Mad Cow here, writing a guest-star Hash Trash: Ahoy! And many thanks for the twilight flounder through the Dismal F*cking Swamp on Saturday. I never thought a Keys bayou could smell worse than a dead hobo’s ass-crack. But I now stand corrected.
We started in New Town, we had three beer stops spread throughout the mobile-home park, we got wet in the canal... and we ended with Religion behind Daddy Bones where we drank beer before the Tyrant moved us all to Shanna Key to get warm and eat fried chicken. It was good while it lasted.
The evil Hares Just Kat and Bloody Treasure Chest might have saved the septic-tank swan dive for the end of the hash when we all REALLY had to pee… or succumb to a timely bout of diarrhea, projectile vomiting, draining our gangrenous wounds, etc. as none of the above could have challenged the toxicity of this primordial soup. NAAAASTY! I guess the participating “(occasionally) high and (not so) tight (anymore)” types must REALLY enjoy being examined by military docs OR y’all have damn low health insurance co-payments. At least the impending typhoid symptoms will temporarily distract us from the recent chlamydia outbreak… (It is rumored that Fartacus is Patient Zero. Again. Bet he got it “sloppy seconds” from a blow-up doll. A male one. So it was scrawled on the bathroom wall of the 801 Bourbon Bar. In his own handwriting).
As for the rest of the hash: Wow! I never knew so many dumpsters could be crammed into a single zip code! Well done! Unfortunately, the local vagrants won’t lie still long enough for me to draw chalk lines around them, so where’s the fun? The shitty beer succeeded in slowing the progress of this Recovering Mormon by at least a day. And counting. Twelve steps in the wrong f*cking direction… damn!
And…aaaah! The huMANity! Many thanks to our fellow DFL, Ribbed for His Pleasure who was clad in a strategically holey, neon-green Richard Simmons hand-me-down body stocking. Alas, instead of “Feel the burn!“ it was “Feel the freeze!” Note: If your hunky physique carried a mere ounce of fat, maybe your publicly-displayed manhood wouldn’t have shriveled to the size of a juvenile maggot. Question: Does it hurt when testicles re-ascend? Antarctic rubbish heaps don’t sport colder junk. Yes, it was chilly. You knew that beforehand. Next time be prepared: Bring a (child’s) tube sock on a lanyard. Anyway, thanks for sharing.
“Pullin’ Out” - thanks for the (ab)use of your house, where we started trail! Some of us actually made it to the sink. Others of us weren't tall enough. The rest of us forgot to flush. But that's why God invented bleach. P.S. Next time chuck all your used lube onto your landscaping tarp so we can use it as a Slip ‘N Slide From Porno Hell. This clever lagniappe will undoubtedly make Marilyn ManHoe wax nostalgic over his first intimate experience, as proudly documented in one of his early family albums (not to mention his uncle’s home computer).
Ahhh… I SO hated to toddle off (on a mysteriously wobbling bicycle) during the On-On-On where you all went to Shanna Key and the Tyrant bought you all pitchers of beer and hundreds of wings… Alas, my picky partner Dick Reckoning was more peckish than the entire Donner Party, yet considered the offered fried fare beneath him, probably because he was raised with snobby French culinary expectations. Or, maybe as a child, he was molested by a bucket of chicken wings (more likely, the entire diocese of Bordeaux). Alternatively, someone may have laced his beer with ex-lax (or, so he claimed to the hotel maids). I hope he didn’t give y’all pink eye, as he has been known to do…
All in all, this hash reminded me of sex in college: Over too quickly, foreplay consisted of beer, and it only cost ten bucks. Thanks!