SFH3 Run #1775: Gay Pride Hash - Wear Rainbow
|:||100 O'Shaughnessy Blvd|
|:||Brown Eye For The Gay Guy, Just Justin, Just Bernie|
|:||Do Her Well|
A long, long time ago, in an ancient kingdom known as the Presidio, an unjust tyrant ruled the land for many years. When the people asked, “May we have fun?” He would ask, “How much does it cost?” When the people asked, “May we have beer?” He would reply, “Where is your permit?”
His name was Supervisor Eric Mar.
And so the people gathered together with caution, looking out for his soldiers behind every bush and up every tree. They celebrated quietly, in small huddled groups. They lit their candles, but always had a fire extinguisher nearby.
It was one such night that a small crowd had gathered, braving the cold chill to lift their mugs in solidarity. Hand Pump had pulled his wagon up and was readying the keg to be tapped. As he turned his back, Just Doesn’t Get It and Deadbeat rushed over in unison.
“Oy vey!” shouted Hand Pump, startling the two who quickly zipped up their jeans. “What do you think you’re doing?” He examined the keg closely. “Ruined! The beer is contaminated now. This was the last keg we could wrest from the watchful eyes of Mar.”
“What did they do?” asked One Night Only. Hand Pump could only shake his head.
“We must have faith, my children,” announced Brown Eye For The Gay Guy. “If we but persevere and believe, D-G will provide.”
“D-G?” asked Masterbaster skeptically. Allahu Akbark yipped in response.
“Yes,” affirmed Wee Wee. “We must all trust in D-G. He will see us through. Look, we have found one mini-keg tucked hidden in the back of Hand Pump’s van. Let us tap it, and trust that it will have enough alcohol to last for all of us, and that it’s not Budweiser at least.”
Fucker harrumphed. “I’m going to the bar.”
However, Zippercised and T-Ball stood firm. “We must all stand as one together. We are not letting the oppression of Supervisor Mar stop us. L'Chayim! On on is that way!”
The group ran off into the night, darting through the brush in search of beer. And as they ran, they found and collected several precious gifts. Continuing on, they stumbled through the cold, damp paths of the Presidio, following trail until they reached the sacred Manischewitz. A collective sigh emerged—a miracle! Alcohol out of the darkness! And so the group sated their thirst and continued onwards, seeking out more gifts along the way.
It was then that someone saw a glimmering light in the distance. Was it an angel? A presence from D-G?
Indeed, it was, as T-Ball brought forward the second miracle of the night—Jello and pudding shots. Quickly the pack slurped and swallowed until they were able to continue on trail once more.
And so they pursued the final goal—the beer—when suddenly a terrible sight came into their vision. A ranger of Mar! He cursed and shook his fist at the group, who quaked in terror. Suddenly Buck Fucka burst forth, yelling wildly, hair billowing around his head which had become covered in twigs from all the shiggy. He tripped and slid on his belly, skidding towards the ranger as his palms wept with blood. He was their sacrificial lamb, their—wait. Wrong holiday.
Anyway, the pack mostly ignored the ranger and took off in the other direction. At long last, they stood next to the keg, which flowed plentiful and free. The bounty was not limited to the alcohol—the pack stood together to marvel at what D-G had granted them.
“Hey, my car has herpes!” shouted Cockagami. The crowd oohed.
“Hey, my plumbing has lingerie!” shouted MUG. The crowd aahed.
“Hey, I got a pregnancy test!” shouted Miss Delivery.
“I’ll be taking that,” said Zippercised, disappearing into the darkness.
“Where are all the rest of the gifts?” asked Brown Eye. “I know D-G provided a lot more than that.”
Eat My Pussy stood forth proudly. “My consort Gingervitis has traveled far and long from Chicago, and his department store needs some goods. I have won them for my love.”
The hash gagged collectively. “Shit, maybe Eric Mar was right after all,” remarked Just Get It Over With.
“Nonsense!” shouted Masterbaster. “What are we, the type to gag when we can swallow? The type to say quit when we can say another? The type to drink beer when we can drink ALL the alcohol? And ALL the alcohol is what D-G has provided. When we had barely enough alcohol for one mile, we kept our faith and had enough alcohol for EIGHT miles. Thank D-G we didn’t have to prove it, but we did.”
“Hey everybody, we’re getting hitched!” shouted Zippercised, holding T-Ball’s arm up proudly.
“Hoorah!” shouted the hash.
“I’m so excited I just made my niece come!” yelled Good Shit Lollicock.
“And I thought I was a naughty one,” giggled Uncle Bad Touch.
And so it was that the group learned to have a little faith in D-G, or at least in D-G’s holey instruments, the hares. Without trust and relying on each other, we would all be still standing at that great proverbial check in the wilderness, not knowing which way to go forward.