The Hash began behind the courthouse, with the shockingly delightful sight of XSNRG wearing only a handmade Crown Royal banana hammock. Delightful until he turned around and displayed that goddamn harry ass, and knowing even Key West couldn’t handle that backside, we made him put on clothes for his anything-but-clothes trail. Speaking of which, fail to (most of) the Hashers! What, didn’t any of us go to college? XSNRG was highly upset at us, admonishing that we have been wanking of a lack of spirit and creativity and fun at KWH3, and then we don’t even shed our clothes! We have a responsibility as Hashers! Yep, he preached of responsibility as he rode off towards Walgreens to get the chalk he forgot. As we waited, a car full of people drove up.
Yay, more visitors! They proceeded to park in such a way to get their bumper stuck and pull out the fender. Maybe they were embarrassed at their shitty driving. Maybe they were angry they just caused a thousand dollars of damage to their car. Maybe they saw Mu-sic in his towel, Chocolate Covered Cherries in her sheet, or 4 Inch in his pillowcase. But they immediately left, never to be seen again.
We (finally) began trail, through the million dollar houses of Bahama Village. Beer Check One was uneventful, and then Beer Check Two was… beerless? On a Duval side street, about five houses deep, the hash looked everywhere for the promised nectar. Mu-sic suggested we look inside a ratty-ass cooler sitting on someone’s porch, but fortunately Ménage a Neuf’s eyeroll sent out a sonic blast preventing anyone from checking. Well, either that or the three huge dudes that were sitting around the cooler, daring the strange people invading their hood to come steal their beer. Soon (a relative word), the Beermeister arrived, and the crowd calmed from its rising tizzy. There was much teasing HNIC about his punctuality, but in retrospect, why would he hurry? If you were strolling down Duval on a trike full of beer, you also would change your life philosophy to “it’s not the destination but the journey that counts.”
The Hash continued with a super-classy tit check outside of an ice cream store (yes, when our GM erased the chalk titties, there were children sitting outside the shop). It’s okay, though, because there was a dick check a block later, and another tit check a block after that. The Hare snared himself at the first dick check (“I was thirsty!”), constantly telling us about the five miles he had just run with his amazing turkey-eagle spilt (so glad he put on shorts, can you imagine that purple bag flopping up and down as he sprinted Duval… oh wait, that’s pretty normal here). Next was a bit of getting lost due to Just Bradley (fucking non-named Hashers!), and then our final dick check where our only visitor Jersey Asshole (still no idea how he got that name) decided to go across the street, hidden between two cars to show us his junk. Of course, 4 Inch was the only other person possessing a penis with us slower group of ladies, and he probably didn’t want us comparing.
Then we circled. Because XSNRG forgot the sacred drinking vessel (responsibility, Hashers!), we drank out of a nasty-ass safety cone. Seven Shooters kept calling himself “RA” because he was leading circle, to which Mu-sick and XSNRG were mightily offended. Mu-sick was also butt-hurt that he couldn’t find the markings on the eagle trail, while everyone else had a blast on turkey. It was Thar’s birthday, and we all told her to fuck off. Then Under Table Junk Grabber drank in celebration of a name she can tell her parents.
Ah, Hashers. You literally can’t please all of us at once, no matter how hard we keep trying!
Love, Just Steph