QUAKER OATS: Monday, November 17, 1997

THANKS to a bit of weather, one five-some led by Tequila was able to rent a tank to get them through the Nutmeg State, but the Half-Pint led quintet was stuck in a convertible. Six hours later in the land of Shangri-La, Connie was seen and Lymon talked about the fishermen's catch of the day. Since the trip to the Poultry Palestra was postponed, and Butterfly was called in for the dectet much to the dismay of the Mama Tequila. PENN had arrived hours earlier, so it wasn't a Quakers truck nor a Quakers bus that almost plowed into the top-down (which would have half-obliterated the DPOSTM staff). FOR awhile, the members of DPOSTM hung around the square, almost having a Brown experience with illegal substances. Mawk took a shower before throwing a projectile at a complete stranger. Ditching the boys were Golden Boy, Lymon and The Mad Pisser (not to be confused with Rock Around). DRAGGING out the time we had to wait in the square was Lymon, who sat across the street from his twin sister for an hour before realizing she was there. But the remaining seven took a lesson, waiting for 30 minutes in the tank and top-down in the same parking lot hoping the other would arrive. US without heat was a cold thing to do, but the fire alarm didn't care. But it took a break and so did we from our sojourn. Coming out of the shower, however, was very chilly. OUT to Allston (thanks to Majik for that one) we went, with big plans involving winning, going to the Mecca in Merrimack and sleeping in our own beds. The Weenies, who had seen the Philadelphia Airport twice, traveled for 12 hours and watched a Floridian learn to drive through a nor'easter, showed up for the second half. That didn't help the game, however. TO Hutch we went following the debacle, and despite the flashing Tequila, Half-Pint and the crew ended up going via Concord thanks to The Mad Pisser's directions. Tequila came to the rescue by taking the orders, while Manhattan Transfer took a gander at the testimonials of DPOSTM lore. But Tequila took the orders and Scott (Greg's replacement) manned the broasters, and we counted 100 chickens that died for our pleasure. Whatchamacallit almost lymonized, but his seizures prevented that. One more was killed so the tank could have a mascot for the ride home, but it smelled too much and is now roach food. BOSTON behind us, Half-Pint rewrote the laws on uncharted roads. But then he re-wrote the book on leaving the Vince Lombardi. The tank got gambling advice from the Worcester toll booth guy and a disgruntled Lymon fell below .500 on his hook shots. Elvis was nowhere to be seen, but his sleeping bag was. We then returned to Quakerland, where the palettes were still burning, the big wheels still turning, the snow now raining, the heat still warming and DPOSTM still living.