Courtesy of: Ffigawi, Ass Swipe, Duke of Puke, Pearl Necklace

Trail started across the street from Ring Of Fire‘s stately abode. After pounding pavement through Le Montrose, trail ended in the backyard of Duke Of Puke‘s modest mansion. For better or for worse, it was just that eventful. Let’s go to circle, shall we?

CIRCLE

Duly erected Religious Advisor Ramrod corralled his congregation with some help from a Lobsterman down by the shore. As is custom, the hares drank first for their dazzlingly shitty debacle of a trail. For many new boots in attendance, this was their first glimpse at names of the said but never seen in the likes of Ffigawi and Pearl Necklace. Oh, that’s who they are! Following the time-tested recipe, virgins drank next. The trifecta of Just Rob, Just Doug, and Just Sarah in circle was a veritable Ginger Apocalypse, coming up next on SyFy. Interjecting for a moment, Grind Slut appraised the circle of Ho Cheese Man‘s improving condition. He is grateful for the hash’s support, and could really use some visits from good friends (i.e. titties in his face). This was naturally concluded with a savory round of My girl’s a vegetable. Visitors came from home and abroad, featuring Crotch Thumper from Lexington, KY, and What’s His Name, a forgettable man from a forgettable city, Paris. Transplants were comprised of Dipshit-progenitor Just Roger from Long Beach, and Sir Dance A Lot from San Antonio. A smattering of reboots followed: Narc – closed the old folks home, Homoglobin – breast milk ran out, Hole In One and Too Drunk To Fuck – it’s the playoffs, eh?, Spin Cycle and Horsefly Drivebi – Alaskan meth adventures, Just Chris – sex reassignment surgery, EZ Chair – mastador sled dog racing, Backseat Yogurt – scheisse porn, Pearl Necklace – busy brewing! If you thought that was a long list, get a load of these analversaries: Estrus and TDTF – 40^th birthdays, Platterpuss – 5 years hashing, Pearl Necklace and Juices Flowing – Mother’s day, and McPisser – getting TXIH 2014 to Houston. Finally, at the conclusion of that usual business, it was time for accusations! But not before the 1^st Anal Insane Clown Pussy cooler award, which went to Parson’s Nose, who approached him with the secret pass phrase “I love boobies.” Of course, if you talk to certain hariettes, you’d be forgiven for thinking he says those words 24/7. Continue reading →

Courtesy of: Just Katherine and Little Pussy

What makes a trail shitty? Much like pornography, it is difficult to define but can nonetheless be identified on sight. Some shitty trails are long. Still, many long trails are extraordinary. Some shitty trails are yawning pavement pounders. Yet many trails over uninteresting terrain yield wacky shenanigans that nonetheless entertain. Some shitty trails are sun-drenched heat marches. But hashing Texans native and emigrated have made peace with the sweat and burn the summer season sends. What precisely would cause a pack to rise up as one and plant a hare’s shit chute squarely upon the ice?

Nobly, Little Pussy elected to solve this hashing conundrum by means of an experiment. To accomplish his scientific, high-minded goal, he retained the services of Just Katherine as his partner in crime cohare flour caddy. He also offered the On Sec a crisp Hamilton to try and give trail a positive spin in the trash. Hey, little Whale Vaginas gotta eat, too. The experiment yielded two results: The first, that the only activity hashers enjoy as much as drinking is complaining. This is patently old news. But, the subject hashers prefer most to complain about is the very bane of snake oil salesmen everywhere: false advertising.

Trail was announced to start at 2:00 PM for an estimated length of 5 miles. This would certainly have been a reasonable distance for late spring weather, even without a beer check, as the chalk talk made plain. Those ambitious few who completed true trail would report distances nearing 9 miles, a misjudgment of nearly 100%, however. Neither was it a speedy 9 miles. Venturing out from the start, trail veered through shiggy infested with swarming ants, aggressive longhorn cattle, stinging nettles, and nipple deep wading waters filled with poisonous serpents. In short, great hash territory for an actual 5 mile trail. To the hares’ credit, they accurately announced that the pack would get wet. However, after emerging from the Addicks reservoir, hashers expecting an On In and needing a beer check were instead treated to a standard check. True trail led north through the shiggy. Many tired hounds instead paralleled along the crest of the dam. After a few more miles, the precious Beer Near mark was found. A few miles after the mark, beer was actually near. Here the weary hordes and huddled masses yearning to sate their thirst donned dry clothes and calmly mused over punishments for the insidious hares. Many chose to air their grievances directly to the hare. Continue reading →

Thanks lube job!

Hares:  Slap Dat Ass, Insance Clown Pussy, Cream On My Back

Because it was his birthday, Cream asked me to write his trash.  Here it is in haiku form.

Start at Happy Meal

Three Hares to help celebrate

Cream On My Back’s birth.

Chalk Talk was started,

Spot on the Mat showed up late,

Cannot park worth shit.

Hounds sent on their way,

Dick Assley was in the front,

Not for very long.

Crossed Westcott quickly,

Traffic coming from both sides,

Almost hit by car.

Ran to railroad tracks,

Found 10 yards of shitty trail,

Running on tracks sucks.

Saw Slap at her car,

Cooler filled with jell-o shots,

Birthday Cake flavor.

Ran north for too long,

T.C. Jester not hash friend,

ly, getting real hot.

Lube Job riding bike,

Bitching about everything,

Had to carry bike.

“Water Crossing” was,

Smelly, trash-filled drainage ditch,

Hearthache found his balls.

Came up to a park,

Saw hashers just hanging out,

Thank god, a beer check.

Too many miles left,

Was getting warmer outside,

legs were giving out.

Trail went back to park,

Dead trees torn out of the ground,

Not a virgin end.

Hash food way too good,

Assorted cheese and crackers,

left in sun too long.

Beer was flowing fast,

Circle was called to “order”

Slap was put on ice.

Prizes given out,

For the best item on trail,

baby almost won.

Couldn’t hear cirlce,

Ramrod tried to take control,

Iced asses abound.

Shigmata looked hot,

Ice water was dumped on head,

Revenge would be had.

Circle then ended,

Time to watch a beer mile,

record be broken.

Horsefli didn’t see,

Shigmata with the trash can,

Ice water looked cold.

On-After was full,

Of lesbian softball teams,

cheap beer and crawfish.

Beer mile record

breaker was super wasted,

it’s good to be king.

On-on to the Spring,

TXIH and camp-out,

Register.  Bitches.

For Pics – click here—>  Trash 1837

HOUSTON HASH HOUSE HARRIERS

TRAIL # 1837

Box Score

Hares: 3 (Dick Assley, impotent Flatline, ed cheap Whale’s Vagina)

Hounds: ~80

Kegs: 1 Full, herbal Cold keg of Harp

Kegs Drank: 0

To give our scribe a break, I offered my services.  That was stupid.  In any case, this is what I remember. Continue reading →

Hares: Just Malerie, Krazy Puppy, and Tender Vittles

Just Malerie was not long for this world. Houston, that is, she’s not dying. With her nursing contract set to expire, she knew her time to lay her virgin trail was all but running out. Fortunately, while travelling to New Orleans for Mardi Gras with her faux-lesbian girlfriend EZ Chair, Just Malerie found eager and willing co-hares in Krazy Puppy and her sweet baboo, the infamous Tender Vittles. Their trail was to start at a lonely taqueria on the northeast corner of town, seemingly far from everything urban and sub-urban, but still inside the beltway. Attending hashers arrived anxious for shiggy but wary of a possible death march. Trail was purported to be 5 kilometers, or miles, or leagues, or who knows. Pull The Prick Out was concerned enough with the possibility of a ball buster that she conserved her energy by running less. Things got off to a less-than-promising start. The arrow out of chalk talk appeared to cross the busy road to some grown-over pipeline easements and railroad tracks. For a solid half hour, the pack followed phantom flour in the form of crushed concrete and lime spillings from the railroad. Eventually, a true trail arrow was found leading south into the shiggy.

Flour gave way to toilet paper gave way to thorns and occasional PI. Trail skirted a variety of utility easements, drainage structures, and nearly-runnable shiggy over hill and vale. It was a welcome respite from the flat pavement for which Houston is rightly world-renown. The FRBs found the promised Wet/Dry check and swam the bayou, only to find themselves on private property on the other shore. The remainder of the pack was led across a Geek-proof elevated pipe bridge next to the highway and into a beer check that featured an IV bag of Sex On The Beach. Heartache swore it was a colostomy bag, gotta go with what you know. Entering the woods anew, a bountiful harvest of trail treasure was revealed: Russian art omnibus, Merle Haggard cassettes, soiled cowboy hats, and a case of dust masks. Like Christmas! Toilet paper wound to the north now, passing a passel of old-timey holiday forts in the woods. After weaving along the south side of the bayou, the trail terminated in a muddy field and residential trash dump. Here there was beer the color of piss and the color of poop, and a great selection of tacos. G be praised. Total distance: about 6 miles. Perfectly acceptable when you have an extra hour of daylight! Continue reading →

Hares: Brrrggghhh, I Fucked Your Dad, Pull the Prick Out

As unlikely as it may seem, Brrrggghhh was celebrating her 16^th hashiversary. For some perspective, here are some facts about the world in 1997 when she ran her first trail:

• Bill Clinton begins second term, selects frumpiest interns

• Can’t Hack The Sack starts driving the Red Raider

• The Angleton house in River Oaks is finally put on the market

• Harry Potter & The Sorcerer’s Stone hits shelves, hash names rapidly evolve

• James Cameron’s Titanic premiers, causing wet dreams worldwide

• A bad year for Britain: Loss of Diana, release of Spice Girls

• Hooter Bill founds AARP

To celebrate, Brrrggghhh conscripted her best gal pals, I Fucked Your Dad and Pull The Prick Out, hereafter referred to as the Three Whores of the Apocalypse. The trio went above the call and sponsored Friday’s happy hour too. Supplying a mere pony keg of Hopadillo, the babes convinced local hounds to supply everything else, with embarrassing ease. Insane Clown Pussy was tripping over himself to offer his propane heater. Trail started in that scenic and fancy neighborhood off I-45, Gulfgate Mall. Hounds arrived arrayed in their best horns, or carrying actual bicycle horns. Buzzkill costumed herself in a reductive fashion as Sully from Pixar’s Monster’s Inc. After a tempera-blue chalk talk, the pack was off across a pedestrian bridge over the highway, to a difficult check. After remembering that flour was, in fact, blue, true trail was traced along a bayou trimmed with garbage / trail treasure. Emerging at the highway, foolish zenners looked across another pedestrian bridge. The tenacious trail solvers found flour skirting the car dealerships, lined with kiddie-entreating balloons. After following faint On On calls through a colorful neighborhood, the first beer check appeared at Ingrando Park. Continue reading →

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. Continue reading →

Courtesy of: Notorious Goose Grinder, Booby Trap, , Suture, Platterpuss, & Ass Swipe

Finally, an excuse to cross-dress! For the hounds at least. For the harriettes, it was an excuse to wear more red than would have been considered tasteful for a 1930s candystriper. Yes, it was that special time of year when the hash would sashay its way through town in an unadvertised attention whore parade. This was no easy task for the hares, however. When trail was first announced, a whopping five hares were involved. As the days passed, however, the onerous expectations for such a laborious trail weighed to heavily upon Notorious Goose Grinder and Booby Trap, and they were forced to bow out. This placed the burden of haring squarely upon the broad, muscular shoulders of Comma Suture. Also, the quarreling lovers Ass Swipe and Platterpuss. This year, they started the trail at Houston’s X-dressing headquarters, Griff’s irish pub.

Initial reactions to trail were less than positive, as it was promised to be Heartache-free. The intractability of flour and frigid temperatures sent him home early, nonetheless. After milling about and dynamic stretching (i.e. hackey-sack) for an extended period of time to allow for admiration of everyone’s lovely gowns and a live-hare head start, the pack was off chasing pink flour through the Montrose district. Heyyyyyy! The trail was a strict pavement-pounder, providing scant opportunity to ruin one’s dress but ample opportunity to confuse and titillate passing onlookers. After a strenuous couple of miles, the beer check was found at Little Woodrow’s. From there it was more leisurely strolling until a particularly troublesome check was found. Following agonizing minutes of mindless wandering, true trail was found in a three-point turn direction from the check’s location. After flirting with the notion of heading downtown, flour guided the pack further north to the Beer Mile location, where the precious BN was spied en route to ON IN. Praise G in Heaven, for there were canned beer, salty snacks, and dry clothes! Continue reading →