| This trash can only begin with the funniest moment of the night.
Period’s wife insisting that it was the first time in his life he was ever accused of being too long. Ouch. Which can only be attributed to the trail’s close proximity to the Absurd: n. The condition or state in which humans exist in a meaningless, irrational universe wherein people's lives have no purpose or meaning. Used chiefly with the. Much thanks to FreeDictionary.com And the trail was every single one. 1. The trail began with 4 true trails? Four different trails? All Laid True? But that just isn’t possible. It’s a fallacy, a muck, a sham! I’m calling shenanigans! And we let this man teach our children! The outrage of it all. But then again we run for beer because we know that alcohol naturally only weeds out the slowest brain cells. What do we really expect from ourselves in regards to the tenants of truth? The hills! Hill after Hill after Hill. Which burned and dragged our asses all over. Which was ok, until the bleeder forgot how to spell and left a BN when he meant YBF. I’m not sure that this has ever happened to a hare before, but we are sympathetic to his dyslexic plight right gang? Even though it was downright ornery and demonstrated a your clear disregard for our apparently meaningless existence when you then didn’t provide said beer for another hills. I haven’t had that many ups and downs since I started the prozac. Anyway, I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me sum up. We gathered for the 63rd Hash of the SLO H3. It was a beautiful fall evening in Arroyo Grande. A bunch of new faces. Llana (pronounced like Yana, though spelled like Llama) BackDoorWeedWackers pretty young virgin. Jeff, and Christina, and Tito. Yeah, Tito. It was pretty cool meeting Tito. Most of us were way excited. The hare had two things going against him. One, he is First Period. Two, he had to hare with the Hashit on. The Beer God’s were aligning for a repeating of his Virgin experience. The hounds would make him bleed. Which of course may explain the mean naturedness of the trail he laid. Seriously, for those who ran the whole thing, it totaled somewhere around 9 miles. 9 miles of hills. I’m pretty sure we were all walking like Thai anal whores the next day. At least that’s what my roommates accused me of. As was already mentioned, the trail began with 4 true trails. So we all got split up. I know that the Mechanical Bull and I were among the foolish, and got separated pretty early in the hash. I don’t know how many times we “caught up” with other lost hounds, but eventually we found our way to the BN without the B. So instead the then unnamed Fork Off informed us of the proximity of at least some form of alcohol at his house. He called it Sveetka, a Romanian homemade vodka. With the newly found buzz satiating our appetites, we strode on. And got lost… again. And again… and again. At this point we were all pretty frustrated with the trail. It didn’t seem to lead anywhere, other than to others hashers coming at us and still following true trail. The only one who seemed to be On-On with any regularity was Dry Socket, who led the turkey, and managed to be in front of me regardless of the number of times that I passed. It was like some strange exotic dream with the Cheshire Cat. All smiles and much mischievousness. In short… the trail sucked. I mean it really, really, really sucked. I know we sing the song every time. I motion that we change his song to. SHI-TTY-TRAIL Shitty Trail, it sucked, Shitty trail, it really sucked. I would rather punch this guy than hash his shitty trail. Though he did pay for a round of Firestones at the last beer check. Which would have been a much grander gesture had he laid a trail that the pack could finish. I know I keep repeating it. But that trail really sucked. Though in a moment of shining inspiration for all of the pack, Sprinkle Princess excersized the demons of his first haring experience and caught the Bad Mutha (Shut Yo Mouth!) How sweet the joy of showing up, sweaty, panting, exhausted and eager for revenge in the down-down circle to find that despite First Period’s divine ability to defy every natural law of the hash, the hare had been snared. Chant it with me. Oh-for-two! Oh-for-two! HAHAHAHA! Oh the delirium. On-On to the Down-Downs: The Mechanical Bull once again performed laudably for the group in Matzo’s absence. Some bad songs, some unreasonable down downs. Um…Yeah. Let’s see what I can dredge up from the memory. It was hard to see. The trail had lasted, as duly noted above, too long. I’m pretty sure that one of the virgins went bare ass for her virgin challenge, but no one got the pictures. Of course such a magnificent event would happen in the dark. There was much chit-chat on the sideline. All of it justifiably attributed to our favorite Skingineer. Which she made her husband drink in her stead. Who was then made to drink for Chivalry. And then made to drink for headgear, and if one drink, they all drink, so he drink her portion again. In the course of down-down and its resultant “penalties”, Fork Off was passing off his keys. And we had 5 names! Mark #2!: Due to his penchant from coming up the rear…ahem, and taking care of those falling off the back we made him drink for chivalry. Then we praised his considerable efforts to stay in the back and catch a glimpse the numerous hot asses belonging to our harriets. Deservedly we welcome Rear Admirable. Mark#3!: How unfortunate for this wanker that he joined the hash under The Mechinical Bulls tutelage. There was no argument to the proposed name once we heard it’s origin. His ex-wife, who was apparently batty, loved to take in feral cats from the street and get them fixed. That’s right… she was the queen of surgical castration and removal of excess organs. (Shivvers all around no?) The man couldn’t take this and other neuroses, much to his credit. Accordingly, we proudly welcome Pussy Intolerant to our fold. Mark#4! I mean Mike-hell. Apparently doesn’t work as a Fork-Lift operator. Which would have given the name some depth. But I’m still going to enjoy hearing him introduce himself as the ever adversarial “Fork Off!” I’m pretty sure the exclamation point is included in the proper pronunciation. You have to mean it! Mark #5! AKA Liliana, AKA the portable dressing room, AKA ManyGoodSkirts. She was sooooo close to being named AssFantastic, but we are not accustomed to unnecessary praise. So instead we took a cue from one of Liliana’s great non-sequiters: “Skin is my accessory.” She does so many wonderful things that accentuate our lives with her skin that we found it fitting to name her “Skingineer.” And Just Tracy. Oh this was a good one. We had way too much dirt on her… during her first hashes when she had yet to learn of our devious ways of turning any personal knowledge into your name, she talked way too much . Blowjobs under the pier, dead-pan justification of backsliding with “I was getting laid in Salinas!” almost got her named the Salinas Penis. But she informed us that members of her family, sharing the last name of Sturgeon, were also hashers, and had been named accordingly. Despite her desperate pleas for a name that involved some form of smelly fish… we were only partially able to oblige. Fishy smells, sex, and promiscuous behavior BELONG in the hash, so we welcome Cannery Ho. The Hashit was passed most fittingly from Husband to Wife, or is it Wife to Husband? I’m never really clear about their respective roles in the relationship… Who is too long again? They shared each other bounty from our goblet of disgrace, and smiled willingly as they digest the taste of bathroom stalls everywhere. I wonder which of the two will show up wearing it… and what she will add? So that’s it. The end of the trail, but not the end of my desire for some form of vengeance. Beware the spork! Signing off without getting a piece, so you all can’t have any either. |
| SLOH3 HASH #63 |