Aye, we planted the Shovel Flag in the Gloom and the Faithful gathered:
SixMike BlackBird
Pascal Owl Bait
Mickey Thomas Senor Chips
Tryon Dredd
Beckham (leader) RoboCop
Bootlegger Dark Warrior
Fargo SnapFade
Rook Commodore Griswold
Crotch Rocket The Cougar
Tango Delta (leader) Steussticle
Holtz McNugget
Moniteur Iron Mike
Waco Lawnmower
Witchita Ann & Hope
Expo Playboy (FNG)
Lee The Commish (FNG)
Ledger GenNext (FNG/Visitor)
WarDaddy Exeter (FNG)
Spoons Antonio Table
OBT, and . . .
The Colonel (BHWTU)
The Thang:
Beckham:
Lap around the Track
Run to Hamburger Hill
Run to Track
Randorama
Sprints
Randorama
Tango Delta:
Run to Mustang
Run to Track
NakedMan Moleskin:
1. War Baby: Beckham, 22. And note, maybe the first time that War Baby has also led. Still hate you, but T-claps.
2. War Daddy: THE WarDaddy, 59. Aye!!
3. FNGs:
a. Playboy: the Hef refused be daunted or be a “friendly” new guy. He went old school. Aye.
b. The Commish: Unlike Chicklis, nothing soft about this guy. He brought it. Aye.
c. GenNext: Maybe just a visitor from Sparticus, he nonetheless rolled it back with the Faithful and is deserving of FNG T-claps. Aye.
d. Exeter: After a double EH on Trade/Tryon this week, Exeter (another ReeCroote from Warrior-ville) stepped it up. And, hit the Coffeeteria. Aye.
4. Today’s Chuck: Chuck Norris bathes in the Bermuda Triangle. NOTE—special T-Claps to Iron Mike for donning a Chuck après-workout shirt. Aye.
5. Dauntless: T-claps to Beckham for leading today. Not easy for a 22 year old guy to come out to the QAG with his boss and lead a bunch of old men (who kept yelling out “Starting Position” and “Exercise”). Aye. Good work youngblood. Keep hitting it.
6. Today’s Goofy: It takes much more discipline not to get drunk than it does not to drink at all.
7. Heaven’s Gate: McNulty cannot recall just when the QAG Faithful started leaping the Mustang fence to get at the pull-up bars we put up by and through our dutiful payment of our exorbitant property taxes. But, suffice that it’s been awhile. Finally (and inevitably) the bureaucratic Fart-Sack machine creakily cranked itself up enough to dispatch the Mustang Jagermeister to see if he could put a stop to the entire disgusting practice of grown men using their pull-up bars to uh . . . well, do pull-ups. And our man did give it a shot. First, he stood ferociously 20 yards away, glaring unfocusedly at Tango Delta who (he gets this way Brothers), was completely oblivious to both the Jagermeister’s presence and his dubious claim to Uh-thor-A-TIE over our field. Ultimately realizing that his hands-on-hips-staring-thing seemed to have no effect on Tango, the Jagermeister went for the jugular, oozing deeply into Tango Delta’s personal space, hoping (perhaps) that an invasion of Delta’s well-guarded aura might precipitate a sufficiently virulent reaction from Delta to provide the Meister a colorable claim of claim of aggression-victimhood (kind of like a Frenchman looking for penalty shot off a red card in soccer by farting in the general direction of a Brit). But, Tango was having none of it, forcing the Meister to actually, uh, talk;
Meister: why did you guys jump over the fence?
Tango: because someday locked it.
Meister: all you had to do was ask me to unlock the fence.
Tango: I don’t know who you are sir.
Meister: I saw somebody fall off the fence.
Tango: That was Crotch Rocket. Don’t worry about him. That’s just the unorthodox way he rolls.
Meister: I just sprayed this field down with a giant can of Off, and you guys are wallowing in it.
Tango: That explains the lack of vector on my powerful undercarriage and upper arms, both of which are exposed to the elements.
Meister: In the future, if you ask me to open the gate I will. That would be a Contract between us.
Tango: Actually not—at best it would constitute a gratuitous promise and thus fail for lack of consideration. So, how about this instead. Why don’t go open Heaven’s Gate and leave a business card over there someplace where I can find it. I’ll try to have somebody let you know the next time we’re going to come up here to use our pull-up bars so you can get Heaven’s Gate open before we get here. How’s that sound . . . ?
Meister: (proposal accepted by stunned and flummoxed silence).
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