SFH3 Run #1802
|:||199 Locksley Ave - at the Community Garden|
|:||Douchicorn & Just Cam|
|:||Do Her Well|
“What an utter travesty!”
My Little Porno looked at Gondolerrhea’s empty hands with disdain. “No hash shit?” she asked incredulously. He just shrugged and made puppy dog eyes, grabbing Hepatitis Seeing Eye Dog from Slap A Bag of Dickz for further assistance.
“This means the hash is over and we go to the bar, right?” asked Golden Snowball. “I ask myself often, ‘What Would Silicone Valley Do,’ and I’m pretty sure that’s the answer.”
“Well we don’t have the hash shit, but it seems that you brought Fleshlight, which in my book is pretty much the same thing,” Do Her Well determined. “So no dice.”
“What exactly is going on here?!” an outraged voice shrieked through the night.
“Shit a NIMBY!” Miss Delivery dove behind Just Max, hoping the bright Virgin vest would distract her. Mary Tyler Whore continued drinking, perfectly disguised as one of those neighbors the NIMBY had never met but would probably nod at in spin class. The Perfect Woman dove for the bushes. The rest of the pack, under the notion that NIMBYs are most sensitive to change, stood perfectly still until they heard a shriek and a door slam.
“I just wanted to help her get lei’d,” muttered Haolewood.
“The response time of the SFPD is six to nine minutes here,” Muff Daddy advised.
“Did someone say sixty nine?” asked I Cunt Hear You.
Mouth Down South leapt to attention. “On ON!” he cried.
And so the pack was off, traipsing through the neighborhoods of Parnassus and making their way behind UCSF. “You can’t be here!” cried the security guard, scaring Udder Moron away from the biohazard bags he was trying to fashion into a rain jacket.
In response they rushed into the woods of the Sutro Forest, where a lonely voice complained that they weren’t paying $1000 a month for a bunch of assholes running through their encampment. While Pizza Ass considered where to turn in an application, Fuck Buddy pointed out that most of that was probably just for the shared alcohol stash to make the dampness more comfortable. Saigon Sally opined that he never before thought he would consider living in San Francisco, but he was starting to see the brighter side. Roman Showers ducked away into the darkness, vowing to stake out some turf she could rent out on AirBNB.
Grunting and groaning, the pack made its way to Twin Peaks to pop their corks. Cum Guzzling Cockaholic frothed and gnashed his teeth, for his unsuccessful penile enlargement surgery left him incapacitated with the walkers at Golden Gate Heights, where 2 Hot 2 Trot’s rain dance (which looked remarkably like the Funky Chicken to Gobble My Ass) had brought her favorite Portland weather to bear down on the pack.
“Don’t frown, it’s just God’s sprinkles,” Dick Simmons consoled ABBAH, whose golden hair was suffering from the showers.
“What we need now is bigotries,” he declared, raising his right fist high in the air.
Ru Ru Rimmin gasped, and Vagina Dentata dropped the beer he was holding. Stinky Floss coughed politely.
“What?” asked ABBAH, walking over to stand under the protective branches and patting the large trunk firmly. “Like this one, no rain under here.”
The pack let out a sigh of relief so big that it rustled another NIMBY from the suburb that had somehow grown in the middle of the city. “I’m calling the cops!” yelled the man, a phrase that caused one half of the pack to Pavlovianly respond to by downing the rest of their beer. The other half, apparently selectively deaf to that pitch, cried out “On ON!” as a baby bird cries out to its mother in the hopes removing any confusion as to where they were. Hand Pump deemed this an appropriate signal to move the pack elsewhere.
Luckily for the group, the cops were waiting for them already back at the start, trading off circus interruptus in exchange for Backside Banger’s protips on where to find impressive hit and runs.
“You probably haven’t heard it,” Zippercised started circle, “But I came up with this great Douchicorn alarm this week. As soon as the startup funds come through I’m out of here.”
While Sleazy helpfully reminded him that he’d given up all patent rights as a part of his RA contract, Cockagami scolded the crowd that no ex-hipster therapies had been proven to work, and so they would have to continue to practice the SFH3 values of tolerance and good humor.
At these moving words, Just Cam felt a pang through his heart. “I have a confession to make,” he started. “After everything Douchicorn has put up with helping me set trail… he did all the work, and I planned to take all the credit. I even enticed him into rubbing my feet because I told him I had a running injury and it was his duty as my co-hare to help heal me.”
“Isn’t that expected?” Cockamole wondered aloud and looked at Twerxes suspiciously.
“After all this, I made a targeted attempt, an attempt on his hipster life. Twas I who busted his ride.”
For his derailment efforts Just Cam was forced to his knees to beg for forgiveness for breaking Douchicorn’s bike, and was deemed Chain Bang for his mobile efforts.
“I woulda just punched the guy,” Sister Fister remarked to Just Get It Over With.
“You can lead a Douchicorn to water but you can’t make him drink,” Six Tits a Week told her. “Beer on the other hand? No problem.” Together they watched the hares drink their tenth down-down, and a good night truly descended upon the pack.