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| SLOH3 Trash #64 |
| Oh sweet prince of yesteryear and ill fated beer,
How long the gaze to fathom with depth and leisure, The misgotten names played in mistrustful games, To lay a path with signs unclear, To ends seen only with eyes of thirst and seizure, To hare a story worthy of the name, Itchy Scrotum… the lame. For two long weeks I have searched for the most fitting and skewering of phrases with which I may adequately render, for posterities sake of course, how those of us who were so thoroughly fucked on the top of that hill feel about your trail. In the end, it comes from the fertile battlegrounds of post adolescent, prepubescent males who daily struggle for the honor and might of pixilated fairies and princesses. Yes, in the words of the technodweeb – You Fucking n00b. In the end though, because the sight from my darkside is 20/20, there were many many signs that should have warned me of this beerless day. Slohash # 64 The Beerless Trail of Itchy Scrotum. Sign #1 – Unscouted and Unprepared It all began with a death gurgle. In its final throes as a viable system of management, Democracy proved to be nothing more than the tool of the vote counters. Despite resounding support for the female candidate, BackDoorWeedWhacker, the men behind the electronic veil defrauded the senseless populace with a “surprise” 500 vote comeback for Itchy Scrotum. Whoopety-fuckin-do. Nobody saw the victory of the anglo-saxon male over the disenfranchised female coming. Fucking hegemonic institutions and their two shakes of a cock and a wink-wink. Wait, that’s Slug-Ho’s prison story. But I think his went two winks and then he shakes a cock. Right, that’s it. So as mother democracy gathers her entrails after the brutal onslaught, we gathered to drink beer. And we were in good spirits, we had a visitor sighting, Banana In Public from the Bay Area (“WHAT WHAT!” Ahem…), a familiar starting place at Spike’s, and fresh virgin hare to chase up our favorite mountain. We all knew where this trail was going… and there were only two ways down. Sign #2 – Feeling confident. But beer will do that for you. Along with it’s amazing qualities as a social lubricant… beer instills a few other things. One of them the belief that the opposite sex is god’s gift to you… the other being confidence. I think these are somewhat related, but philosopher’s still seek out mysterious binding force between them. What’s worse, we were drinking good beer. If I remember correctly, Banana In Public had a Fin Du Monde, I saw some others with a few Franziskaaner, while me and my virgins (that’s right, and they were HOT too!) enjoyed a Firestone Honey Blonde. All the taste AND two percent more alcohol. Which of course did not stop us all from drinking heavily from the cheap beer cooler before the hare was away. Which brings us to: Sign #3 – being drunk before you start. Oh shut up, you’ve been there too. Sign #4 – Virgin Hare! If there is one thing that you n00b’s will not learn it is this… your masculinity is not defined by your length. Unless of course you’re playing light sabers in front of the men’s john, when then t has it’s obvious advantages. (See Spaceballs “I see your Schwartz is as large as mine, Lonestar.”) He did what we knew he was going to do. I mean straight for the base of it… no stopping, no stalls, one check with no false trail. There you go you fucks… start hiking. And we did. And this is where I fucked up. There was apparently a Turkey-Eagle split. Though typically this would consist of some kind of marking. I’m not sure of the purpose of this seemingly logical convention among hasher’s, but what do I know? The eerie part is that the TURKEY split led straight up the hill, while the eagle split meandered along it’s slope. So while all of us followed the single true trail, we split into groups, both screaming with hard blown whistles that the others were off their freakin rocker. Unfortunately, I chose wrong. As did the Bull and Dr. Doolittle. Along with Just Kylie (good to see you back, you’re welcome to put on a sex show in Spike’s with your boyfriend anytime.) A couple of virgins, Jodi and Maya (that hot Bulgarian, RROWWRR) also chose to follow us. To no beer. The trial went for a couple of miles, ended in a most timely YBF, and then, as far as we could make out, led us back to the base of the Turkey Trail? Ok OK, adding a 3 mile loop onto the turkey trail is a pretty smooth idea. But 6 miles of turkey trail is WAY too far. And screw you, I’ll exaggerate all I want. So while our small group was off panting up and down that damn hill, (sex on trail is only a crime if you get caught…) the rest of the “runners” found beer 200 yards ahead. This of course kept them placated like happy sheep fresh back from their shepherd’s britches. So they plodded along endlessly, around the hill, all the way to Madonna, and then back home. WE threw a tantrum and turned around. Hence the beerless 6 mile trail. To the Down-Down’s! Well, only in essence. We opened the cooler of cheap beer, and waited. 2 hashers had failed to return. One we knew of. Dr. Doolittle, the ubiquitous FRB with a nose for the YBF decided to run the turkey trail too. In effect adding 45 min to the hash. As dusk descended we drank. As the sun set, we drank some more. As the nights first stars came out, we decided to send the hare off to find him. As I started to worry about the contents of the cooler, he showed up. We may have enough for down-down’s. Little did I know that our pack of 8 virgins had gathered for mischief, with Rear Admirable in their sights. And the circle formed. All those wankers who only ran the turkey trail loved it. Short, sweaty, and beer. A good trail. So our shitty trail chant did not reflect the true ardor that the minority of us experienced. It lacked luster. Our virgins however, picked up the cause. There were of course bad jokes, worse songs, and somehow this continues to happen, body parts that are indeed jokes. One shining moment… What does a pussy look like before sex. A perfect flowering rose. What does it look like after sex? A bulldog that got into the mayonnaise. Gross! But the brilliance that they all had in common, regardless of its relevance to truth, was that they were all brought by Michael Lara. That’s right, to a T they bust out his mortal name once they figured out that it meant calling him back into the circle for another full down-down. 7 times at least he shrugged, threw his hat on the ground, and took it down like a trooper. It reminds me of another vicious virgin evisceration that I witnessed once, but for some reason it’s hazy….. There were the usual Chatty Kathy’s, who aren’t used to using beer as a pacifier, but in time they managed to keep to themselves. Yeah and that’s all I got. I know all you wankers loved the Taco Works, the mini-snickers, and of course, my caramel covered poppy-cock. I’ll see you all soon, May the hash get a piece, cuz god knows I ain’t. Fred Ass-Tear |