Hey Pin Ball! Missed you on the hash Sunday 12-15-96. This is my version of the days hash. The Hare's were Stop & Blow and John Boy. It was the 932nd running of the HHHH.

A wet nasty cold front came in before the run. As a matter of fact it kept cumming in all through the run. The temperature at the start was 46 degrees and dropping. It was the kind of day best spent in bed under a warm comforter with a warm comforter. Of course you knew that; because you weren't there!

Anyway, we ran into the woods down a nice path to a check; that kept everyone running in circles for a few minutes. I ran the false trail of course. Little did we know at the time that this would be the last good path on the run. We left the path into some light shiggy, down a hill into a swamp. The water was knee deep. The Pits and I paralleled the trail on the high ground for as long as we could; then we had to take the plunge. We were in the water for about a hundred yards or so. So far; I was only wet up to my crotch. The Pits and I ran to a check that was cleverly hidden in an abandoned shack. Most of the pack was behind us with Hooter Bill in the lead. Even though we were yelling ON ON and Pipes was blowing his whistle; they missed the check and ran through a false. It took them ten or twenty minutes to get back to the check in the shack. Bald Eagle crossed a bayou with the water was up to his chest.

He is taller than I am; so I went upstream to look for a shallower crossing with someone that wasn�t Cadaver Diver. This proved to be a bad mistake. I removed my clothes, except for my boots, and held them over my head in a foolish attempt to keep them dry. I stepped in the bayou and immediately sank down in the brown swamp water completely over my head and outstretched arm. My jungle boots weighed me down like two Mafioso cement overshoes. I walked along the bottom to the other side and crawled out thinking, "Hypothermia, you frigid bitch, here I come!". The hasher that wasn�t Cadaver Diver opted for going back to the true trail.

Being completely soaked, frozen and almost drowned wasn't the worst part; however. It was being stark naked and unable to move in a briar patch with vines as thick as my ... arm, yeah that�s it... with spines as sharp and pointy as the teeth on a 200 LB alligator gar. I know because I saw a skeleton of one in the brambles. How he got in there I don't know; but I know he didn't make it out. Somewhere in this swamp, there is a baby alligator gar wondering whatever became of his moma or papa. I'm the only one that knows.

Meanwhile the calls and whistles of ON ON were growing fainter and fainter. I couldn't go forward and I wouldn't go backward. The only way was under them. I'd have to explain the scratches on my back to Two Hands Full later. "Why darling, those scratches on my back weren't caused by pleasuring some wild banshee of a women or Pin Ball. They are from crawling through a briar patch naked and wet, during a Blue Norther."

I found a hole and belly crawled through it using my clothes as a shield... then I got stuck. I looked to my right and there lay the skeleton of the gar or was it the Ghost of Drummer Bill's Christmas Past?. I noticed that it was as long as I was tall. Visions of our two skeletons being found in the future by another hapless hasher, perhaps Geek, came to mind. I forged ahead, gritting my teeth as the barbs tore my skin and rendered my flesh into hamburger meat. When I finally crawled out, I looked like I had been whipped by a cat of nine tails. Actually; I kind of liked it.

The calls of the pack in front of me were long gone. There was dead silence behind me too. I figured I was DFL and WOT. Great, I thought, "Here I am cold, wet, off trail, cold, naked, probably lost, cold and the temperature is dropping and it was getting dark." I just prayed to the hash Gods; that I wouldn't run into Geek. I put my wet cold clothes back on and made a beeline to where I heard the last calls of On On and YES! I found flour. Yes! There is a hash God!

I stayed on the hash marks this time, swam another bayou and came to a logging road. I ran into two other hashers who asked to remain nameless; but they weren't Grind Slut and Roller Balls. We ran through a graveyard of pipes and tires. The back check on the railroad tracks caused us to run an extra quarter mile or so; finally finding the water check on Hwy 90. At the water check (like we really needed more water) I followed the foot prints of the pack down the highway. I must have missed the check sending everyone back into the shiggy and another twenty minutes of splashing through the swamps. This proved once again; that I was being watched over by a Greater Force.

The run ended in a circle jerk with John Boy and Stop and Blow trying to foil the Hash one last time on a check at the Beer Near sign; by putting the check and BN on the left fork of the road; while the ON HOME was to the right. I was slightly confused because there were only a few foot prints in the mud. I found out, later, that the main body of the pack, led by Hooter Bill was still out. The trail I followed down the highway was laid by Ass Grabber; who was trying to keep up with Gonad The Barbarian. He found two bags of flour on trail and was bringing them back to the ON HOME for an accusation against the Hares. Flour was leaking from the bags; so he unknowingly or unwittingly or both laid a shortcut to the end. Thanks lad.

The Pits saved us all with his raging inferno. He built a pretty good fire too. Because of tight quarters around the fire; we circled up a short distance away. Even building another fire in the circle; couldn't entice almost half the hash away from the fire The Pits built. Roller Balls was the stand in RA. The circle was short. Muscle Phart would have loved it if he had been there. (He must have stayed at home with a warm comforter too.) The most memorable event was that the temperature was still dropping and now it was raining. Personally, I was just starting to enjoy myself and was about to break out in song; when the circle ended.

We adjourned to the big fire; where we swapped some trail stories and tried to keep warm and dry. There was plenty of cold cold beer, a roaring blaze and bimbos to keep warm with. Again I was feeling pretty good about myself and was about to break out in song to celebrate my good fortune; when everyone left for the ON ON ON. The ON ON ON was at a redneck dive called Reds.

The beer was cheap and the barmaid was cute. What follows is my rendition of the events of the ON ON ON and not to be confused with what really happened. Stop reading if you are offended by foul language or sexists remarks. If your name is mentioned and you are not guilty of the act; don�t want it known publicly; or just plain offended; I must have been referring to someone else.

I borrowed heavily from the ballads of Yukon Jack and Eskimo Nell to tell the story of the ON ON ON at Reds...

When a man grows old and his balls grow cold and the tip of his tool turns blue And it bows in the middle like a one string fiddle; then he can tell you a tale or two. So pull up a chair and stand me a drink; for a tale to you I�ll tell; about Dead Eye Dick, Mexican Pete and a harlot called Eskimo Nell...

When Dead Eye Dick and Mexican Pete sally forth in search of fun; Dead Eye Dick packs his prick and Mexican Pete his gun. When Dead Eye Dick and Mexican Pete get sore or depressed or sad; it�s some poor cunt that bares the brunt and the shootin� ain�t so bad.

Now Dead Eye Dick and Mexican Pete lived down on Dead Man�s Creek. It had been their luck they�d had no fuck for nigh on half a week;. except a moose or two and a caribou and a bison cow or so. For the kingly prick of Dead Eye Dick; the pickin�s were mighty slow.

So do or dare this horny pair set off for the Rio Grande. Dead Eye Dick with his mighty prick and Pete with his gun in his hand. As they blazed their noisy trail; no man their path withstood. Many virgin bride; her husbands pride; there a pregnant widow stood.

They reached the strand of the Rio Grande at the height of the blazing noon. To quench their thirst and do their worse; they sought the Reds Saloon. A bunch of the Hash was whooping it up in this redneck hole in the wall. A comely maid standing at the bar was hefting Boy George's left ball (WITH BOTH HANDS); while down on the floor on top of a whore lay the horny Hooter Bill.

When out of the night that was cold as a witch and into the dim of that hole; walked two shady ol�e pricks from the forks of the crick with a nine week load in their pole. As they flung the great doors wide; both prick and gun flashed free. "According to sex, you bleeding wrecks, you'll drink or fuck with me!"

We had heard of the prick of Dead Eye Dick from main to Panama and with scarcely worse then a muttered curse those assholes hit the bar. Dick�s trousers were split; for they were chalk full of shit as he plopped down there on a keg and his balls hung low and they swung to and fro with very move of his leg.

His face was as red as Dick Heads ass; for wildest passion within him burned and he pulled out his cock to display to the flock and everyone's asshole squirmed. He made a pass at Tonka Fuck�s ass and he missed it... but just by a hair. Tonka Fuck scowled and Dead Eye growled. His voice was much like a bear.

Then he pound on his cock with a huge piece of rock and he said, "I WANT TO PLAY!". The lights went out. There was a terrible shout and when they came on again... down on the floor with his asshole tore lay poor old cornholed Bill.

Now the girls too knew of his playful ways down on the Rio Grande; so forty whores pulled down their drawers at Dead Eye Dicks command. They saw the fingers of Mexican Pete itch on the trigger grip. They didn�t wait at fearful rate; those whores began to strip.

Now Dead Eye Dick was breathing quick with lecherous snorts and grunts; for forty asses were bared to view and likewise forty cunts. Now if you are slick with arithmetic and if you can use your wits; forty asses and forty cunts makes exactly eighty tits.

Eighty tits are a gladsome sight for a man with a raging stand and it might be rare on Berkeley square; but not on the Rio Grande. His phallic limb was in fucking trim as he reared back for a run. He made a dart at the nearest tart and he scored a hole in one.

He bore that whore to the sandy floor and there he ground her fine . Though she grinned it put the wind up the other thirty nine. Now when Dead Eye Dick lets loose his prick; he�s got no time to spare. For speed and length combined with strength; he fairly singes hair.

He made a dart at the next spare tart. When into that harlot�s hell; strode a gentle maid who was unafraid... Her name was FULL SERVICE ESKIMO NELL! By this time Dick had got his prick well up into number two; when Eskimo Nell let out a yell. She bawled to him, "HEY YOU!".

With one great flick of his muscular prick, the girl flew over his head. He whirled about with an angry shout. His face and balls were red. She stood there with her raven hair and her tits rode proud and high. With utter scorn she glimpsed the horn that rose from his hairy thigh. She blew the smoke from her cigar over the steaming knob. So utterly beat was Mexican Pete that he failed to do his job.

It was Ekimo Nell that broke the spell in an accent clear and cool. "Why you cunt-struck shrimp of a Yankee pimp. You call that thing a tool? Why if this here town can't take that down" She scowled to the cowering whores and Such A Puss , "There's one little cunt that will do the stunt. It's Eskimo Nell's not yours." She removed her garments one by one with an air of conscious pride and as she stood in her womanhood; they saw the Great Divide.

She seated herself on a table top where Bald Eagle had left his glass. With one squeeze of her tits she smashed it to bits between the cheeks of her ass. With supple ease she flexed her knees and spread her legs apart. Then with a simple nod to the horny sod (Dick not Bald Eagle); she gave him the queue to start.

Now Dead Eye Dick, he knew a trick or two and he meant to take his time. For a girl like this was fucking bliss; so he played the pantomime. He flexed his buttocks in and out and made his balls inflate; until they reached the size of granite knobs atop a garden gate. Then he blew his asshole inside out and his balls increased in size �til his mighty prick grew twice as thick and it almost reached his eyes.

Then he polished it up with alcohol and made it steaming hot. Then to finish the job; he sprinkled the knob with a cayenne pepper pot. Then neither did he take a run; Nor did he take a leap; Nor did he stoop; But took a swoop and a steady forward creep. With piercing eye, he sighted down along his mighty tool and the steady grin as he pushed it in was calculatingly cool.

Now you�ve seen the giant pistons on the mighty C.P.R. with the driving force of a thousand horse... Well you know what pistons are. Or you think you do; but you have yet to learn the IN�s and OUT�s of the trick of a job that�s done on a non-stop run by a man like Dead Eye Dick.

Now Eskimo Nell was no infidel. She was as good as a whole hareem; with the strength of ten in her abdomen and the rock of ages between. She could take a steady stream of her lovers cream like the flush of a water closet and the grip on his cock was like a Chatsworth lock on the National Safe Deposit.

Now Dead Eye Dick he knew a trick or two and he meant to conserve his powers; for if he had a mind he could grind and grind for a couple of solid hours. Nell laid for a while with a subtle smile. The grip of cunt grew keener. Then with one squeeze of her thigh; she sucked him dry with the ease of a vacuum cleaner.

She did this trick so simple and slick; so as to set in complete defiance; the basic cause and primary laws that govern sexual science. She calmly rode the phallic code; which for years had withstood the test and the ancient rules of the classic schools in a second or two went West.

So my friend we cum to the end of copulation�s classic. The effect on Dick was so sudden and quick; it was akin to anesthetic. He knew no more as he fell to the floor; his passions extinct and dead. He did not shout as his prick fell out; though it was shredded right down to a thread.

Mexican Pete jumped to his feet to avenge his pals affront! With a jarring jolt he rammed his colt right up her gaping cunt! He rammed it hard to the trigger guard and fired it three times three; but to his suprise Nell closed her eyes and squealed in ecstasy.

With a smile so sweet, Nell jumped to her feet. "Bully" she said "for you. But I can�t believe that that�s the best you poor pricks can do. Why the next time that you sally forth in search of fun; buy Dead Eye Dick a sugar stick and yourself an elephant gun." "For I�m going back to the frozen North where the pricks are hard and strong. Back to the land of the frozen stand and the nights are six months long."

"It�s hard as tin when they put it in in the land where spunk is spunk... not a dribbling stream of luke warm cream; but a solid frozen chunk." "Back to the land where they understand what it means to fornicate. Where even the dead sleep two to bed and babies masturbate." "Back to the land of the grinding gland; where the walrus plays with this prong and the polar bear jacks off in his lair. That�s where I�ll sing this song."

"And they�ll tell this tale on the Arctic trail where the night�s are sixty below; where it�s so damn cold the Johnny�s are sold wrapped up in a ball of snow." "In the Valley of Death with baited breath; that�s where they�ll tell it too; where skeleton�s rattle in sexual battle and rotting corpses screw." (Cadaver Diver begins to drool!)

"For I�m going back to Terra Belicum for the North is calling, "CUM!"

" So Dead Eye Dick and Mexican Pete slunk out of the Rio Grande. Dead Eye Dick with his useless prick and Pete with no gun in his hand...

When a man grows old and his balls get cold and the tip of his tool turns blue And the hole in the middle refuses to piddle. I�d say he was fucked; wouldn�t you?

And, the Hash played on on on ...

ON ON, Boy George