Run 994 REPORT ON
RUN OF MONDAY, 08 APR 02 as recalled by Bob Guzman
Last
Monday's run is history, and my what a run it was, as the Baptists say.
For
me the event started upon meeting Charlotte, the proverbial, peripatetic
Swede You can all picture la Charlotte's native country, no? If not,
just recall that seen in La Dolce Vita, with Anita Ekberg bouncing and
jiggling off the plane at the Rome airport or the Swedish Bikini Team in
action.
Though
I've never been to Sweden, I hear it's also the place where the
bare-breasted young girls run around with lit candles and pine branches in
their hair (talk about a death wish) and then roll around naked to celebrate
the arrival of snowdrifts, which they adore up there.
They
don't do this in the same way that the Cathies pray to statues and Proddies
to furry grey men in lace pinafores, however. Until both of these
groups learn more about plastic inflatables, nobody's going to have as much
fun as they do in the Swedish Church.
Death
wishes aside, Sweden sits right next to that other lovable little Scando
country where they kill all them poor little baby seals.
But,
the HHH is strictly apolitical. Out charter does not allow us to
directly criticize the place, except to say that its sorry fucking capital
city is Oslo. Good news is that
since there's only four million of them, at least half of them wage-earners,
there's little danger of terrorist conspiracy.
In
any case, we drove to the HHH in style, in a classy new motorcar owned by
C's clearly overly trusting flatmate and driven overconfidently by C
herself.
Halfway
there, somewhere between Sukadik Village and the Princess Choc Stic memorial
bridge, Charlotte became intensely unsettled at being thought Swedish.
She wondered just who it was who was spreading this disgusting rumor,
but my lips were sealed.
As
it turns out, she's actually Danish. That's just as well as Denmark is
probably only country in the world that, unless you like rollmops, nobody
has anything at all to say about.
We arrived at our destination, after crossing a mighty river, or was that Wednesday's run? In any case, the run itself made up in character for what it lacked in prestige.
Most
of it took place along a rather vile stretch of backwater filled with bits
of floating debris almost too loathsome to contemplate. We daren't say
too much about the ecology as it was actually the hare of the day's back
garden,. He is rumored to be quite fond of stalking and prowling the
area after dark.
The
hare, TQ, laid out a very thoughtful trail with numerous backchecks, which
led to about half the pack getting hopelessly lost. Or was I just
projecting? It wasn't long before we found our way to a block wall requiring
a bit of maneuvrage to avoid falling into the cess.
Finally
after 90 minutes of heart sputtering and cringing muscles, with haemorrhoids
throbbing, we regained the car park. Once there, the lead hare took
turns moving his vehicle to and fro as traffic patterns required and was
rewarded with a down-down.
No
sign of the overgrown teenage twat from Seattle who got himself lost the
previous week. He's obviously discovered the charms of the BKK
Christian Science Reading Room.
The
On-on is only vaguely remembered as being blurry and rice-filled, and
lasting so well into the AM that I found myself talking, drinking and
sleeping at the same time, ‘til Todd said we had to go since he had to get
up at 6 AM for work and that himself at that time "was not a pretty
sight."
I
don't know actually what it is that Todd does, but since he wears a tie and
carries what looks a lot like a briefcase, it must involve plenty of
document shredding and avoidance of responsibility.
It
was one o'clock at night before I finally found myself back in fetal
position in my bed, also not a very pretty sight, especially when you've run
out of underpants.
I
resolved to get plenty of rest before next week's rec privileges and hope to
do better in terms of staying lively and witty.
On-On
