tending bar,
perfectly acceptable excuses. The down-downs went downhill from there
and Tongueless’ Penis got one just because he didn’t move
fast enough to avoid it, enough Rum Toddy will slow anyone down and
he had his share. Dr. Kimble decided to leave while he could
still find his car even if he had to use Braille. Blow Queen
provided tours of the Tesla and only charged minimally for the tour,
still it was unkind to refer to Lois Lame as a revenue stream.
Tears Of Semen and 5150 were busy dancing like no one was
watching, unfortunately they were. Phone Sex who arriving
late dropped to the pavement rubbing her eyes and screaming that she
could never unsee the sight of 5150 swiveling his hips like
Elvis. Rum Toddy and a fine trail can make it “that kind of night”!
Cheers.