Hares: Buzzkill, London Fag, Rancid Asshole, and Lube Job
For her Birthday, Buzzkill decided to lay a trail. So she said. She enlisted the help of London Fag. He’s the son of one of those twins, is it Parson’s Nose or Heartache? Whatever, the one with the kid. Anyway, they decided to lay a very modern, minimalist, synergist’s trail. A less is more kind of trail, where the whole is greater than the sum of the parts. For those parts, Buzzkill laid 20% of trail, and London Fag laid 20% of trail, and then the rest just kind of lays itself, right? Unsuspecting hounds and harriettes convened at Tony Marron Park under hash-friendly skies, completely unaware of the shiggy-free ghetto trek that lay before them. After a hasty road crossing, Blow Hole led the pack to a leisurely chalk talk, where she adamantly expressed that she was responsible for no part of the actual trail. This should have been autowankers’ clue #1. Heedless of the clusterflush in their immediate future, the pack ventured forth on flour and froot loops. Yum!
It is difficult to describe of this kind of trail to one who was not there to experience it. A similar feat would be explaining the existential malaise and soul-searching inner mania that comes from a listening to a Rick Perry diatribe to a citizen of the socialist utopia of Finland. If that analogy made no sense, good. It was just like trail. Trail was to feature a beer check and two shot checks. In many ways, we ought to thank the hares, who taught the pack that some promises don’t come true. Thank you, for opening our bleary, newborn eyes to the harsh realities of the real world. Some found the beer check, some found a whispering remnant of a shot check, and some found a T-E split without flour. All found a trail with several loops, doubling back on two sides of one street, two checks within 50 ft of each other, and lots of good exercise on a beautiful day.
Through a mixture of stone-cold zenning, up-giving and car-returning, and some assistance from cycho-hashers, the pack miraculously found its way to the On In. The trail’s intractability was so unrelenting that hashers were uncharacteristically thankful for the riders. Under ordinary circumstances, it is right to disdain them. Scoff heartily as they gaily roll around the tarmac, perched so prettily atop their shiny, expensive, compensatory steeds while honorable hashers bravely tread the trail beside them…right? Wrong, not this time. At any rate, trail’s end featured a keg of Live Oak Hefewiezen and cuties and hash fare and all the hash bags. G be praised!
CIRCLE
After walking car-backs and a visit from Houston’s finest, duly erected Religious Advisor Ramrod convened his congregation with a tale of a man who had no balls at all. As is usual, the hares drank first for their shitty trail. First timers included Just Jessica and Just Hao. The highlight from a bunch of reboots was Just Malerie, whose excuse was rogue-whoring. Honorable hash behavior? Analversaries featured Buzzkill‘s birthday and Amazing Technicolor Vagina‘s return to Sunday hashing, as she can now get off on Sundays! Awards were then presented to Save A Horse Ride A Mole (25 trails) Urban Cocksucker (50), Ass Swipe (300!), and PP (a whopping 650!). This did not stop Sticky Lips from stealing the spotlight, celebrating her 20th hashiversary. Let us all hope they got a life.
Then accusations could begin. Sometimes, statistics really tell the story. And here is one: the hares were the targets of the first ELEVEN down downs. Let them be briefly recounted, that future hares might benefit:
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London Fag promised and failed to provide haring tips. Just the tip!
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Hares needed a Hare U to avoid sidewalk cleaners
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Pack should have known better than to follow the progeny of Parson’s Nose
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Trail laid on wrong side of road for direction of travel (lame, but who cares?)
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No boob checks, but dirty undies nonetheless found on trail
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Hares laid trail ass-backwards?
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London Fag caught by that fat, slow SOB Duke of Puke
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London Fag ironically, and incredibly, DFL of his own trail?
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No flour laid at T-E split, because they were feelin’ gooey.
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Scarcely a runner’s trail, definitely no walkers’ trails
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Blow Hole and Lube Job super-shitty secret hares
Following those redresses of grievances, Whale’s Vagina was thrust into the breech, made to drink for abandoning his 5-gallon growler trail treasure in favor of a Mexican’s little biblio negro. He also gave a screwdriver to a child while in Galveston. Whilst in circle and not taking notes, EZ Chair wrote a poem in the On Sec notebook which she quickly blamed on McPisser.
Truly, a latter day Mona Van Duyn. The bikers drank honorably next, to the consternation of all those with the slightest ounce of self-respect. Ass Grabber did the following down down, for arriving at the On In under the guise of a ghetto super-hero, having donned a green tarp found on trail as a cape. Lorna Dunes drank some of her fancy wine for positing that all farm animals are sexual, when you really think about it. Aggie joke? Too easy. Aussie joke? Too classy. Missouri joke? Yeah, uh, that’s what they call playing the field in the Ozarks. Swish. Funnier without context: Indiana Bones and the Temple of Poon accidentally picked up crabs on the beach. Grind Slut was called out for cross-training on trail by literally, physically skipping, which Lube Job deemed “a funny way to run.” Which is big talk when you’re riding a bike. Preparing for his upcoming Grand Canyon transect, Pull The Plug hogged all the froot loops during circle. Which is a mean way to steal Roadkill‘s breakfast. From here, the circle devolved to a frankly wonderful food fight. The sky was full of sweet-smelling froot loops, peanut-buttered discs of tortilla, and cutie grenades. This seemed funny at the time, but in the cold Tuesday light it sounds like the ultra-lamest accusation ever: Snatch Trick‘s dog Moppet had an imperfect haircut. Thank you, Heartache. After Gland of the Lost drank for trying to buy tamales from every resident in the barrio, it was time to swing low and GTFO.
ON ON ON
The On On On was held at the Moon Tower Inn, a venue with a certain reputation among hashers. This bar/grill was the inspiration for that Restaurang At The End of the Universe that is so exclusive and prestigious that you have to invent a time travel machine to go back in time and make reservations before you’re born so you can be seated before you die. It was a pleasant evening nonetheless, featuring several bouts of wrong-bathroom peeing.
ANNOUNCEMENTS
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Want to help me pitch a tent? Cum to the Spring Campout!
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Don’t be an April fool! Hare trail April 7! Come on, baby, do it for big daddy.