BFM #21
Posted on July 15, 2004
15 July 2004: Tonight the mob once again filled Bonner’s, 23rd and Sansom, whether Bonner’s liked it or not. Bonner’s bartenders know us now, the way some farmers get to know locusts. Elbows and beer mugs left no table untouched as the mob warmed up for the hash. There were recent additions to the mob, such as the new Just Brian, and old timers, like Where’s Dildo? and Hokessin-veteran Just Bill, and a few virgins. Richie Cum In Hand made a return appearance after first turning up at the Commando run. But, of course, there was no flour. So Rash ran out, got some, and mixed it with blue carpenter’s chalk.
Outside Bitchard gave a Britannic chalk talk for the benefit of newbies, and for those drunks who forget things from week to week. Straws were drawn. Every last bastid drew one, even virgin Just Morgan, but nobody pulled the long one, leaving the shorty with your correspondent, me. Bichard asked me what was I waiting for so I scampered away with the flour, which, when mixed with blue carpenter’s chalk, turns a bright, cartoon blue.
If you’ve ever wondered what it might be like to be a fugitive chased by bloodhounds and helicopters, then lay live trail. People’s eyes follow you as you run by and sprinkle powder. You smile, say ‘hi’ so they won’t panic and call police, but you can’t stop and explain. Because somewhere behind you there are people looking for you, running, in most cases, much faster than you can. You can’t turn corners too many times because they might see you on a cross street, so you run for open ground to get away.
Open ground in a city is a bridge, like the South Street Bridge, which I crossed, throwing down the blue stuff all the way. That bridge takes you to the Penn campus, which, it turns out, is fenced in by fences too high to climb. I was a rat tapped in my own maze. I found a way out, but it led right into a thicket of DFLs. Cause for Blindness and Skin Fiddle chased me like a pair of cheetahs, and Skin Fiddle caught me, leaving footmarks across Cause’s back getting to me, so Cause claimed.
Skin Fiddle, who was now hare, was surrounded by snarling DFLs, including Smells Good and Where’s Dildo? He had five minutes to get his ass away, so he left. Before too long the FRBs had tracked trail back to the scene, only to learn a new hare was in town.
The mob chased after Skin Fiddle past Franklin Field, but never saw him. At a subway entrance he made a check, and then zigzagged sidewalk to sidewalk down Market Street, until 23rd, where he turned and went on in to Bonner’s. Nobody saw him walk through the door, except maybe the auto hashers, who included Little Fucking Winkie and Lunar Digit.
Winkie collected hash cash and then the mob drank beer. He also ran the circle with the help of Cause and Thunder Thighs. Virgins Just Andrea and Just Morgan did down downs, as did BFM virgins, Krusty Calves and Smells Good. Cunting Season did perhaps her first ever down down for cumming in first. Just Scott did a down down for stretching, and Just Morgan did another down down for wearing new sneakers.
Cause pointed the elbow of accusation at the first Just Brian for scarfing down food, in this case, turkey, before the circle even began. Such an offence was this that he had to be named. What do you do with turkey? You baste it. So naturally he was named Masterbaster. Someone heard that Just Andrea works with him, so maybe tomorrow he’ll have a new name on his office door.
By now the Karaoke guy set up shop, and the mob put on another “talent” show. Lowlights included Lunar Digit singing, “American Girl,” which people at the bar booed, and Just Morgan singing, “White Wedding.” He got booed, too. Cause, Just Andrea, Rash, and Smells Good sang, “I Will Survive,” which didn’t get booed. Skin Fiddle did a most unwelcome reprise of his rendition of “The Devil Went Down to Georgia.” Between acts Winkie took the microphone and interacted with the crowd, lounge lizard style.
The horror of it all was eased by a ridiculous number of pitchers and a phone call from Wolfman Jackoff, who is in San Diego, where he has the opportunity to see Sarah Cunter, who also yakked it up on the phone. He’ll be back soon, which is good, but she won’t, which isn’t.
The mob left Bonner’s better than it found it. Shitty trails, shitty bar, shitty phone call.
On on.
Filed Under Trash |
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