A cornucopia of humanity gathered on a freshly paved denture service lot in Old Fenton. The usual suspects were there, FakeBake n Lazy n LoozeAnus n Gladdy n TrainWreck with Gladdyï¿½s shoes n SexPit n Claim n a bunch of other idiots. A few virgins and visitors were innocently speckled in as well. PickaDick from Agaï¿½a Guam and Silent Fart from Paris by way of DC and San Diegoï¿½s Game of Cocks with faithful Pole Just Wukash toting the DFL log.
Our hare CumOnTheRecord, assisted by dimple clad, boy faced 3ï¿½ King began chalk talk with an ominous new mark to be found on trail ï¿½ the Death Halt. The pack was soon enough away, across the parking lots of former glorious strip malls and shit fast food joints. The pack wasted no attention on SwingAroundFunTown and their damned go-carts, but hopped the fence, crossed a major highway intersection where a chick check greeted them under the shadows of St. Paul Parish Church. Solved quickly, the pack tickled the rim of the famous Forest Knoll subdivision, then up the bricked, endless hill leading to the former Fabick property. A check back was encountered, but not only that. A Death Halt, indeed. 195 proof Everclear was on offer with a generous mixer of Mountain Dew, cold to boot. The pack managed to down about ï¿½ of the vile solvent before Gladdy made the wise decision to burn the remainder on the pavement. Claim was tumescent at the sight.
Then deep into the shiggy did the pack go, thorns tearing at our virgin flesh, ticks climbing their way into our dark, moist parts. We emerged into a carefully groomed meadow with a vigilant doe taking in the spectacle. Water features were introduced, with a creek teeming with craw, tads, ï¿½nows and sneks. In and out of the waterway the trail lain with hygienic tissue and scattered flour took us. The sight of 20 muddied, wet, hustling neï¿½er do wells certainly startled the local Fentonites out for their nightly obesity crushing perambulations in Fenton Park. Alas, humanity and the Meramec River has deemed a local Fenton institution unwanted, unneeded, superfluous, for as the pack emerged from the woods, a forlorn Queen of Hearts Lounge glumly greeted them. Brief flashes of glorious days gone by passed through this swainï¿½s mind; there was the dollar bill filled inflated condom balloons being unsuccessfully gathered by scantily clad ladies, there was Dewey politely declining a generous offer of booger sugar in the lavatory, dozens of green dress clad hashers drinking a lovely spring afternoon away inside. Oh to be young again. Onward and upward to the scent ofï¿½
Bacon! The aforementioned 3ï¿½ was frying up some sweet morsels of pork fat under the highway 30 bridge at the beer stop. Much rejoicing and consumption of sowbelly ensued, life was good, all was right with the world. All that was left was a short jog back to A.
Circle was expertly conducted by FakeBake, the typical downdowns awarded. We met our visitors and virgins as mediocre jokes and songs were tepidly consumed by the intoxicants. It was decreed that Just Wukash, our visiting Polish gent was due for a name. SweetHoAlabama asked the question on everyoneï¿½s mind: ï¿½Whatï¿½s the strangest inanimate object youï¿½ve ever ejaculated upon, good sir?ï¿½ His answer of ï¿½curtainsï¿½ brought forth an idea in my mind. Although Celine Dionski by all accounts could have been awarded as Wukashï¿½s new name, this fine Pole shall be henceforth known as Drapist.
So shall it be to the bitter end. Inevitably, irrevocably. Happy Birthday? No such thing.
Faithfully submitted in bondage during lunch break,