Third in the Decum Trilogy
Hare Cherry Picker
Wherein The Kahuna Gets In A Pickle
Earlier today, something like the following conversation took place between me and Hot Buns (via text message):
“Are you going to the Kahuna tonight?”
“I don’t know, are you?”
“Maybe, I was trying to decide.”
“If I go, will you go?”
“Does a bear shit in the woods?”
And I don’t know whether bears shit in the woods, but I do know that they will go for a tasty looking fruit basket, or Scrotum Rotor, when they happen to mistake him for a fruit basket, an easy mistake to make really, I’ve done it many times myself, so you can hardly blame the bear. At any rate, I arrived at the now very familiar intersection of Dekum and about five other streets to a very warm reception which, I soon learned, had nothing to do with my sparkling personality and everything to do with my reproductive organs because – excepting the hare – I was the only one there with a uterus. Those can really come in handy when lost on trail . . . or not, as the case may be.
Off we went, following the flour like a good little pack: on one, on two, hmmm, a bright pink chalk X, guess that is probably a check, on one, on two . . . . RU? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . hmmm, back to the check. Nothing down this street, nothing down that one. Try again? Nope, nothing. So there we were, two blocks from the start and as clusterfucked as a Wal Mart on Black Friday. Somehow we made it to another check (I’m still not sure how that happened) and it seemed that we might make a trail of this yet. It was still a bit touch and go – was that a false or an arrow? – when all of a sudden, the pack stopped ahead of me and got very quiet. A hare had been spotted. Chubby Chaser stealthily darted over and caught her, whereupon I imagine that he propositioned her for kinky sex, and, upon being emphatically declined, rebounded and at least managed to make her feel so guilty about her trail that she volunteered to lead us to the beer check. We readily assented, only to discover that she couldn’t actually remember where her trail had gone. So there we were, following the hare, lost on her own trail. Now really. Since following the hare didn’t seem to be helping much and since I had the slight advantage of being on two wheels, I ended up ahead of the pack and somewhere around Concordia, just when I feared I might be lost again, I looked to my left and lo-and-behold there was a bright green BC. Jackpot. Several minutes of beer-sitting later, I heard some noise off to the left and looked over to find Cherry Picker and a few of the wankers doing cartwheels on the lawn. “Uh, hey guys,” I yelled, “BEER, over here!”
The way back was a fair bit quicker, Cherry Picker was practically giddy at finding her own trail – “where did I lay a . . . oh, there, on two! See that guys? That’s on two!” With relatively little trouble (and a disappointing lack of scrap metal sightings for Cream Jeans) we made our way back to Cherry Picker’s delightful bungalow where she placated what remained of the group (I guess we lost a few people on trail) with more beer and popscicles and a sprinkler to run through – because who doesn’t like to get wet and suck on a tasty column of sweet frozen goodness? Chubby, in an expansionist move, assumed RA duties and led us through a Kahuna-ish religion. The highlight of the latter – it’s not hard to be the highlight of a Kahuna religion, but this was truly a gem - was when our hare presented our plucky visitor from Florida with her prize find from a free box passed while scouting trail (wait, she scouted this trail?!): Tickle His Pickle: Your Hands-On Guide to Penis Pleasing (ladies, there are two used copies available at the main Powells location on Burnside, act fast). And with that, we swung low, went in peace, and got a piece . . . or maybe a pickle.
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