Well, there I was. Prelubing at the hash bar (formerly known as the Cork and Stogie), with 3 Hour Whore and her virgin (hahaha, I couldn't keep a straight face when I typed that) when I casually asked the co-hare if he was ready for tonight. To which Just Tim replied with an emotional, "No! I have no idea what the f*ck is going on." I stared blankly at him for a moment in disbelief, but then I remembered he was coharing with Shiggy Shave-Her. I patted him on the shoulder in a gesture of commiseration and quickly moved away to grab a beer and sit outside on the porch to watch the shitshow begin.
The boys left to grab food as 3 Hour Whore and I discussed feet, beer, and boy-free diets (with cheat days) to kill some time. Gradually we made our way over to on-start, where the hares were leaving the sacred nectar for us to enjoy pre-trail. The pack slowly gathered with lots of hasher dogs frolicking on the beach and pissing on all raised objects more than an inch from ground level. The dogs were peeing, not the hashers. 7pm rolled around and I stood up to do chalk talk.....but we had no hares and no chalk. So I cracked another beer and waited for those wankers to show up.......finally they did, 10 to 15 minutes late in true hasher form. Shiggy laid some marks that we haven't seen in a while/other kennels use just to confuse everyone, we had chalk talk, and I released those befuddling hares as quickly as possible before they could screw up anything else. We did chalk talk again for some latecomers, and then we were off!
First intersection was a disaster. There wasn't even a check, it was just that very few attending this particular trail last night have been hashing long enough or have travel hashed enough to know how dollops work instead of our regular arrows. So from that point forward every dollop became a 369 degree check unless a senior hasher or myself was at the head of the pack. Which typically wasn't me because we had a ton of straggling virgins and I was herding those wankers like cats in a field of mice and laser pointers. I'm tired all over again just thinking about it. Just Mark kept thinking paint marks were trail marks and ran a half mile down Truman before he realized he was alone and circled back to rejoin the pack on Windsor where we were shouting and blowing whistles at him. At some point, some asshole had left crushed drywall all over the trail which looks EXACTLY like freakin flour at night on the road unless you touch it, so we were running all over the place. The hares had beverage checks instead of beer checks, meaning one of the checks ended up being a Jim Beam Honey bottle that we had to kill before moving on. As a tribute to Carolina Trash H3 (my second loves), Rumply Foreskin did it on-the-toe style by tapping the next person who had to drink on the toe with the bottle. NOTE: It is absolutely awful to run after slugging Jim Beam Honey - at one point while running I yelled, "This is awful, I don't know whether I want to puke or poop!", which apparently a tiny old muggle lady heard while quietly rocking on her porch as we ran by. I heard the faint whispers of "Oh my Lord!" echo back to me, but alas, I was already past and apologies are like assholes on a hash, they all stink and mean jack shit. Shortly after a water check (whaaaat?), some of the virgins disappeared and after a momentary search by the hashers revealed that there was DRAMA ON TRAIL, we firked off and left them. The hares left a boob check near the new city hall building on White and United, but apparently a shitty security guard was so offended by this that he walked all the way down to the sidewalk and did his best to rub one out on the boobs. I mean rub the boobs out. I mean rub out the boobs. So as a gesture of pure defiance and refusal to obey The Man, multiple senior female hashers hauled their tits out and put them on proud display. Seriously, fuck that guy. The next beer check revealed that our hares must be fairies, because they bought us fairy-sized beer. Really guys, where the hell do you even buy 8oz Bud Light. Why was that even invented? What is the meaning of it all? After some drinking and discussion of accusations in circle, we were off again, finally getting to the end of the trail........where in her excitement to be FRB, 3 Hour Whore promptly ate shit (I'm not gonna lie, I'd been waiting for it all night because it happens EVERY trail) and tore her elbow off. Don't worry kids, she still drank for Blood on Trail and got FRB and properly chained and waterboarded like a goddamned champ in circle. After some minor accusations and viewing some virginal body parts (if that guy's part was virgin, I'm banging the Thor version of Chris Hemsworth), we headed to on-after at Cork and Stogie to rehash the night.
On-On!
Dead Travelin Fister
The boys left to grab food as 3 Hour Whore and I discussed feet, beer, and boy-free diets (with cheat days) to kill some time. Gradually we made our way over to on-start, where the hares were leaving the sacred nectar for us to enjoy pre-trail. The pack slowly gathered with lots of hasher dogs frolicking on the beach and pissing on all raised objects more than an inch from ground level. The dogs were peeing, not the hashers. 7pm rolled around and I stood up to do chalk talk.....but we had no hares and no chalk. So I cracked another beer and waited for those wankers to show up.......finally they did, 10 to 15 minutes late in true hasher form. Shiggy laid some marks that we haven't seen in a while/other kennels use just to confuse everyone, we had chalk talk, and I released those befuddling hares as quickly as possible before they could screw up anything else. We did chalk talk again for some latecomers, and then we were off!
First intersection was a disaster. There wasn't even a check, it was just that very few attending this particular trail last night have been hashing long enough or have travel hashed enough to know how dollops work instead of our regular arrows. So from that point forward every dollop became a 369 degree check unless a senior hasher or myself was at the head of the pack. Which typically wasn't me because we had a ton of straggling virgins and I was herding those wankers like cats in a field of mice and laser pointers. I'm tired all over again just thinking about it. Just Mark kept thinking paint marks were trail marks and ran a half mile down Truman before he realized he was alone and circled back to rejoin the pack on Windsor where we were shouting and blowing whistles at him. At some point, some asshole had left crushed drywall all over the trail which looks EXACTLY like freakin flour at night on the road unless you touch it, so we were running all over the place. The hares had beverage checks instead of beer checks, meaning one of the checks ended up being a Jim Beam Honey bottle that we had to kill before moving on. As a tribute to Carolina Trash H3 (my second loves), Rumply Foreskin did it on-the-toe style by tapping the next person who had to drink on the toe with the bottle. NOTE: It is absolutely awful to run after slugging Jim Beam Honey - at one point while running I yelled, "This is awful, I don't know whether I want to puke or poop!", which apparently a tiny old muggle lady heard while quietly rocking on her porch as we ran by. I heard the faint whispers of "Oh my Lord!" echo back to me, but alas, I was already past and apologies are like assholes on a hash, they all stink and mean jack shit. Shortly after a water check (whaaaat?), some of the virgins disappeared and after a momentary search by the hashers revealed that there was DRAMA ON TRAIL, we firked off and left them. The hares left a boob check near the new city hall building on White and United, but apparently a shitty security guard was so offended by this that he walked all the way down to the sidewalk and did his best to rub one out on the boobs. I mean rub the boobs out. I mean rub out the boobs. So as a gesture of pure defiance and refusal to obey The Man, multiple senior female hashers hauled their tits out and put them on proud display. Seriously, fuck that guy. The next beer check revealed that our hares must be fairies, because they bought us fairy-sized beer. Really guys, where the hell do you even buy 8oz Bud Light. Why was that even invented? What is the meaning of it all? After some drinking and discussion of accusations in circle, we were off again, finally getting to the end of the trail........where in her excitement to be FRB, 3 Hour Whore promptly ate shit (I'm not gonna lie, I'd been waiting for it all night because it happens EVERY trail) and tore her elbow off. Don't worry kids, she still drank for Blood on Trail and got FRB and properly chained and waterboarded like a goddamned champ in circle. After some minor accusations and viewing some virginal body parts (if that guy's part was virgin, I'm banging the Thor version of Chris Hemsworth), we headed to on-after at Cork and Stogie to rehash the night.
On-On!
Dead Travelin Fister
 |  Teeny tiny fairy beer. |
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