Run 329: The Squashed Frog Run (Or, The Night the GM Croaked and We Didn’t Care)

If you thought last week was a shitshow, strap in, because Run 329 was a cacophony of absolute, unadulterated drama. We came for a run and some beers, but what we got was a theatrical performance of sheer patheticness.

Pre-Run WhatsApp Tears & The Arrival

As is tradition, the pre-run WhatsApp chat was primarily dedicated to brutally mocking our perpetually absent GM, *Pepe Le Spew*. Given the forecast hinted at a light sprinkle, we naturally assumed the delicate flower would pull out (like we wish his father had). We generously reminded him he still had time to abort.

To our absolute shock, the mythical creature himself actually materialised at the start. *Cock Knee, sensing the moment, strolled right up and formally introduced himself to Pepe—a masterclass in vicious sarcasm, given the two know each other perfectly well, but it had just been *that long since Pepe graced us with his presence.

With the clock ticking five minutes past the start time, I (Eno), in my usual no-holds-barred fashion, suggested we probably just head off into the bush before the GM could change his mind.

And oh, did he take the bait.

The Resignation of the Century

Cue the violins and hand out the tissues. Pepe launched into his grand segue, officially resigning as GM.

> “My job is just too important! I can’t keep coming out to drink! And worse… I was FORCED to drink tequila!”

Let’s just pause there. If anyone wants to “force” me to watch strippers, please don’t… I’d hate that. Also, let the record reflect that this harrowing tequila-drinking trauma occurred in his own local area, on a night where he was literally the only one not driving. But please, tell us more about how you can’t afford to lose your precious license and ruin your highly important career.

He loudly declared he was leaving and wouldn’t even be doing the run. We immediately launched into a massive pleading session to beg him to stay.

Just kidding. We sat in dead silence for exactly 20 seconds, shrugged, yelled *”OnOn!”*, and immediately fucked off into the bush.

The Trail to Nowhere (Starring The Ultimate Overachiever)

With the GM fleeing the scene to cry in his car, *Arsenic* stepped up to the plate. In a display of sickening overachievement, Arsenic was already the Hare, but boldly claimed the heavy burdens of both Acting GM and Acting Booze Master.

Arsenic informed us he had set an amazing trail. However, there was no flour. Why? Well, in a brilliant callback to Pepe’s pathetic excuse from a few weeks prior, Arsenic claimed the council sent street sweepers into the forest to clean up our trail so the poor animals wouldn’t get sick from eating it. (Personally, I think the council sweepers were actually just out looking for Miscarrige’s hiding place, but sure, let’s go with wildlife conservation. If they really wanted to poison the animals, they’d just feed them the badly chopped onions from our on-afters.

*The Run Profile:*

* We went up.
* We went up some more.
* We had a short down.
* We went up again.
* Zero drink stops. Apparently, you can’t be Hare, GM, and Booze Master without fucking something up.

The Bee Incident & The Tom Rose Park Twilight Zone

In his role as Acting GM of Nature Conservation, Arsenic marched us straight past a row of bee hives. Derro, driven by morbid curiosity, got a little too romantic with the locals and took a bee sting straight to the heart. Tragically, he isn’t allergic, so we were robbed of the entertainment of watching him swell up and battle to breathe. What a letdown.

Meanwhile, in the wildest plot twist of the night, we had lost our GM, lost our front runner, and so left with no choice I stepped up to the challenge and ran home first. Yes, you read that right. Fucking crazy shit happening out here in Tom Rose Park.

Post-Run: Slushies, Broken Beds and Circle Time

Back at the buckets, the midnight oil—or rather, the midnight bedframes -were burning. I had scavenged the wooden remains of a bed that clearly died from too much aggressive thrust action. It made for excellent kindling, which was desperately needed because our magnificent “Booze Master” had frozen the Tuns solid. We were forced to drink slushy down-downs.

* The Score: The run was officially rated a 6.9 – which coincidentally is exactly what Pepe was likely doing in the foetal position back at home.
* The Circle: We tried to dabble in a few new songs to honor our fallen, tequila-traumatized comrade, but got bored and defaulted back to a rousing rendition of “He’s Dumb…”
* Next Week:Y2KYJelly took the floor to suggest we call an EGPU to appoint a permanent new GM. He then warmly invited us all to check out his scrotum, sorry, checking my notes—he invited us to Ball End for next week’s run. Same difference.
Final Thoughts

To conclude: Bees and Pepes were thoroughly hurt in the making of Run 329.

If you, or anyone reading this, needs to talk, is feeling a little sad, or is upset that someone might be saying horrible, vicious things to you… *don’t tell us. We don’t give a fuck.* And if you do, it will be the content for next week’s run report.

*OnOn,*