Hares: Brrrggghhh and I Fucked Your Dad
Call me True Trail. Having arrived in the port of Houston, and having but $5 in my pocket, I sought to pickle my indiscretions in ales Karbach’d and stifle my ears with rhymes debauch’d. So, like like a dory consumed in a snor’eastercane, I found my weary feet inexorably following those of the Hash House Harriers.
After arriving at the cast-off point, the wench-captains of the trail explained their impermanent hieroglyphs and our lot was off. The crew certainly expected to find themselves finally in some exotic land, as most had vested themselves in curious skirtages, not unlike those worn by dancers in Dunquerque or Marseille. By and by, we labored past the indifferent gaze of the intemperate sun, following their biscuit-crumblings down hard-pan alleys and tarmacked thoroughfares. The track weaved between great ziggurats of shopping businesses and similar en-capitaled infrastructure. After a brief respite at a temporary grog-stop, the mortal coils shuffled on further. After encountering a wayward troop of smarter travelers who took a shorter route, the path graciously terminated. In a fit of suspicion, the crew feasted upon cold lagers and the spiced brisket of a departed bovine. ‘Twas then that the day’s venture took a turn for the unusual.
A sort of appointed Religious Advisor, Ramrod, called the crew to his masthead, drawing them with a chant exalting the great weight of his testes. The day’s wench-captains, Brrrggghhh and I Fucked Your Dad were recognized, and their efforts were then belittled. The freshest of the crew were next identified for hazing. Their lot included seven Justs: Nancy, Talia, Danny, Lee, Ken, Kelsey, and Kristen. When asked what his favorite sexual position was, Just Lee responded “the night’s still young!” A good attitude for a man bearing his appearance. The transplants were composed of Yellow Rain (a most Princely name), Montana Boy Toy (sailing from Nashville), and Hard Dickens Cider, come down from San Antonio. A devil’s quartet of birthdays featured Horsefly Drivebi, Blow Hole, Whale Tale (played by Unlaiden Swallows, doing herself no favors for future misidentifications), and Insane Clown Pussy. They were all turning 29. As this point all order dissolved, and the each drunken reprobate proceded to lob baseless accusations at the other.
McPisser was first fingered for doing his best to start a girl fight on trail. Don’t start what you can’t finish. The next line in the proceedings reads: Unlaiden Swallows gives head all the time. No explanation is given, and in the name of G, none is needed. Slap Dat Ass was then celebrated for constantly picking her tutu out of her twat. Nothing can escape a thigh vortex of that magnitude! Dick The Boy Wonder was called in for something, and despite being a spotlight-shy shrinking violet, he summoned the courage to participate in a silly song about dicks or something. Underboob followed, for carrying a wee pup upon her shoulders. Guess it was tired of her leg. Sticky Lips’ opinon of trail was so poor, she nearly strangled herself with her whistle while negotiating a wooden fence. There was no time to delve deeper into ultra-lame territory, as then the rozzers showed up to disperse the revelers.
There was beer yet to be drank, and the kegs were relocated to Happy Meal Park. Circle continued there, unbeknownst to the On Sec, who had stopped at a seaside taco shanty. Accusing and singing proceeded casually until the hashers steadily departed of their own accord. Then the remainder stripped to their skins and climbed a fence for a swim. Then we all slept in a big pile next to the bon fire. True story.
ANNOUNCEMENTS
· Do you wanna get naked (or not) and chill by the fire? Come to the Falllll Campout. It’s free, and there’s skydiving! (Skydiving not free).
· Congratulations, you’re the 18th reader of this trash! According to the H4 bylaws, you are now the hare for November 18th. Contact Snatcha-terry-ass to receive your reward! Seriously, we need hares for 11/18 and 12/16.