SFH3 Run #1862: Choose Your Destiny: Beer or Hills Trail
: 02/05/2018
: Franklin Square Park (17th & Bryant)
: Mouth Down South/Master Baster
: Do Her Well

“Trail and the search for trail are no trivial matter: and if a person goes about searching in too human a fashion, I’ll bet he won’t find anything!” The Uniballer opined.




“Yeah, I think the street-sweepers were here,” Mouth Down South muttered, scribbling a check and dashing off. Ru Ru Rimmin gaped in disbelief, while Dickweed cursed the missed chance of pantsing the hare.




“Madness is something rare in individuals,” Blowqueen pointed out. “But in the Hash House Harriers, it is the rule.”




An old man hit Mouth Down South with a stick. Mouth hit back. Masterbaster pointed to the paper mache figure hanging from above. “He just thought you were a piñata, see!” he reasoned.




“Systems of morals are only a sign-language of the emotions,” observed Shaft. “I say hit back.”




“Let’s take the Turkey instead,” suggested Wee Wee. “I need a drink.”




The pack paused for selfies. Dick Simmons fainted in excitement. Just Doesn’t Get It looked up at the sudden screech of tires to see a street-side showdown.




My form of retaliation consists in this: as soon as possible to set a piece of cleverness at the heels of an act of stupidity!” shouted Do Her Well from the sidewalk corner.




“You little shit!” the lady in the SUV revved her engine. Luckily, Do Her Well was distracted by an incorrect pack arrow and ran off into the night.




One has only seen little of trail, if one hasn't also seen the hand that mercifully — kills,” Resting Slut Face declared as they trod upwards on Potrero Hill.


“The city subsidized housing isn’t that bad,” Tonya Hardon argued. Bi-erectional and Eat My Pussy, unconvinced, kept moving at top speed.




“The thought of a beer check is a powerful solace: by means of it one gets through many a bad trail,” The Perfect Woman crowed as they dashed towards the van. He toasted Sir Menage-A-Lot, who was happy to drink away the bad memories with him. Pepe Le Poop dove into the orange food, while Millimeter Peter polished off one of the two pounds of chocolate Tuna on Top had brought.




“I descended into the lowest depths, I searched to the bottom, I examined and pried into an old faith on which, for thousands of years, philosophers had built as upon a secure foundation. The old structures came tumbling down about me.”




“You didn’t even find the bar check?” Ska Skank asked Cream Throat Willy. He sighed.




“Sensuality often makes love grow too quickly, so that the root remains weak and is easy to pull out,” Double Man Cum shook his head.




“Someone’s getting pregnant,” Dick Ass Mother Fucker muttered.




“It’s getting late, can we just go to the bar?” asked Rent Whore. Sister Fister and Cream Chugger nodded in agreement. Chicken Bone Her would have chimed in, but she was already gone.




“I should not like to see rudeness undervalued; it is by far the most humane form of contradiction, and, in the midst of modern effeminacy, it is one of our first virtues,” Cockamole proclaimed.


“She means it’s time for circle,” Masterbaster translated. “And that Mouth Down South and I did a great job haring!”




“A man can approach only as near to truth as he has the courage to advance,” Mouth Down South cautioned him.




“I bought $75 worth of orange food, they better damn well be happy!” Masterbaster retorted.




“We came back for this?” wondered Vagina Dentata to Just Get It Over With.




“About that,” Brown Eye yelled. “Why weren’t you here?”




“I discovered that love of one is a piece of barbarism,” Roman Showers proclaimed, while the pack looked at Backside Banger with concern.




“We found even cohabitation has been corrupted—by marriage,” Pole Her Bare toasted Buck Fucka.




To talk about oneself a great deal can also be a means of concealing oneself,” Masterbait and Tackle advised. “Look, here’s a virgin I brought!”




“What happened to you?” Cockamole pointed at the sling on Don’t Tell My Wife About My Big Cock Chains’ arm.




“‘I have done that,’ says the X-ray,” Big Cock Chains sniffed. “‘I cannot have done that,’ says my pride. At last, the hospital bill yields.”




“His wife found out,” chuckled Three Fingers.




“I hate when that happens,” Just Zach groaned. “It’s just as bad as when women find out about that tattoo.”




“Which tattoo?” asked Sleazy Like Sunday Whoring.




“Oh, you know…” Just Zach chuckled nervously. “The cow skull?”




“I’m not convinced,” Mary Tyler Whore declared. “We need to see them. All of them.”




“One more layer!” chanted Kerry’s Cumcakes along with Liverdance.




Just Zach revealed some swallows, and Wash This Asshole took a big gulp of his beer. The pack moved in closer.




“One more layer!” shouted Tears of Semen. Circle Jerk covered his eyes. Some blurred lines of text emerged.




“I can’t look away!” Hand Pump gave a terrible scream. Weekend At Abba’s pushed Deadbeat to the side, but she could not save herself.




When you gaze long into an Infinite Butthole,” Douchicorn cautioned, “the Infinite Butthole also gazes into you!”




Muff Daddy chuckled. “Infinite Butthole. That’s a good one!”




And so the spell was broken. “On your knees!” cried Cockamole. “Just Zach, you are no more. Infinite Butthole, arise in his stead!”




“We all suck,” Miss Delivery declared.




“Anyone who despises himself will still respect himself as a despiser,” Brown Eye pointed out. “Indeed, where does one not find that bland degeneration which beer produces in the spirit!”




Fuck Norris took a deep quaff. “I’ll take our bland degenerates any day of the week. Cheers!”