Hares:  Can’t Hound, Grind Slut, and McPisser

To commemorate the passing of beloved Balut, his three best pals planned to lay a trail to honor him. Because they cared for him so much, they made damn sure to get his cremains to mix in with the trail’s flour. They definitely didn’t forget. It might have been to their benefit to do so, as marks were remarkably small and long-spaced on the trail. Hounds gathered behind Darque Tan (we put you at the head of the “Q”!) on Wilcrest, driving or walking there at their leisure. Brrrggghhh even arrived early to “get some training in.” Chalk talk featured boob checks, turkey-eagle splits, backchecks, beer checks, and free hundred dollar bill checks. None of them were on trail.

Loosed from the start, the pack traced flour across the southern boundary of Lakeside golf course to Kirkwood. The scarce marks forced the pack to solve checks communally, finding true trail in the creek under Kirkwood. From here the path alternated between the Buffalo Bayou gravel trail, the Buffalo Bayou paved trail, and the Buffalo Bayou surface roads in the nearby neighborhood. After crossing Wilcrest again and arriving at a power line easement, the On In was sighted nearby, just across Buffalo Bayou. Here, the thirstier hashers braved the thrashing opaque “waters” and crossed the raging torrent to the beer on the other shore. Those more concerned with keeping their knickers dry retraced the path back to Wilcrest and followed the bike trails the rest of the way in. Whale’s Vagina walked home to shower and douche after swimming, and made it back in time for circle. Continue reading →

Hares:  Saran Crap, Tender Vittles, and Mommy’s Little Accident

The start was at Bear Creek Park on the west side of town. Trail was laid in flour and toilet paper and went south through the shiggy to the end. The end was at a dusty lot on the other side of the dam. There was no beer check. Also there are no notes of trail.

Duly erected Religious Advisor Ramrod corralled his congregation with some help from Mr. Banglestein. The hares were promptly fêted and flagellated. A duo of virgins was composed of Just Jimmy (w/ Just James) and Just Richard (w/ Slap Dat Ass). Their favorite sexual position and farm animal, respectively, was the fainting goat. There was likewise a pair of hashers from lands afar: Orangu-Spray from Yongson, Korea and returning Dane DDD. Circle was briefly interrupted by late arriving DFLs Nappy Headed Homo (who was late) and Parson’s Nose. When advised to go left, he instead went right, claiming “a British left.” Stupid metric system. Celebrations featured birthdays of Geek and Just James, the 9^th hashiversary of Snatchatarrius, and 35^th anniversary of marriage between Parson’s Nose and (notably) absent Juices Flowing. Usual business wrapped up with a somber but fond farewell for departed dude, Balut. Continue reading →

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. Continue reading →

Courtesy of: Duke of Puke, A$$ Swipe, and Grind Slut

It was the second substantial cold front of the season, and autumnal temperatures drew droves of hounds to the trail’s start, where it was actually getting warmer. After changing out of long-sleeved and other thermal apparel, hounds anxiously awaited chalk talk. Soon the hares were off. Eager to track down, then pants, and eventually fellate their mates, Rancid Asshole and Vague Rant took off after 5 minutes in a vain attempt to snare the hares. Five more minutes later, the respectable pack followed suit. The start was easily the most difficult part of trail. Floured checks brought the pack around the back of the shopping center and thence south through an eroding apartment complex. Solving the next check led hounds east down a skateboard-proof bayou. Successive checks led further through the concrete until trail climbed to the road grade and around a church back to the White Oak Bayou and the TC Jester disc golf course. Continue reading →

Courtesy of:  Mr. Chode’s Wild Ride, Dick Assley, Double Mint Cum

The time had come for Double Mint Cum and Mr. Chode’s Wild Ride to pop their cherries. Their Obi Wan, Dick Assley, gave them the talk about the turds and the pees, and they prepared to spill their seed upon the Earth. To commemorate the occasion, they invited hashers from far and wide to join them in sunny Hermann Park. After packing the rape-van / shag-wagon, it was time for chalk talk. Trail was laid in flour (natch) and there were to be a variety of dick checks and boob checks. Minutes later, the pack was off. Trail led west across the park to the corner of Rice U. Proceeding into campus, flour flowed past some confused undergrads and unstable hammock stands. Arriving soon at the the corner of the football stadium, the glorious BC mark emerged. Unfortunately, the beer was nowhere to be found. Thinking it was hidden nearby, the pack ranged about the parking lot until more trail was found. After semi-circumnavigating the stadium, the hares showed up with the van and a cooler of beer.

Hounds downed their beers quickly and carefully as CSI advised of the safe locations on campus to drink in the open, owing to his wayward youth. Returning now to Hermann Park, the hares decided to skip the Piggly Wiggly Pavilion and extend trail to Brays bayou and across the bridge, leading finally to the On In! The splendid location featured locked bathrooms, three kegs of piss beer, a huge block of colby jack cheese, and a big knife for hashers to practice birth control with. Continue reading →

Courtesy of: Shigmata, Mcpisser, Grind Slut, and Roller Balls (sorta)

A wearisome pall of anxiety hung heavy upon Houston’s hashers last week. Once again, Sunday was fast approaching, and no hares had enlisted to lay a trail. Late in the eleventh hour – a miracle! There would be a trail after all, and what’s more, it would be laid by mystery hares! Oooh, a mystery – somebody call Fagatha Christie! A heaping lot of hounds (any one of whom might have hared…) milled about Happy Meal Park waiting for chalk talk and speculating which of their magnanimous mates might be their savior-hare. Could it be Professor Pudknocker, in the shiggy, with the flour bag? After some interminable minutes, Shigmata emerged from a standard chalk talk and took off to lay trail solo. After waiting the traditional twelve minutes, the pack was off as well.

Now this trail was particularly complicated. In the absence of a map, follow this paragraph closely to comprehend this trail’s tortuous path. Trail went south across the Memorial loop road and west along the Seymore Lieberman Exertrail (hereafter referred to by the contracted SexTrail). After a while, flour stuck to the SexTrail going south-by-counterclockwisey , to the first beer check. Quoth Grind Slut, “If you don’t stop for a beer, you’re a wanker!” Cough, Duke of Puke, cough. From the mouths of babes, indeed. From there, dollops were doled further along the SexTrail, taking a left along Memorial Drive. After a few more furlongs, things got complicated. This time, flour followed the SexTrail to the second beer check. Sensing a pattern, the smarter hounds then followed the SexTrail (hey, flour!) a bit further back to the start. Hell yeah, A to A! Continue reading →

Hares:  Madame Buggerfly, Rancid Asshole, and Vague Rant

Texans are by no means famous for their wide temperature range of personal comfort. The first cold front of the season that arrived over the weekend nearly sent many locals reaching for their hoodies in temperatures that would still be considered lethal in the more boreal regions of the continent. Truth be told, Sunday was a beautiful day by Houston standards, and brought out numerous regulars, virgins, visitors, and reboots in droves. Cars, too. Half-minds and quarter-brains convened at Meyerland park, which in reality is not so close to Meyerland Plaza, as previously advtertised. Nonetheless, a standard chalk talk advised the pack to follow the WHITE FLOUR before loosing hounds into the storied wilds of Bellaire.

Trail wound efficiently to the bayou, with the large pack permitting the majority of hounds to stand idle at checks while the FRBs divined the true path onward. That true path traversed a great drainage structure where Jizz Hands found some literary trail treasure: a water worn copy of The Prometheus Deception by Robert Ludlum. Reviews of the work on Amazon are poor, citing its brazen lack of sexy vampires. Although temperatures were easily ten degrees cooler than the rest of the summer, running in the summer sun remained a taxing endeavor. Thankfully the beer check was found at the exit of the “shiggy.” If beer checks were judged by beer quality instead of scenery, this would have been one of the best. Rarely is the customary piss replaced by fancy seasonals on a Sunday trail. Bravo, hares! Continue reading →

Hares:  Snatchitarriass, French Drip, Dumpster Diver

For those living a life of leisure, here’s what happened at the hash on Sunday.

TRAIL

Virgin territory can be hard to come by when you’re running roughshod over an large metropolis multiple times a month for more than 20 years. So any hare could be forgiven if hounds felt a sense of deja vu on any trail. Nostalgia is an endearing notion, a chronologically uniting emotion when deftly engendered. But too much of a good thing can lead to a hasherly ennui. Case in point: this week’s trail. Starting from the easily-accessible Happy Meal Park, flour flowed rapaciously into the Ho Chi Minh trails of Memorial Park. That would be same trails run by the r@cists every thursday during the gentle Texas summer. Cue a guileless I’m A Big Girl Now “Is this the Ho?” Pretty much, but wait, there’s more! Continue reading →