#319 : The Poof, I mean Puff of Smoke

Let’s set the scene for this absolute masterclass in athletic excellence and organisational competence. Fresh Meat, Pepe Le Spew, WTFAI, BallBags, Tristan and Eno bravely faced the treacherous, washed-out forest.

Speaking of bravery, our esteemed GM, Pepe Le Spew, miraculously developed a highly convenient “injury”. Clearly, this was a strategic masterstroke to avoid being completely shown up by our resident front-running bastard, Tristan. Instead, Pepe opted for a light-hearted stroll. Truly inspiring leadership right there. I guess at least he could still claim to be the front runner, eh, walker.

The weather eventually forced us to abandon the trail and take shelter in the Commercial. Because we are elite athletes, obviously. While there, Tristan decided the group was lacking in crippling financial addictions and generously funded bets on the dogs and the trots. WTFAI unveiled a supposedly foolproof system for picking winners which, to absolutely no one’s surprise, failed spectacularly. Eno, however, actually proved useful by calling and backing the winning number 8 while Tristan managed to collect on the trots. Throw in some beer, chips and Eno’s surprisingly brilliant jokes; it was a solid detour.

We eventually dragged ourselves back to the end of the run for the usual charges. Just as we were settling in, a hoon came careering around the corner. Pepe, displaying his usual poetic eloquence, muttered out loud, “What a cunt.” For once, he was spot on.

The reckless driver was none other than our MIA Hare, Cum Smoke. The man has been missing for an eternity yet had the absolute audacity to show up at the very end and claim ownership of a run he neither set nor attended. To top it off, he was wearing a shirt with his own name misspelled. Given his impeccable timing, we can only assume he spent the entire evening parked in his Ute, blasting Tradie FM and watching handicapped dwarves go at each other on PornHub.

We wrapped up the night at our second HQ, the Nerang RSL. Here we were treated to a captive audience session, mostly just listening to the endless stories of our own Traveling Wilbury.

All things considered – a bloody great night.

OnON