Ah, it’s that time of year again… the season of giving, peace on earth, goodwill and joy – and a hairy sex pervert greeting us at the door of Zephyr’s house.

Actually, it was Zephyr. But his Santa suit looked like it was made out of red shag carpet, and made him resemble a Furry seeking indiscriminate scritching with random man, woman or beast. However, at least Bad Santa was good enough to leave a keg of beer on the front porch, so I didn’t mind sitting on his knee.

Actually, the first shock was simply riding the bus north of Eglinton and seeing the streets covered with snow and ice. We here in the south were enjoying our usual sunny skies and balmy temperatures – heck, the daffodils have already bloomed down here, and the bluebirds are trilling their sweet songs.

While we were enjoying our pre-trail libations, a few of us saw what we thought was Johnny Cockring run by the living room window. Then this apparition disappeared. Turns out it was Johnny after all, who went next door by mistake, went in the house, looked around (he swore he didn’t raid the liquor cabinet or rifle through the nightstand drawers), thought he’d missed the start of the hash and ran off to find trail.

When a late-running Casket Case and Fish Fingers finally joined us (they were probably busy pawing each other as usual) we could finally set off.

The trail headed east for a bit, which is where we finally met up with a free-ranging Johnny. Many of the neighbours were no doubt disturbed and alarmed to see the few of us sporting Christmas-themed headgear (Natty Porn, Shampoo, Moist Leatherette, for instance) apparently trying to escape an enraged Saint Nick and our cruel elf servitude. Soon after there was the nasty incident involving Venta’s sweet little dog (that’s Lily, by the way, not Zephyr). She was happily trotting along at the end of her leash (Lily, that is, not Venta), minding her own business, when she was set upon by several off-leash dogs being walked by dickheads. They pretty much shrugged and laughed about the whole thing. So Johnny Cockring intervened. Various unlawyerly threats and imprecations were offered, but he soon saw the light of reason before any punches were thrown. Of course, we all stood behind him – in my case, from about three hundred yards away.

This raises an interesting question for any particle physicists in the house: if Johnny chased his own ambulance, would this rupture the fabric of the universe? Would we all be sucked into a black hole and excreted through the tight, purple,  puckered asshole of a 12-limbed cyclops on Betelgeuse? And would we enjoy this?

Anyway, eventually we all moved on with no eyes blackened. The trail headed over to Yonge, and then up to Wilson. Here we climbed an embankment for the only bit of off-road trail – harder than you’d think because of the snow – to get back onto the residential streets. Then it was just a few blocks over to Avenue Road, where the beer check was at, appropriately enough, a Greek restaurant. Well why not?

Back at the house there was delicious food, a heady, intellectually-stimulating circle, and then Bad Santa made a list, checked it twice, and invited those on the “Naughty” side of the ledger to join him in the basement to drink Jesus juice and play with his chimp Bubbles. But sadly I’d been a good boy all year once again.