Your faithless scribe narrowly averted a lynching on the last run, as the recent rumor proved true when an intrepid camera crew of three from the BBC showed their naivete-filled faces at Mad Murphy's, fresh (or perhaps not so fresh) off the plane that very morning.

The rumor mill, combined with good weather, had conspired to create a fairly good turnout, as there were more hounds rarin' to go than there had been for many weeks. With so many dogs, the clever GM tried to press the camera crew's van into service as a puppy shuttle, but to no avail, as it was already full of high tech electronic surveillance gear.

With the pack packed into vehicles, the cars created a convoy carrying them circlebound. In the lead, Jackmasterii jackrabbited each and every traffic light on the way, leaving the convoy in the dust, and stopped periodically to taunt the other drivers, boasting of the performance characteristics of his street racing tuned Subaru. He arrived at the appointed place, made a cup of tea, ate some crumpets, and waited for the rest to arrive.

And arrive soon they did, and it was time to sing Father Abrahamii, this time for the benefit of what is hoped will someday be a large and incredulous television audience. Jackmasterii appointed One Manii to show them how it's done, and he did just that.

After a few explanatory notes, the boobs from the Beeb were ready to run with the rest (or die with the best) on the trail set by hares E.M.P.ii and Super-- I mean, Katherine Who At That Time Had No Name. More on that later.

The EMPanator had laid a tricky trail for the runners to follow, but two of the camera crew elected to tag along anyway. Flour marks were hidden in plain sight on white trees, on white rocks, and in that annoying spot of glare that forms when your eyeglasses get sprayed with beer (I hate that). Pumpkin Eaterii, eager to wear one of the virginii runners down on the grindstone of his athletic prowess, took extra special care to ignore the marks in plain sight and run off in completely different directions, while the wiser, wilier dogs took their cues from the helpful hareii and thus avoided getting any exercise, save that provided by hoisting bottles to lips.

For the first few marks, the camera crew bobbled along behind the dogs (I guess we'll see how good that image stabilizer really is; however, stability and the hash don't belong in the same sound bite) until we lost them in the tall weeds. However, they clearly were the smarter of the bunch, as they shortcutted their way back to the circle, giving the horrible excuse that they actually needed to film something else in Almaty besides the hash. Who's going to believe that malarkey?

After that, the trail wandered around some of the more scenic views of Almaty's own Love Canal, where hareii E.M.P.ii confessed she'd actually wanted to set the trail inside the canal itself, but was thwarted by the impertinent presence of water, which exhibits a strange and inexplicable effect on flour, rendering marks invisible. It is expected that the crack HHH Research & Development Team is working on a solution for this problem, safe in their secret bunker deep underneath the ski lift line at Chimbulak. But I digress.

When the runners finally heaved their way back into the circle, the walkers were nowhere to be seen, and so the dogs took the opportunity to preen in front of the cameras, talking about some of the finer points of life in Central Asia, such as the problems of getting work permits, the lack of stability clauses in investment law, and too many damn Tatu songs in English. It was resolved that with regard to the first two, no system is perfect, but that the latter was wholly unacceptable.

Sauntering into the circle twenty minutes later came the walkers, including outgoing RA Horny Hasherii, with the keys to the beer; then the circle began.

The afternoon was rife with announcements and violationsi. First up were the virgins, of which there were several, including Simon "I Like Drawrings" from the BBC, the most talkative of the three and the only one without an expensive video camera on his shoulder, which made him a likely target for down-downs.

However, his compatriot Will did not escape, as he was forced to temporarily holster his weapon to drink a down-downi.">iii.">i for shortcuttingi.

As many of the more vain of the pack had been away for quite some time, returning to the circle solely for the purpose of becoming TV stars, there were also a healthy number of dogs drinking down-downs as returners. BBC Simon was also introduced to some of the more common violationsi, and was given a down-downi.">iii.">i for sex in the circlei.

The impending departure of Horny Hasherii was announced yet again (what, he's still here?) and the job of religious adviserii was put out to bid-- no takers as yet, which probably means somebody will have to be drafted.

And lastly, three of our number who had gone nameless for far too long-- plus the hapless BBC Simon-- were given names. The pack lifted their bottles and spritz-christened Super Sneaky Stalkeri (so known for her facility with surveillance), PedFaci (so known for her predilection for pretty young things), Pocket Pooleri (so known for her love of billiards and her penchant for committing acts of sex in the circlei). The camera-laden interloper Simon did not escape, as he arose soaked with beer and with a new moniker: Hash EmBedi, which should need no explanation for those of us glued to our television sets these days.

The whole kit and kaboodle then proceeded to the DildoCave high atop Republic Square and were treated to pasta, chicken, beer, magnificant views, loud music and bad dancing.