PHHH #889.4
Date: Wednesday, July 10, 2002
Weather: Warm 'n' sunny
Location: Herrontown Woods, Mt. Lucas Road, Masonic Lodge on River Road
Time: 75 minutes
Hare: Pyroman
Hounds: Geezer, Wacko, Speedbumps, Juicy, Hey YO! Paully, Tropical Depression, 
Ice Blue Balls, Ex Utero, Weeppee, Nonsensei, Elon Vorzman, Laurin Something 
Heard about at the On-In: A. G. Zaire, Rojo, Rambo 
Discreetly unspoken of at the On-In: Minor minor minor minor Tom the Army Guy 
Heard about at the Geezerheim: Tabletoes (because of the table)

It was 3:30 Thursday morning in Barcelona.  The good ciudadanos of the Catalan city 
had retired, but the tonsured black-garbed monks of St. Benedictine were just 
finishing "O Ignis Spiritus" at the Abbey of Montserrat:
   . . .Spes et honor fortissimus
   Dans premia luics.
There was a pause as the assemblage took in the beauty of their collective voice, the 
purity of their hearts, the sanctity of their abode.  Truly, they were in God's hands.
At that moment of sublime transcendence, the thick wooden door burst open, a lone 
dark figure in a  soiled yellow monastic robe burst through, spraying the altar and 
chancel with bullets from his AK-47.

"Bon dia, suckers, kiss the floor or kiss your flaccid asses goodbye!"  And Rambo, 
eyeballs glaring, nostrils flaring, neurons thinking, armpits stinking, strode through 
the bodies cowering on the floor, looking for . . .    "Geezer! All clear--the Love 
Commando, el Huevos de Jueves, is in da House! 47 seconds before the constable swings 
by--get your beard in gear and let's roll!"

"Señor?" one of the cowering monks on the floor tugged on Rambo's robe.
"Assassin! Give him up, muthapucka!"
"No, no, señor, un equivocación, there is no asesino here.  This is a place of 
holiness.  And the Geezair you seek?  He left for Princeton last weekend."

Rambo paused in the middle of his backswing as he prepared to kick the prostrate 
man of God.
"Qué?  You messin' wit' me, boy?"
"No, a thousand times no, have you not checked Yahoogroups of late?"
Indeed, Rambo had not, so engaged had he been in trying, unsuccessfully, to erase the 
memory of the Grand Dominatrix through the hot embraces of the Danish potato expert. 
So engaged, in fact, that the Swain of Pain also missed the write-up to 878.4, which 
would have filled him in on A. G. Zaire's health (just in from Geezer: Zaire now walks 
with 2 canes).

Meanwhile, 3,882 miles to the west-southwest, Geezer endured great pain and suffering, 
but not at the hands of the Cuban Assassin.  After an hour of frolicking through the 
Herrontown Woods in 90-degree weather, he and the pack stopped sweating to save water, 
and that's when the trail, if a trail can be 50 yards wide, led through a particularly 
stickly field of thorny grass, thorny bushes, and thorny trees. Bleeding profusely, 
stumbling and bumbling past puzzled passers-by, the PHHH grandmaster led the pack to 
Pyroman's Masonic lodge, where he laid himself out on the grass, only to be revived by 
Ouipee's CPR and then a rousing chorus of "We love you Geezer, oh yes we do. . . " led 
by Ex Utero. A thoroughly shitty romp, followed by an equally shitty Geezerheimfest.  
No watercrossings at either, which gives Nonsensei an opening (Prawn to Ice-9!) next 
week.