17 November 2005
54. Inside the… Um… Bowels of Cobb County
Black Sheep H3 - 13 Novembeer 2005
To:
The 911 Lady
Cobb County 911 Communications
From:
[awful Nerd Name]
[scary Nerd Address]
[non-incriminating Nerd E-mail]
Date of calls: Sunday, 13 Nov 05
Time of calls: Between 2p - 3:30p
Addresses: Various, at Town Center Mall and nearby shopping centers
Dear Ms. 911 Lady:
I was told I might be able to get some information from you. I am part of a cross-country group that was running in the Town Center Mall-area yesterday afternoon. Officers stopped at least two of us and said some motorists had called 911 to report strange activity. If possible, I would like to get any information I can regarding the calls. That would include the number of calls and how the motorists described us. My goal is to report this information to the group, so we can learn how not to scare the public in the future. I have included my e-mail address on this page, in hopes it would be an acceptable way for you to get back to me.
Thank you,
[nerdy Nerd Signature]
Working at a job where digging for information is a way of life, it was second nature to poke around until I found someone who could give me info on our little jaunt. Oh, believe me though, I didn’t contact this lady until I mentally went back through the entire day to make sure we didn’t do anything too bad.
One missing person: found without incident
Two damaged cars: quietly taken from the area without a police report
One bloody but wily hare: interrogated and released by impressed officers
One crafty hound: interrogated and released by non-threatened officers
Piles of litter: removed
One tell-tale block of ice, complete with butt-cheek imprints: melted
Since only Two Dollar Ho was new to Black Sheep this time around, most of us knew what we were getting into when we gathered at Town Center Mall amid the Sunday afternoon drizzle. Some sort of torture. And by the sound of the hare’s warning, that torture would include a tunnel or two:
“DO NOT SHOW UP TO THIS HASH WITHOUT A LIGHT OF SOME KIND!!!”
Wow, a triple exclamation with all-caps. That gave me and the rest of the pack of 20-plus Sheepers something to ponder as we graciously allowed GE his entire five-minute [who said] head start. On Out.
The most excited living thing right off the block was Basil, who dashed off with his leash in his mouth, yelping deliriously. He was being held back by his moderately-paced master, so he kept snapping his head back with these huge, wide eyes that appeared to say “Fucking-A dad, I’m so worked up I’m about ready to piss myself! Hurry the fuck up!” I didn’t see Basil again until the end, since The Colonel secretly got advance word that there would be suffering for the four-legged set.
The sparse drizzle completely stopped by the time we hit the first check, which was on the road circling the mall. The first mark was found down a steep hill, next to a tunnel which was visible from the sidewalk. That tunnel was under one side of I-75, and it led to a short trip in a creek that was waist-deep in spots. Yes, The Boys got their first taste of winter here in the cold water. Another tunnel under the other side of I-75 brought us to a shopping center that included a Jo-Ann fabric store, among other mall-related tripe. Oh look, another tunnel visible from the parking lot. Who knew?
It was at this point things started getting strange. Most of the remaining part of our lovely afternoon was spent walking, trotting, shuffling and waddling underground. We’d get through one maze of tunnels, run for a bit in the daylight, and find ourselves right back down in the darkness. A few of us were lucky enough to climb a ladder that was attached to an overflow tube in the middle of a lake, and we got a surreal water-level view. This would end up being a thumbs-up moment during Trail Trial. One interesting entry point had us lowering our smelly selves down through an uncovered manhole. Yeah, I said smelly, and I don’t mean it lightly.
I think the parts of this trail that are going to scar me for a while were when things started getting really odorous, and we started seeing foam and globs of stuff floating in the water that looked like dark chunks of slimy mold. That’s when the incredulous comments started.
“Holy shit!”
“We’re walking through a damn toilet.”
“Some of us are gellin’ but ALL of us are smellin.”
“Oh fuck, there’s a floater!”
“How close are we to the source of this? My God, that’s TOILET PAPER!”
One of us noted that these were tunnels for creeks and parking lot run-off, and questioned why we would find ourselves amid raw sewage. I’m not steeped in infrastructure knowledge, and since I was steeping in water that smelled like my ass after three hours on trail, I found myself with other things on my mind, like fighting off my slight case of claustrophobia. And concentrating on moving slow enough to avoid kicking up all that crap toward my face.
Now, don’t think that a maze of tunnels, followed by another maze of tunnels and yet another maze of tunnels was enough. Mister Erect-Dick also decided to lay two YBF’s outside the tunnels in some shiggy. Which meant we had to go back down in the darkness the way we came and find another route. The speedy Sheepers who actually saw the YBF’s said there were d’erections included, obviously so we wouldn’t get Lost or give up. The back-tracks ended up being no-so-bad, and the last one actually took us to a new tunnel that brought us to an old part of trail that we were now doing backwards. The final exit point into daylight was a place we had been at around the half-way point. After a little road rage, we found the BN.
Now I try not to ponder life too hard, but as I got to the On-In, I found myself amazed I wasn’t bothered by that whole ordeal. And since I was (gasp) sober, I ended up pondering anyway. I think part of my mental non-chalance was my brain forcing a suspension of disbelief. Don’t forget the masochism factor. Of course, there’s also the fact that we hash in Atlanta shiggy, which means most of us have gone through some really rancid stuff more than a few times. Some of it might have also been comfort that there were other people going through the same thing at the same time, and we were all handling it quite well. I can only imagine what would have happened if, at the one point on this trail where the air got so bad you wanted to gag, someone fell to their knees, hyperventilating and puking. Hopefully, we would have just laughed and continued on. Did I just say that?
Tuesday, 15 November 2005
Mr. Nerd Name...
I found only one call in the area of Town Center Mall during that time period for any suspicious persons. I have mailed (through the US Postal Service) a copy of that call.
I do not know if the persons involved were members of your group of [sic] not.
If we can be of any further assistance, please feel free to contact us.
Some Guy Who’s Not the 911 Lady
911 Records Supervisor
Cobb County 911
Cobb County...Expect the Best
www.cobbcounty.org
Expect the Best. That’s seriously Cobb’s tagline. Well, I’d have to say that was the best shit I’ve ever trudged through. And it did exceed my expectations. Thanks Cobb.
The on-in was inside the tree line next to a parking lot on the secluded side of a shopping center. To reward my subterranean efforts, I shot-gunned a Guinness and then peeled off my contaminated clothing. And you better believe the rubbing alcohol came out. Then the stories started coming in. As you already know, the police had been informed that we were in town, and GE had a run-in with them while he was on trail. He was dirty, scratched and bleeding, so he had a little more explaining to do than, say, a clean man in a pressed suit. While he was telling his story, Sani’s car alarm went off in the parking lot because TLS doesn’t know how to work any technology that’s not a computer. And it kept going off until Sani got over there and worked her magic. Like we need to tempt more cops.
Hey, where’s Donnie the Retard?
Hired Snatch had the next story, and it appears the cops stopped him, too. While he was telling us the officers let him go, we heard a crash out in the parking lot. It appears Wine Ho left the car in neutral or something and it rolled back… right into Oops’ truck. Oops. Some of us went out there to look, and noticed the truck was relatively scratch free. But Wine Ho’s bumper had a questionable look to it. And with a resounding POP, the larger dent popped out as we were standing there.
Um, still no Donnie. And word has it he wasn’t at the start.
Because of the tight quarters we were in, we couldn’t circle up for Down-Downs. But we managed to oval up. The Trail Trial was almost all positive, which was semi-surprising, considering GE had laid a trail that reminded us so much of shit and ass. This wasn’t the typical trail, but everyone seemed to appreciate it. As for me, even if I had hated it, I still wouldn’t have said anything out of sheer respect for someone who had to go down there and scout in that crap. Jesus.
Did Bwana do his (in)famous lottery?
Yup.
Did Bunny swing low?
Yup.
Did we find a Mexican restaurant?
Yup.
And did the Hash go in peace?
Of course we did. At least once we found Donnie at the start.
16 Nov 05
Cobb County Police Department
911/Communications Bureau
INCIDENT RECALL
Date: 13 Nov 05
Time: 15:25
Location: Ernest Barrett Pkwy NW & Roberts
Description: APPROX 10 MEN WITH FLASHLIGHTS
ON THEIR HE*DS RUNNING AROUND SPRINKLING
WHITE POWDER EVERYWHERE
And with that,
May the Hash Get a Piece
To:
The 911 Lady
Cobb County 911 Communications
From:
[awful Nerd Name]
[scary Nerd Address]
[non-incriminating Nerd E-mail]
Date of calls: Sunday, 13 Nov 05
Time of calls: Between 2p - 3:30p
Addresses: Various, at Town Center Mall and nearby shopping centers
Dear Ms. 911 Lady:
I was told I might be able to get some information from you. I am part of a cross-country group that was running in the Town Center Mall-area yesterday afternoon. Officers stopped at least two of us and said some motorists had called 911 to report strange activity. If possible, I would like to get any information I can regarding the calls. That would include the number of calls and how the motorists described us. My goal is to report this information to the group, so we can learn how not to scare the public in the future. I have included my e-mail address on this page, in hopes it would be an acceptable way for you to get back to me.
Thank you,
[nerdy Nerd Signature]
Working at a job where digging for information is a way of life, it was second nature to poke around until I found someone who could give me info on our little jaunt. Oh, believe me though, I didn’t contact this lady until I mentally went back through the entire day to make sure we didn’t do anything too bad.
One missing person: found without incident
Two damaged cars: quietly taken from the area without a police report
One bloody but wily hare: interrogated and released by impressed officers
One crafty hound: interrogated and released by non-threatened officers
Piles of litter: removed
One tell-tale block of ice, complete with butt-cheek imprints: melted
Since only Two Dollar Ho was new to Black Sheep this time around, most of us knew what we were getting into when we gathered at Town Center Mall amid the Sunday afternoon drizzle. Some sort of torture. And by the sound of the hare’s warning, that torture would include a tunnel or two:
“DO NOT SHOW UP TO THIS HASH WITHOUT A LIGHT OF SOME KIND!!!”
Wow, a triple exclamation with all-caps. That gave me and the rest of the pack of 20-plus Sheepers something to ponder as we graciously allowed GE his entire five-minute [who said] head start. On Out.
The most excited living thing right off the block was Basil, who dashed off with his leash in his mouth, yelping deliriously. He was being held back by his moderately-paced master, so he kept snapping his head back with these huge, wide eyes that appeared to say “Fucking-A dad, I’m so worked up I’m about ready to piss myself! Hurry the fuck up!” I didn’t see Basil again until the end, since The Colonel secretly got advance word that there would be suffering for the four-legged set.
The sparse drizzle completely stopped by the time we hit the first check, which was on the road circling the mall. The first mark was found down a steep hill, next to a tunnel which was visible from the sidewalk. That tunnel was under one side of I-75, and it led to a short trip in a creek that was waist-deep in spots. Yes, The Boys got their first taste of winter here in the cold water. Another tunnel under the other side of I-75 brought us to a shopping center that included a Jo-Ann fabric store, among other mall-related tripe. Oh look, another tunnel visible from the parking lot. Who knew?
It was at this point things started getting strange. Most of the remaining part of our lovely afternoon was spent walking, trotting, shuffling and waddling underground. We’d get through one maze of tunnels, run for a bit in the daylight, and find ourselves right back down in the darkness. A few of us were lucky enough to climb a ladder that was attached to an overflow tube in the middle of a lake, and we got a surreal water-level view. This would end up being a thumbs-up moment during Trail Trial. One interesting entry point had us lowering our smelly selves down through an uncovered manhole. Yeah, I said smelly, and I don’t mean it lightly.
I think the parts of this trail that are going to scar me for a while were when things started getting really odorous, and we started seeing foam and globs of stuff floating in the water that looked like dark chunks of slimy mold. That’s when the incredulous comments started.
“Holy shit!”
“We’re walking through a damn toilet.”
“Some of us are gellin’ but ALL of us are smellin.”
“Oh fuck, there’s a floater!”
“How close are we to the source of this? My God, that’s TOILET PAPER!”
One of us noted that these were tunnels for creeks and parking lot run-off, and questioned why we would find ourselves amid raw sewage. I’m not steeped in infrastructure knowledge, and since I was steeping in water that smelled like my ass after three hours on trail, I found myself with other things on my mind, like fighting off my slight case of claustrophobia. And concentrating on moving slow enough to avoid kicking up all that crap toward my face.
Now, don’t think that a maze of tunnels, followed by another maze of tunnels and yet another maze of tunnels was enough. Mister Erect-Dick also decided to lay two YBF’s outside the tunnels in some shiggy. Which meant we had to go back down in the darkness the way we came and find another route. The speedy Sheepers who actually saw the YBF’s said there were d’erections included, obviously so we wouldn’t get Lost or give up. The back-tracks ended up being no-so-bad, and the last one actually took us to a new tunnel that brought us to an old part of trail that we were now doing backwards. The final exit point into daylight was a place we had been at around the half-way point. After a little road rage, we found the BN.
Now I try not to ponder life too hard, but as I got to the On-In, I found myself amazed I wasn’t bothered by that whole ordeal. And since I was (gasp) sober, I ended up pondering anyway. I think part of my mental non-chalance was my brain forcing a suspension of disbelief. Don’t forget the masochism factor. Of course, there’s also the fact that we hash in Atlanta shiggy, which means most of us have gone through some really rancid stuff more than a few times. Some of it might have also been comfort that there were other people going through the same thing at the same time, and we were all handling it quite well. I can only imagine what would have happened if, at the one point on this trail where the air got so bad you wanted to gag, someone fell to their knees, hyperventilating and puking. Hopefully, we would have just laughed and continued on. Did I just say that?
Tuesday, 15 November 2005
Mr. Nerd Name...
I found only one call in the area of Town Center Mall during that time period for any suspicious persons. I have mailed (through the US Postal Service) a copy of that call.
I do not know if the persons involved were members of your group of [sic] not.
If we can be of any further assistance, please feel free to contact us.
Some Guy Who’s Not the 911 Lady
911 Records Supervisor
Cobb County 911
Cobb County...Expect the Best
www.cobbcounty.org
Expect the Best. That’s seriously Cobb’s tagline. Well, I’d have to say that was the best shit I’ve ever trudged through. And it did exceed my expectations. Thanks Cobb.
The on-in was inside the tree line next to a parking lot on the secluded side of a shopping center. To reward my subterranean efforts, I shot-gunned a Guinness and then peeled off my contaminated clothing. And you better believe the rubbing alcohol came out. Then the stories started coming in. As you already know, the police had been informed that we were in town, and GE had a run-in with them while he was on trail. He was dirty, scratched and bleeding, so he had a little more explaining to do than, say, a clean man in a pressed suit. While he was telling his story, Sani’s car alarm went off in the parking lot because TLS doesn’t know how to work any technology that’s not a computer. And it kept going off until Sani got over there and worked her magic. Like we need to tempt more cops.
Hey, where’s Donnie the Retard?
Hired Snatch had the next story, and it appears the cops stopped him, too. While he was telling us the officers let him go, we heard a crash out in the parking lot. It appears Wine Ho left the car in neutral or something and it rolled back… right into Oops’ truck. Oops. Some of us went out there to look, and noticed the truck was relatively scratch free. But Wine Ho’s bumper had a questionable look to it. And with a resounding POP, the larger dent popped out as we were standing there.
Um, still no Donnie. And word has it he wasn’t at the start.
Because of the tight quarters we were in, we couldn’t circle up for Down-Downs. But we managed to oval up. The Trail Trial was almost all positive, which was semi-surprising, considering GE had laid a trail that reminded us so much of shit and ass. This wasn’t the typical trail, but everyone seemed to appreciate it. As for me, even if I had hated it, I still wouldn’t have said anything out of sheer respect for someone who had to go down there and scout in that crap. Jesus.
Did Bwana do his (in)famous lottery?
Yup.
Did Bunny swing low?
Yup.
Did we find a Mexican restaurant?
Yup.
And did the Hash go in peace?
Of course we did. At least once we found Donnie at the start.
16 Nov 05
Cobb County Police Department
911/Communications Bureau
INCIDENT RECALL
Date: 13 Nov 05
Time: 15:25
Location: Ernest Barrett Pkwy NW & Roberts
Description: APPROX 10 MEN WITH FLASHLIGHTS
ON THEIR HE*DS RUNNING AROUND SPRINKLING
WHITE POWDER EVERYWHERE
And with that,
May the Hash Get a Piece
# posted by L&F @ 12:05 AM 
05 November 2005
53. The Trash Invades Toronto
Carolina Trash H3 - 05 Sept 2005
The Unofficial Hash Trash of AIH’s Trash Trail #1144B
The brain-dead mixed with the dead at the start of the Sunday Trash Trail in Toronto. We were at a cemetery about 20 minutes from the Hash Hotel. From my sober-time brainiac research, I figure the area was just east of York University, next to G. Ross Lord Reservoir and Park. The trail I did the day before had 150 wanks and the circle was a mess, so this time around, I was secretly hoping for a lower turnout. And we got it. Around 55 drunks circled up in front of a long, open-air mausoleum next to one of the graveyards on the property. Obviously, the warning in the running schedule kept the pussies away:
“You will stink after completing this hash. Wear clothes you were going to throw out anyway.”
About 10% of the hashers in attendance were haring, including Buck, Shitty, Scabby, Uno ‘Night Train’ Queero and our Hogtown sweepers H2Ho and New Shoez. As someone commented at the start of warm-ups, most of the anxious herd were either Trash or Trash By Injection/Secretion/Association. Hmmm. I guess that’s what happens when you combine booze, genitals and road trips. Even a couple of old-school Trash were present; as in 1990’s Trashers who have (used to have?) bibs. Sorry, I’m bad with names.
The hares took leave of the rowdy pack, but only after warning us about a Super Nova on trail. Ahh… the FRB’s would be working today. We among the thirsty hounds took about 15 minutes to do warm-ups and spread rumors, and then gave chase.
The trash is pretty good at keeping the pack together, and the first thing they did on this trail was lay a mile-long back-check with multiple falses branching from it. Some of us missed the final curse-inspiring mark, so after a while, New Shoez took pity on us and told us which way to go. And it ended up being almost all the way back to the start. When we got there, H2Ho was available to laugh at us as we started again, the walkers and r*nners cursing together.
If any of you half-minded individuals pay attention while running along power cuts, you’ve probably noticed they’re usually outlandishly overgrown and (at least in the south) full of flesh-tearing berry vines. Well, in Toronto, there are some landscaped ones that even serve as parks. This is the sight that kicked off the trail, and what led us to the giant Super Nova. I had heard rumblings of a water crossing, so I took my chances on a trail that led down to the river. But I enventually ran into a false. By the time I heard whistles and tore my way back up the hill, I was with the walkers again. DEATH TO THE HARES
Grass and dirt trails led us to the last piece of street we’d see for the day. We cut to the right, across a small, grassy field and into some brush, which immediately opened up to our water crossing: a morbidly foul lake with shoe-sucking mud all along the banks. As the brave souls made their way across the water, I noticed one of the Brits looking rather beside himself. “Bloody hell, I don’t swim,” he said and paced in the mud. As luck would have it, there was a life preserver right where we were getting in, and I handed it to him. “No, I don’t do well in the water,” he said and looked around, confused. “You can go around,” I suggested and pointed to the area where it looked like the lake would end. He just stood there. I really didn’t want to find out later that he 1) boxed the lake and got lost or 2) drowned… so I decided on chivalry, even though I would obviously get a down-down for it later. “Well, I’m going around then,” I said and started sloshing my way around the water. Sure, our shirts stayed dry, but at a couple of points, the smell of the mud almost made me gag.
As we crawled up the hill to escape the odor, I noticed I finally succeeded in going from the front of the pack to the back of the pack. The only human I saw behind me was the First Aid Guy, who we started calling FAG. I’m sure he liked that. A little forest running led to a park and the beer stop, where we sucked down Canadian brew and laughed at the dry locals, who were sunning their dry bodies in what was near-perfect summer weather.
I’m writing this on the plane ride back to Atlanta, so I have plenty of time to shit-out a lot of detail. But I think a quick summary is in order here: Almost everything after the beer stop was a disgusting mess.
A little park grass and a tiny hill were all that was separating the beer stop from the muck. We milled around a muddy creek temporarily, while the more-energetic hounds went to search for true trial off a nearby check. It led us right to a pile of glop and our first mud fight of the day. Some of us got hit by odorous projectiles, while others either fell in, or were pushed into the worst of it. Before I rounded a corner to safety, I saw a few people getting mud rubbed into their hair and piles of it shoved into their pants. Mmm… muddy camel toes.
I describe it as “safety,” but rounding the corner just kept me away from the slop bombs. We now had a bigger enemy: one of the muddiest rivers I have ever experienced. It was actually more like tidal mud. And it stretched up the bank for yards. From what I was told, Toronto recently had one or two crippling rain storms and the lowlands were not even close to drying out yet. One of the hares had risked sinking in ooze to get out on a sandbar (OK, mudbar) to lay up the river. For a while, I worked my way upstream on the banks, surrounded by a strange, multi-colored substance that covered the mud and reflected the sunlight. I looked back to see hounds making their way to the mudbar on their hands and knees. No matter what path we took, we finally got out of the sludge and into what was a more-normal creek. But that just led to more mud. After I got out of the creek, I looked over at eye-level and saw a light coating of dry muck on the tree leaves. So at some point, the area we were running through was at least five feet under water. For a while, I actually saw dry muck higher than I could reach while jumping. (Was that nine feet up?)
Suddenly, we were back at the start, with filthy hashers carrying their dry-bags to a partially secluded area in the middle of the manicured power cut. We watched the rest of the pack come in with varying degrees of mud attached to them. The worst of the bunch looked like they took a bath in it. Their prize: An unlimited amount of cold beer, snacks and several bags of solid projectiles, also known as leftover bagels.
Buck and Scabby ran a loud, entertaining circle of a quality you would expect from the two of them. In fact, when given the option to hose off and head back to the bus, everyone decided to keep circle going until the last possible minute. For those of you who were wondering why Hedgehog looked like Pigpen after we got to the Fort for dinner, this is why. In addition to Hedgy, another honorable mention goes to Tu Tu Fairy, who got the only snare of the day, when he ran into one of the hares while shortcutting.
While on the topic of honorable mentions, at one point during circle, Buck pulled a big Yucca-type jar of sauce out of the cooler. And we all know what that means: a bibbing… or two. This time around, Night Train got a prize. And one of our Neighbors to the North got one: New Shoez has represented Hogtown well enough to get his own cloth badge of honor. Congratulations you drunk bastards.
Epilogue. I washed out my muddy clothes in the hotel shower. For minutes on end, the water filtering through them was as dark as vomit from Team Guinness.
May the hash go in peace
May the hash get a piece
The Unofficial Hash Trash of AIH’s Trash Trail #1144B
The brain-dead mixed with the dead at the start of the Sunday Trash Trail in Toronto. We were at a cemetery about 20 minutes from the Hash Hotel. From my sober-time brainiac research, I figure the area was just east of York University, next to G. Ross Lord Reservoir and Park. The trail I did the day before had 150 wanks and the circle was a mess, so this time around, I was secretly hoping for a lower turnout. And we got it. Around 55 drunks circled up in front of a long, open-air mausoleum next to one of the graveyards on the property. Obviously, the warning in the running schedule kept the pussies away:
“You will stink after completing this hash. Wear clothes you were going to throw out anyway.”
About 10% of the hashers in attendance were haring, including Buck, Shitty, Scabby, Uno ‘Night Train’ Queero and our Hogtown sweepers H2Ho and New Shoez. As someone commented at the start of warm-ups, most of the anxious herd were either Trash or Trash By Injection/Secretion/Association. Hmmm. I guess that’s what happens when you combine booze, genitals and road trips. Even a couple of old-school Trash were present; as in 1990’s Trashers who have (used to have?) bibs. Sorry, I’m bad with names.
The hares took leave of the rowdy pack, but only after warning us about a Super Nova on trail. Ahh… the FRB’s would be working today. We among the thirsty hounds took about 15 minutes to do warm-ups and spread rumors, and then gave chase.
The trash is pretty good at keeping the pack together, and the first thing they did on this trail was lay a mile-long back-check with multiple falses branching from it. Some of us missed the final curse-inspiring mark, so after a while, New Shoez took pity on us and told us which way to go. And it ended up being almost all the way back to the start. When we got there, H2Ho was available to laugh at us as we started again, the walkers and r*nners cursing together.
If any of you half-minded individuals pay attention while running along power cuts, you’ve probably noticed they’re usually outlandishly overgrown and (at least in the south) full of flesh-tearing berry vines. Well, in Toronto, there are some landscaped ones that even serve as parks. This is the sight that kicked off the trail, and what led us to the giant Super Nova. I had heard rumblings of a water crossing, so I took my chances on a trail that led down to the river. But I enventually ran into a false. By the time I heard whistles and tore my way back up the hill, I was with the walkers again. DEATH TO THE HARES
Grass and dirt trails led us to the last piece of street we’d see for the day. We cut to the right, across a small, grassy field and into some brush, which immediately opened up to our water crossing: a morbidly foul lake with shoe-sucking mud all along the banks. As the brave souls made their way across the water, I noticed one of the Brits looking rather beside himself. “Bloody hell, I don’t swim,” he said and paced in the mud. As luck would have it, there was a life preserver right where we were getting in, and I handed it to him. “No, I don’t do well in the water,” he said and looked around, confused. “You can go around,” I suggested and pointed to the area where it looked like the lake would end. He just stood there. I really didn’t want to find out later that he 1) boxed the lake and got lost or 2) drowned… so I decided on chivalry, even though I would obviously get a down-down for it later. “Well, I’m going around then,” I said and started sloshing my way around the water. Sure, our shirts stayed dry, but at a couple of points, the smell of the mud almost made me gag.
As we crawled up the hill to escape the odor, I noticed I finally succeeded in going from the front of the pack to the back of the pack. The only human I saw behind me was the First Aid Guy, who we started calling FAG. I’m sure he liked that. A little forest running led to a park and the beer stop, where we sucked down Canadian brew and laughed at the dry locals, who were sunning their dry bodies in what was near-perfect summer weather.
I’m writing this on the plane ride back to Atlanta, so I have plenty of time to shit-out a lot of detail. But I think a quick summary is in order here: Almost everything after the beer stop was a disgusting mess.
A little park grass and a tiny hill were all that was separating the beer stop from the muck. We milled around a muddy creek temporarily, while the more-energetic hounds went to search for true trial off a nearby check. It led us right to a pile of glop and our first mud fight of the day. Some of us got hit by odorous projectiles, while others either fell in, or were pushed into the worst of it. Before I rounded a corner to safety, I saw a few people getting mud rubbed into their hair and piles of it shoved into their pants. Mmm… muddy camel toes.
I describe it as “safety,” but rounding the corner just kept me away from the slop bombs. We now had a bigger enemy: one of the muddiest rivers I have ever experienced. It was actually more like tidal mud. And it stretched up the bank for yards. From what I was told, Toronto recently had one or two crippling rain storms and the lowlands were not even close to drying out yet. One of the hares had risked sinking in ooze to get out on a sandbar (OK, mudbar) to lay up the river. For a while, I worked my way upstream on the banks, surrounded by a strange, multi-colored substance that covered the mud and reflected the sunlight. I looked back to see hounds making their way to the mudbar on their hands and knees. No matter what path we took, we finally got out of the sludge and into what was a more-normal creek. But that just led to more mud. After I got out of the creek, I looked over at eye-level and saw a light coating of dry muck on the tree leaves. So at some point, the area we were running through was at least five feet under water. For a while, I actually saw dry muck higher than I could reach while jumping. (Was that nine feet up?)
Suddenly, we were back at the start, with filthy hashers carrying their dry-bags to a partially secluded area in the middle of the manicured power cut. We watched the rest of the pack come in with varying degrees of mud attached to them. The worst of the bunch looked like they took a bath in it. Their prize: An unlimited amount of cold beer, snacks and several bags of solid projectiles, also known as leftover bagels.
Buck and Scabby ran a loud, entertaining circle of a quality you would expect from the two of them. In fact, when given the option to hose off and head back to the bus, everyone decided to keep circle going until the last possible minute. For those of you who were wondering why Hedgehog looked like Pigpen after we got to the Fort for dinner, this is why. In addition to Hedgy, another honorable mention goes to Tu Tu Fairy, who got the only snare of the day, when he ran into one of the hares while shortcutting.
While on the topic of honorable mentions, at one point during circle, Buck pulled a big Yucca-type jar of sauce out of the cooler. And we all know what that means: a bibbing… or two. This time around, Night Train got a prize. And one of our Neighbors to the North got one: New Shoez has represented Hogtown well enough to get his own cloth badge of honor. Congratulations you drunk bastards.
Epilogue. I washed out my muddy clothes in the hotel shower. For minutes on end, the water filtering through them was as dark as vomit from Team Guinness.
May the hash go in peace
May the hash get a piece
# posted by L&F @ 6:31 PM
52. Fuck, It’s Hot (part 2)
Black Sheep H3 - 24 July 2005
Shiggy, Sounds and Slop were Sunday’s main ingredients of my very hot hashing weekend. And as my weekend goes, this entry will serve as PART THE SECOND.
There’s a reason why I love doing Darkside hashes. (I know this isn’t Darkside... work with me here, people). It’s because after getting used to following a hare for 10+ miles, I have the stamina available to go to any hash and not be scared. This bravery was needed today.
The hearty pack gathered about 17 miles north of the perimeter up GA 400 to see what Hump Me Dump Me could throw at them. And he threw a lot, but that wasn’t the problem. It was the heat.
You might be saying to yourself right now... ”Self, wasn’t this the day after the AH4 Red Dress Run?” Well, you would be correct. And that’s one of the reasons we started late. Because there were people hobbling in after 2p. And every second after 2p, HMDM was obviously chomping at the bit. What wasn’t so obvious was how prepared he was for this trail, considering the only thing he had with him was a plastic grocery bag containing less than 5 pounds of flour. So at 2:17, Bunny finished blessing the Hare of Record, who took leave of the shiggy-thirsty pack with no backpack, no TP and no water… only a blistering desire to depart. As he was running away, there was the typical “You forgot your keys!!!” But someone also asked him whether there was any special instructions, and over his shoulder, he yelled... “There's a water stop a-third of the way through!”
At 2:23p, the pack gave chase, and for between 2 1/2 and 3 miles, the pack was chasing mostly on pavement. When the temperature outside is 95 degrees, and there’s 55 percent humidity, the heat index registers about 110 degrees. And most of us were out in this for between 45 minutes to an hour, due in part to the sun beating down on our craniums, and partly due to us having a problem finding marks because some of them were spread out so far. Partially helping in the effort was the fact that HMDM apparently had a hole in his flour bag, and we were filling in the pieces of trail between marks by following his Slop. Where did the pavement end? The start. Yes, loyal sheepers, we did a gigantic summer-time circle jerk.
If you read the hash trash for SoCo, you would know that I learned I’m in relatively decent shape. So you would have laughed if you saw my jaw drop open as I staggered out from between the trees and saw all of our cars, surrounded by new blobs of flour. I saw the water jugs there in the shade and immediately plopped down next to them, dazed. As I drank some H2O, I tried to convince myself that this trail was NOT only a third over while saying out loud... “The trees are coming. The creeks are coming. The swamps are coming.” They did, but there was one more big challenge.
My legs started working again. Trail went to the end of the current parking lot, where there was a giant flag pole and an unkicked check. I heard people somewhere on the other side of the street screaming “Kick the check!” Whatever else they said made me gather flour from around the circle so I could add a few marks.
I crossed the street to a large area of chest-high vegetation, where several members of our Faithful Flock were milling about. They looked confused, and I quickly learned why. There was a blob of flour leading into the vegetation, and four small strips of TP leading back out of the vegetation to a check near the street. But the check was kicked toward the TP, so I guess I could describe this as a miniature circle jerk. Dear readers, we were in quite a dilemma here, and probably looked pretty pathetic as we stood there scratching our asses and swapping stories of our search so far. “So there’s no trail on the street that way.” “Correct. And there’s no trail on the street the other way.” “OK, so knowing which way the vegetation is stomped down, why can’t we assume that trail goes into the tree line?” “Because we’ve already been in there and there are no marks.” “Yeah, I’ve checked over there already.” “And I’ve checked there.” All of a sudden we heard a whistle, and I soon figured out that Slop wasn’t going to be the only thing helping us to reach the end this day. It was also going to be Sounds. The members of our small pack kept following the whistle until by some miracle, we finally picked up trail again.
Math time. At this point, we were out for an hour and fifteen minutes, and I would finally come in at three hours and ten minutes. The FRB’s came in at around two and a half hours. DFL’s were Bunny and Circumpsychic, who came in at somewhere over four hours. So now you know how much time most of us spent on what we all considered to be the real trail, which started after this tiny circle jerk.
This part of trail was all forest r*nning, as well as some slower navigation through briars and deadfall. At some point, we saw rows of buried cinderblocks, which might have been the former foundation of some sort of dwelling. And there was abandoned crap all around. But there was no path for a vehicle, which made all of this very strange. It was here I realized a third set of clues would come in handy to fill into the blanks between marks: Shiggy of the trampled variety. So any part of the day when we couldn’t find trail, we simply turned into unprofessional trail guides, looking and listening for Shiggy, Sounds and Slop.
At the bottom of the hill we crossed a creek, did a little more navigating through the forest and then ran right into one of the deepest, nastiest swamps I’ve ever encountered. Muddy water was up to our waists at some points, and it was all we could do to keep from stalling there in the muck. Some of us were laughing out of joy. It was quite priceless. This dirty mess continued for a while, and when we finally extracted ourselves, we went back to more forest running. What will be seared into my cranium for a long time to come was when I looked ahead for the bazillionth time to see no marks, and recalled advice I had received from a wise hasher on the day of my first haring when I screwed the pack… “Turn around once in a while you’re laying trail. If you can’t see any marks behind you, you’re not laying well enough.” Wiping the spider webs and sweat from my face, I turned around to see no marks. As one hot hasher put it, these marks are actually checks.
Unfortunately, patient wankers, it was about this time that I started getting exhausted, and most details of the rest of the trail are forgotten. I do remember there was the same slow navigation through the forest, and a lot of what remained of the trail was along the side of a largish creek or a smallish river. At the two-and-a-half hour mark, I totally hit a wall. Fifteen minutes later, I ran out of water in my CamelBack and noticed I was not doing a very good job avoiding the briars and deadfall at my feet. We encountered a cleaner swamp here, and it almost required some swimming. This led to a street, which led to a tree farm of some sort, which led to a BN. And sooner or later, that led to the On-In. And sooner or later, after a little more forest nagivation, that led to the back yard of a house.
Getting to the back yard was almost surreal, after spending almost 2 hours seeing the dull browns of the forest floor for so long, among the filth and the heat. There were colors here... pastels and the bright shades of the beer coolers (yay!) and the intense green of a near-perfect lawn. And there were hashers here, not huffing and puffing and sweating and swearing; but clean, and reclining in camp chairs, taking part in one of the best pastimes ever... drinking. Sort of like Friday night, I stood dazed for a moment, not even able to talk. At least until the Terapin kicked in. Then I started getting stories from everyone else.
Swamp Thing had been the secret co-hare, and we were at his sister’s house, if I’m getting the facts right. That would be Cockodile and her husband, an unnamed gent who doesn’t seem to like getting bare-assed on ice. Circle was rather humorous, as there were humans present who were not of-age to vote, drink or smoke, or all of the above. So most of the songs were PG rated. Think S0B, but with ass cheeks.
Back at the start, there was much rejoicing as we found the brave souls who were missing from circle... Four-Inch, Hired Snatch and Captain Crash. I think there’s only one more item I need to bring up... The liquid I consumed at both hashes.
Friday:
48 oz of water from the CamelBack
48 oz of water at the on-in
12 oz can of diet coke
(about) 7 oz of down-down beer
Sunday:
60 oz of water from the CamelBack
48 oz of water at the on-in
12 oz bottle of Terapin
12 oz can of diet coke
12 oz can of diet 7-up
12 oz can of diet 7-up
(about) 8 oz of down-down beer
GRAND TOTAL: Two Hundred SIXTY NINE ounces (no kidding).
For those of you who enjoy a little perspective with their beer,
that’s 2.1 gallons, or almost 17 POUNDS of liquid.
Holy sh!t, that makes me dizzy.
OK, here’s this Humble Hound’s recap of the afternoon:
This trail was well thought out and had the correct amount of shiggy, but a couple miles of unneeded street. Trails like this take time, and the hares obviously put some effort into it. So for the hares, thank you for a memorable Sunday. And to the pack, thanks for coming out and making it fun. Black Sheep hashes never fail to impress, one way or another.
Join us next time, when Sani will be helming the Lyon Run with a number of mystery hares. Please expect a shiggy orgasm.
May the Hash Go in Peace
May the Hash Get a Piece
Shiggy, Sounds and Slop were Sunday’s main ingredients of my very hot hashing weekend. And as my weekend goes, this entry will serve as PART THE SECOND.
There’s a reason why I love doing Darkside hashes. (I know this isn’t Darkside... work with me here, people). It’s because after getting used to following a hare for 10+ miles, I have the stamina available to go to any hash and not be scared. This bravery was needed today.
The hearty pack gathered about 17 miles north of the perimeter up GA 400 to see what Hump Me Dump Me could throw at them. And he threw a lot, but that wasn’t the problem. It was the heat.
You might be saying to yourself right now... ”Self, wasn’t this the day after the AH4 Red Dress Run?” Well, you would be correct. And that’s one of the reasons we started late. Because there were people hobbling in after 2p. And every second after 2p, HMDM was obviously chomping at the bit. What wasn’t so obvious was how prepared he was for this trail, considering the only thing he had with him was a plastic grocery bag containing less than 5 pounds of flour. So at 2:17, Bunny finished blessing the Hare of Record, who took leave of the shiggy-thirsty pack with no backpack, no TP and no water… only a blistering desire to depart. As he was running away, there was the typical “You forgot your keys!!!” But someone also asked him whether there was any special instructions, and over his shoulder, he yelled... “There's a water stop a-third of the way through!”
At 2:23p, the pack gave chase, and for between 2 1/2 and 3 miles, the pack was chasing mostly on pavement. When the temperature outside is 95 degrees, and there’s 55 percent humidity, the heat index registers about 110 degrees. And most of us were out in this for between 45 minutes to an hour, due in part to the sun beating down on our craniums, and partly due to us having a problem finding marks because some of them were spread out so far. Partially helping in the effort was the fact that HMDM apparently had a hole in his flour bag, and we were filling in the pieces of trail between marks by following his Slop. Where did the pavement end? The start. Yes, loyal sheepers, we did a gigantic summer-time circle jerk.
If you read the hash trash for SoCo, you would know that I learned I’m in relatively decent shape. So you would have laughed if you saw my jaw drop open as I staggered out from between the trees and saw all of our cars, surrounded by new blobs of flour. I saw the water jugs there in the shade and immediately plopped down next to them, dazed. As I drank some H2O, I tried to convince myself that this trail was NOT only a third over while saying out loud... “The trees are coming. The creeks are coming. The swamps are coming.” They did, but there was one more big challenge.
My legs started working again. Trail went to the end of the current parking lot, where there was a giant flag pole and an unkicked check. I heard people somewhere on the other side of the street screaming “Kick the check!” Whatever else they said made me gather flour from around the circle so I could add a few marks.
I crossed the street to a large area of chest-high vegetation, where several members of our Faithful Flock were milling about. They looked confused, and I quickly learned why. There was a blob of flour leading into the vegetation, and four small strips of TP leading back out of the vegetation to a check near the street. But the check was kicked toward the TP, so I guess I could describe this as a miniature circle jerk. Dear readers, we were in quite a dilemma here, and probably looked pretty pathetic as we stood there scratching our asses and swapping stories of our search so far. “So there’s no trail on the street that way.” “Correct. And there’s no trail on the street the other way.” “OK, so knowing which way the vegetation is stomped down, why can’t we assume that trail goes into the tree line?” “Because we’ve already been in there and there are no marks.” “Yeah, I’ve checked over there already.” “And I’ve checked there.” All of a sudden we heard a whistle, and I soon figured out that Slop wasn’t going to be the only thing helping us to reach the end this day. It was also going to be Sounds. The members of our small pack kept following the whistle until by some miracle, we finally picked up trail again.
Math time. At this point, we were out for an hour and fifteen minutes, and I would finally come in at three hours and ten minutes. The FRB’s came in at around two and a half hours. DFL’s were Bunny and Circumpsychic, who came in at somewhere over four hours. So now you know how much time most of us spent on what we all considered to be the real trail, which started after this tiny circle jerk.
This part of trail was all forest r*nning, as well as some slower navigation through briars and deadfall. At some point, we saw rows of buried cinderblocks, which might have been the former foundation of some sort of dwelling. And there was abandoned crap all around. But there was no path for a vehicle, which made all of this very strange. It was here I realized a third set of clues would come in handy to fill into the blanks between marks: Shiggy of the trampled variety. So any part of the day when we couldn’t find trail, we simply turned into unprofessional trail guides, looking and listening for Shiggy, Sounds and Slop.
At the bottom of the hill we crossed a creek, did a little more navigating through the forest and then ran right into one of the deepest, nastiest swamps I’ve ever encountered. Muddy water was up to our waists at some points, and it was all we could do to keep from stalling there in the muck. Some of us were laughing out of joy. It was quite priceless. This dirty mess continued for a while, and when we finally extracted ourselves, we went back to more forest running. What will be seared into my cranium for a long time to come was when I looked ahead for the bazillionth time to see no marks, and recalled advice I had received from a wise hasher on the day of my first haring when I screwed the pack… “Turn around once in a while you’re laying trail. If you can’t see any marks behind you, you’re not laying well enough.” Wiping the spider webs and sweat from my face, I turned around to see no marks. As one hot hasher put it, these marks are actually checks.
Unfortunately, patient wankers, it was about this time that I started getting exhausted, and most details of the rest of the trail are forgotten. I do remember there was the same slow navigation through the forest, and a lot of what remained of the trail was along the side of a largish creek or a smallish river. At the two-and-a-half hour mark, I totally hit a wall. Fifteen minutes later, I ran out of water in my CamelBack and noticed I was not doing a very good job avoiding the briars and deadfall at my feet. We encountered a cleaner swamp here, and it almost required some swimming. This led to a street, which led to a tree farm of some sort, which led to a BN. And sooner or later, that led to the On-In. And sooner or later, after a little more forest nagivation, that led to the back yard of a house.
Getting to the back yard was almost surreal, after spending almost 2 hours seeing the dull browns of the forest floor for so long, among the filth and the heat. There were colors here... pastels and the bright shades of the beer coolers (yay!) and the intense green of a near-perfect lawn. And there were hashers here, not huffing and puffing and sweating and swearing; but clean, and reclining in camp chairs, taking part in one of the best pastimes ever... drinking. Sort of like Friday night, I stood dazed for a moment, not even able to talk. At least until the Terapin kicked in. Then I started getting stories from everyone else.
Swamp Thing had been the secret co-hare, and we were at his sister’s house, if I’m getting the facts right. That would be Cockodile and her husband, an unnamed gent who doesn’t seem to like getting bare-assed on ice. Circle was rather humorous, as there were humans present who were not of-age to vote, drink or smoke, or all of the above. So most of the songs were PG rated. Think S0B, but with ass cheeks.
Back at the start, there was much rejoicing as we found the brave souls who were missing from circle... Four-Inch, Hired Snatch and Captain Crash. I think there’s only one more item I need to bring up... The liquid I consumed at both hashes.
Friday:
48 oz of water from the CamelBack
48 oz of water at the on-in
12 oz can of diet coke
(about) 7 oz of down-down beer
Sunday:
60 oz of water from the CamelBack
48 oz of water at the on-in
12 oz bottle of Terapin
12 oz can of diet coke
12 oz can of diet 7-up
12 oz can of diet 7-up
(about) 8 oz of down-down beer
GRAND TOTAL: Two Hundred SIXTY NINE ounces (no kidding).
For those of you who enjoy a little perspective with their beer,
that’s 2.1 gallons, or almost 17 POUNDS of liquid.
Holy sh!t, that makes me dizzy.
OK, here’s this Humble Hound’s recap of the afternoon:
This trail was well thought out and had the correct amount of shiggy, but a couple miles of unneeded street. Trails like this take time, and the hares obviously put some effort into it. So for the hares, thank you for a memorable Sunday. And to the pack, thanks for coming out and making it fun. Black Sheep hashes never fail to impress, one way or another.
Join us next time, when Sani will be helming the Lyon Run with a number of mystery hares. Please expect a shiggy orgasm.
May the Hash Go in Peace
May the Hash Get a Piece
# posted by L&F @ 6:30 PM
51. Fuck, It’s Hot (part 1)
Southern Comfort H3 - 22 July 2005
This is one hound’s story of a very hot weekend. And by hot I mean Holy Sh!t My Face Feels Like A Furnace and I Think It’s Going to Explode.
This entry will serve as PART THE FIRST.
So a pack of exceptionally athletic hounds gathered at the start of So Co on the evening of 22 July 05. And it was a sausage fest. Ladies, where the he!! were you? You missed guys in tights. Anyway, Mister Crabs and Mister Port-a-Jay were our hares of the evening, and they decided to have us gather at a church, of all places. And it's amazing God didn’t make it rain all over our parade, since so many of us relieved ourselves at the side of the church property. And you would have actually been impressed, ladies... we were all discreet.
Hounds in attendance, with varying degrees of bladder control, included Mister Easy, Mister Cheaper, Mister Nads, Mister Woah, Mister Runs, Mister Development, Mister Lost, Mister Just Robert and your humble scribe.
As you can imagine, we had a Bimbo problem, but that was solved when the hares decided one of them would double back and pick up the Crabby Mobile. 7:25p, hares out. 7:30p, pack out.
There was a little street at the start. Hey, hey, hey... don’t get all pompous and start grumbling. The hares did it to quickly lay a countback 20 to fvck with everyone.
After we got fvcked, trail was easily found in a grassy, treeless area next to the assfault. And this led to the first tunnel of the evening, which was carved under I-85 and some other above-ground stuff as well, considering its length. On the east side of the tunnel, we were treated to a jaunt through a medium-sized creek. The Boys were dampened in a deep part here, which is always a good thing, since this is how your humble scribe inaccurately rates quality of trails. With this little requirement out of the way, I was able to focus on what else the evil hares had in store for us. We popped out of the water and sooner or later, made our way to a muddy mess, formerly known as Swamp. I guess Cindy and Dennis didn’t bring enough water after all. I say that, but at one point, I stepped down 10 or 11 inches into a mass of mud. The number of tiny creeks here was surprising, but they were all hoppable or jumpable, which was almost a blessing since some of them were a stagnant copperish mess.
Oh yeah, I forgot to mention the first check. Holy crap, I don’t even remember where it was.
Some forest running brought us to a second tunnel, this one of lesser girth, which opened up to (surprise) a new clear-cut sewer line. The power and-or fiberop/cable tubes were still above ground and stretched for an eternity. Easements of all types ensued, which had us running rather quickly in the heat. This would be the perfect time to mention how happy I was to have a CamelBack strapped to me. This little bad-boy has proven itself worth every filthy dollar I gave up for it.
At one point after the half-way point, we ran into a check in the middle of the forest where there was very little undergrowth, so you could see for quite a ways. And there wasn’t a piece of TP or a footprint in sight. This would be one of the many strategically-laid checks of the evening that allowed for multiple areas of searching. I blew through the check and unwisely kept going straight. Not more than 20 yards later, I ran into a deer, which I don’t think had ever seen a human before. I watched it contemplate me for a while before it bounded through the forest. I kept going in its general direction and ran into it again. Looking back toward the check, I realized I had run quite far, and decided to go back to TP before continuing the search. We heard a whistle to the left, and ran through a grassy area to an abandoned house that was falling apart and noticed another check in front of it. A power cut, an easement and other possibilities laid out around us. I chose the power cut and it paid off, making this the second check of the evening I had solved. Is this increased efficiency the benefit of r*nning and biking on off-days? What’s that called? Endurance? Sweet.
The trail continued uphill for a while, but my successes had energized me, and I found myself moving swiftly up, and up, underneath the powerlines to an arrow, which pointed into the tree line. The usual slowage occurred with the nasty undergrowth and deadfall, but trail opened up once again to a clear-cut area with a cell tower and the BN. A sprint up another hill led to the two hares and the On-In. Huh? Where was everyone else? Holy crap, your scribe was FRB on a Southern Comfort trail.
So there we were, watching everyone else trickle in, not too far behind. Some of us stood dazed for a moment, recovering from the exertion. At least one of us was able to literally wring out our shirt. Some with a greater fortitude just cracked a beer and started sharing their own tales of the trail.
Stories of He!! were also heard, and of scouting trails, and of the pretty wire-rimmed laundry bag that the beermeister, Mister Runs, has in his possession to collect the empies.
In keeping with the sausage theme, Mister Crabs once again brought the spicy kind for us to consume while we were inhaling our malty beverages.
Circle was very brief, but near the end it came to a screeching halt as we ran into a mental wall while trying to name Mister Just Robert. He’s from south China, and is apparently smart, since he’s getting his PhD and is moving up to Michigan (I think) to teach. Names? Suck My Dickie? Um, no thank you. Robert E. Lee? That might have worked since his last name is Li, but that was nixed. Suck My Dickie? Um, I think we said no. Li Love You Long Time was also thrown away, due to it being a reference to a non-applicable country. And we kept going... and going. Finally, 20 minutes later, the pack had an idea, but needed Mister Robert to cum back into circle to remind us whether the currency of China was actually the Yuan. Yes, it was. So goodbye to Just Robert, who shall from now on and forever more be known as Depressed Yuan. Right after circle disbanded, we realized the Chinese currency was going through an upheaval, and hashers started shouting out "Floating Yuan," as they were packing up their gear. RA Mister Crabs was heard saying "You know, we’re laid back here... whatever name he calls himself the next time he shows up is the name we’ll give him."
Back at the start, I congratulated our newest hasher, and asked him what name he was going to go with. It looks like from now on and forever more, you’ll be saying hello to Floating Yuan.
Thanks to everyone for another great Friday. Join us again next time, when Mister Port-a-Jay hares yet again, this time with Mister Development.
Oh... as for PART THE SECOND, please see Black Sheep’s Hash Trash for July 24th, cumming shortly.
May the Hash Go in Piece
May the Hash Get a Piece
This is one hound’s story of a very hot weekend. And by hot I mean Holy Sh!t My Face Feels Like A Furnace and I Think It’s Going to Explode.
This entry will serve as PART THE FIRST.
So a pack of exceptionally athletic hounds gathered at the start of So Co on the evening of 22 July 05. And it was a sausage fest. Ladies, where the he!! were you? You missed guys in tights. Anyway, Mister Crabs and Mister Port-a-Jay were our hares of the evening, and they decided to have us gather at a church, of all places. And it's amazing God didn’t make it rain all over our parade, since so many of us relieved ourselves at the side of the church property. And you would have actually been impressed, ladies... we were all discreet.
Hounds in attendance, with varying degrees of bladder control, included Mister Easy, Mister Cheaper, Mister Nads, Mister Woah, Mister Runs, Mister Development, Mister Lost, Mister Just Robert and your humble scribe.
As you can imagine, we had a Bimbo problem, but that was solved when the hares decided one of them would double back and pick up the Crabby Mobile. 7:25p, hares out. 7:30p, pack out.
There was a little street at the start. Hey, hey, hey... don’t get all pompous and start grumbling. The hares did it to quickly lay a countback 20 to fvck with everyone.
After we got fvcked, trail was easily found in a grassy, treeless area next to the assfault. And this led to the first tunnel of the evening, which was carved under I-85 and some other above-ground stuff as well, considering its length. On the east side of the tunnel, we were treated to a jaunt through a medium-sized creek. The Boys were dampened in a deep part here, which is always a good thing, since this is how your humble scribe inaccurately rates quality of trails. With this little requirement out of the way, I was able to focus on what else the evil hares had in store for us. We popped out of the water and sooner or later, made our way to a muddy mess, formerly known as Swamp. I guess Cindy and Dennis didn’t bring enough water after all. I say that, but at one point, I stepped down 10 or 11 inches into a mass of mud. The number of tiny creeks here was surprising, but they were all hoppable or jumpable, which was almost a blessing since some of them were a stagnant copperish mess.
Oh yeah, I forgot to mention the first check. Holy crap, I don’t even remember where it was.
Some forest running brought us to a second tunnel, this one of lesser girth, which opened up to (surprise) a new clear-cut sewer line. The power and-or fiberop/cable tubes were still above ground and stretched for an eternity. Easements of all types ensued, which had us running rather quickly in the heat. This would be the perfect time to mention how happy I was to have a CamelBack strapped to me. This little bad-boy has proven itself worth every filthy dollar I gave up for it.
At one point after the half-way point, we ran into a check in the middle of the forest where there was very little undergrowth, so you could see for quite a ways. And there wasn’t a piece of TP or a footprint in sight. This would be one of the many strategically-laid checks of the evening that allowed for multiple areas of searching. I blew through the check and unwisely kept going straight. Not more than 20 yards later, I ran into a deer, which I don’t think had ever seen a human before. I watched it contemplate me for a while before it bounded through the forest. I kept going in its general direction and ran into it again. Looking back toward the check, I realized I had run quite far, and decided to go back to TP before continuing the search. We heard a whistle to the left, and ran through a grassy area to an abandoned house that was falling apart and noticed another check in front of it. A power cut, an easement and other possibilities laid out around us. I chose the power cut and it paid off, making this the second check of the evening I had solved. Is this increased efficiency the benefit of r*nning and biking on off-days? What’s that called? Endurance? Sweet.
The trail continued uphill for a while, but my successes had energized me, and I found myself moving swiftly up, and up, underneath the powerlines to an arrow, which pointed into the tree line. The usual slowage occurred with the nasty undergrowth and deadfall, but trail opened up once again to a clear-cut area with a cell tower and the BN. A sprint up another hill led to the two hares and the On-In. Huh? Where was everyone else? Holy crap, your scribe was FRB on a Southern Comfort trail.
So there we were, watching everyone else trickle in, not too far behind. Some of us stood dazed for a moment, recovering from the exertion. At least one of us was able to literally wring out our shirt. Some with a greater fortitude just cracked a beer and started sharing their own tales of the trail.
Stories of He!! were also heard, and of scouting trails, and of the pretty wire-rimmed laundry bag that the beermeister, Mister Runs, has in his possession to collect the empies.
In keeping with the sausage theme, Mister Crabs once again brought the spicy kind for us to consume while we were inhaling our malty beverages.
Circle was very brief, but near the end it came to a screeching halt as we ran into a mental wall while trying to name Mister Just Robert. He’s from south China, and is apparently smart, since he’s getting his PhD and is moving up to Michigan (I think) to teach. Names? Suck My Dickie? Um, no thank you. Robert E. Lee? That might have worked since his last name is Li, but that was nixed. Suck My Dickie? Um, I think we said no. Li Love You Long Time was also thrown away, due to it being a reference to a non-applicable country. And we kept going... and going. Finally, 20 minutes later, the pack had an idea, but needed Mister Robert to cum back into circle to remind us whether the currency of China was actually the Yuan. Yes, it was. So goodbye to Just Robert, who shall from now on and forever more be known as Depressed Yuan. Right after circle disbanded, we realized the Chinese currency was going through an upheaval, and hashers started shouting out "Floating Yuan," as they were packing up their gear. RA Mister Crabs was heard saying "You know, we’re laid back here... whatever name he calls himself the next time he shows up is the name we’ll give him."
Back at the start, I congratulated our newest hasher, and asked him what name he was going to go with. It looks like from now on and forever more, you’ll be saying hello to Floating Yuan.
Thanks to everyone for another great Friday. Join us again next time, when Mister Port-a-Jay hares yet again, this time with Mister Development.
Oh... as for PART THE SECOND, please see Black Sheep’s Hash Trash for July 24th, cumming shortly.
May the Hash Go in Piece
May the Hash Get a Piece
# posted by L&F @ 6:30 PM
50. Road Whoring: Year Two
Shitloads of H3’s - May 2004 to May 2005
L&F's TOP TEN MOMENTS OF YEAR TWO
10 - Charlotte's Hurts So Good Hash - 18 Sept 04 to 19 Sept 04
A hash event with S&M included? Where do I sign up? As it turns out, Red Breast and I didn't sign up. Bad mistake. But we decided to drive up at the last minute to check out everything as the dust was settling. When we walked up the driveway to the garage we noticed various torture devices that people had been strapped to. The first person to notice me was a highly intoxicated Slappy, who had refused to go but was abducted by hashers, forced into a car and driven to the event against his will. He ran up to me and screamed: "Dude, L&F! I just got my nipples clamped and my ball sack whipped!" Pain is good.
Hash Hosts: Bucket Slut and Deposit Only. Honorable Mention: Shappens for throwing out tons of cash for the booze.
9 - Tidewater Trail - 9 Sept 04
I pulled up to the start of Tidewater's Thursday night trail in Virginia Beach hardly knowing anyone. I stood at the outskirts of the pack while waiting for trail to start, looking sort of... um... Lost. That's when I heard a member of mismanagement yelling to a virgin couple saying that new people weren't allowed to stand around with their thumbs up their asses. That was all the motivation I needed, and ended up acting like a moron until the on-out. Soon everyone knew who I was and they even gave me a re-naming for the day: Donnie the Retard. I constantly got called up to drink during circle, and inadvertently became one of the centers of attention by mystifying people with random Retard(ed) comments and Acts of Super-Human Retard Strength.
Hash host: Laa Laa, who had the best explanation for this phenomenon I've ever heard. "When you're a visitor, you're a NOVELTY." Translation: Take advantage of your visitor status. Honorable Mention: Everyone, since this is a hash that likes songs, and loves it when visitors sing new ones. They even paid attention during the now-infamous "Three-Minute Song."
8 - Black Sheep Trail - 6 March 05
In my book, this was Trail of the Year. GE and Wine Ho laid a live trail that kicked the shit out of many of us, and impressed the shit out of even more. The start was off I-575, exit 8, and most of the trail cut through land owned by the Army Corps of Engineers just to the east of Lake Allatoona. Practically every Black Sheep trail is quality-laden, and what made this one exceptional was the scenery. The scope of everything was huge, including massive flood plains, lung-busting hills and expansive rocky river banks. At one point, another hound and I stopped dead in our tracks to stare at a sprawling mud flat laid out in front of us. His response: "My God, this is epic." Why am I proud to have a name supplied by Black Sheep hashers? It's because of days like this.
7 - Biloxi Trail - 2 Oct 04
This hash and on-after is what every Road Whore dreams of. Well, minus the cluster-fuck of a trail. But even that was forgivable, considering a decent portion of the trail, including the start, was at the beach. Everyone who showed up was exceptionally hashpitable and entertaining. At the same time, they tolerated me like champions as I took over the warm up and hijacked circle. The on-in was at a park, and we sat there for hours next to a keg getting lit. To top it off, everyone was acting like lunatics, making this one of the most hilarious hashes I have ever attended. Want to know what's behind the 4-foot zipper? Drive to Biloxi.
Hash Host: Porkymon, who is giving Dirve (OrlandoH3) competition as owner of the best modern-day Hash House, which includes a fully-stocked bar and screened-in patio with hot tub. Don't forget to peek into his extra room to check out all the dresses, costumes, hash-related goodies and Halloween decorations. I'm going to be stealing that foam alien, bro. Honorable Mention: Burnin' Bush for passing out in the sitting position during dinner at the on-after.
[Update, 17 Sept 05: Porkymon’s house was destroyed by Hurricane Katrina. He lived a half-mile from the bay, and the 20-foot storm surge put his entire house underwater, roof and all. He lost almost everything, including all his hash-related and Halloween-related paraphernalia. The dollar amount makes me dizzy. Contact me if you want to donate any hash items that I can send his way. He’d appreciate it. -L&F]
6 - Trash Haring - 14 Nov 04
We started the weekend in Raleigh on Friday night, hashed with G-Spot in Greensboro on Saturday, then drove to Fayetteville where Red Breast and I were the Hares of Record for the Trash on Sunday afternoon. Spooge Bob Shit Pants and Tonsil Tang gave us a bar next to Fort Bragg as the start and end, and told us where the shiggy was. After some quick car-scouting, the path for trail was essentially a no-brainer since there were very limited ways to connect the pieces of shiggy for an A-to-A loop. Did I say "no-brainer"? Oops. Maybe I need to mention the painfully-long portion of trail we needed to struggle through along a fence separating us from Bragg. The briars there amazingly thick, and stretched over our heads. At one point, I was practically hanging from the vines with briars cutting into my legs, arms and face. I remember looking at an equally tangled Red Breast and heard myself asking "What the hell are we going to do?" Somehow we extracted ourselves, finished scouting and made it back to the start just before people started arriving. For fear of a Hashit, I threw down my stuff and ran back through the briar patch, stomping down as many vines as I could. I made it back with just 10 minutes to spare before the hounds were going to leave. I threw on my packpack full of flour and TP and took off once again. How close was I to getting snared? The FRB came in less than 20 seconds after I did.
Hash Host: Cinco de Layo. Honorable Mention: MC, who didn't have to open her house on Saturday night, but has proven herself time and time again for being one of the best hash hosts ever. Also Spooge and Tang for taking care of the hares and Trashy Transvestite for swallowing a used condom he found at one of our beer stops.
5 - Black Rock Campout - 18 Mar 05 to 20 Mar 05
If I was only able to do one Atlanta event every year, the Black Sheep campout at Black Rock Mountain would be it. And it keeps getting better. This year, we had better beer, a Shooting Star Hash and Chili Cookoff Friday night and yet another lung-busting trail Saturday afternoon. I passed out after gorging myself on pig and beer Saturday evening, but woke up around midnight to a group of drunk hashers (is that redundant?) singing with a synchronicity and clarity that approached perfection. I walked to the fire carrying my headlamp in one hand and my mug in the other. The group, which would end up being The Last People Standing, saw a pair of legs approaching and I heard someone say "Uh oh, here's someone that's going to be shutting us up." I got to the benches around the fire to see Bwana and company doing their best to kill another keg, and Ho Checka guzzling Jameson straight from the bottle. My comment: "I passed out earlier and just woke up to one of the most amazing renditions of "More Beer" I've ever heard. So I thought I'd get up and get drunk." Cheers were heard, rumors were spread and a good time was had by all. This would end up being the highlight of the weekend. As a bonus, the late-night pack was motivated enough to move the block of ice and officially rename Ho Checka. Sing it along with me, people: "Surly... Surly Temple... Queen of the Wild Front Queers." It never gets old.
Honorable Mention: Sani and everyone else who makes this event happen. And to Bwana, who makes sure I get a rego every year, even though I'm such a pathetic backslider.
4 - SoCo Haring - 18 June 04
This is a tale of me getting lucky. (Insert your own joke here.) I took a break from traveling after NC/SC 2004 and spent the next three months hashing with Southern Comfort every Friday night. Out of guilt for more than three full years of SoCo slacking, I finally signed up for a trail and scouted until my feet bled. And it paid off. Although I got snared three times, I was able to keep most of the pack at bay with only a five-minute he*d start and without throwing down impossible checks or prelaid YBF's. Then during circle, Harelips stunned me with the highest honor you can get as a Southern Comfort hasher: He presented me with a Bungholer Award, typically given to hashers who are instrumental in the success of Southern Comfort and who help uphold its traditions. Example: "When you come to a creek, get in the creek, stay in the creek." It was because of this trail and the responses I got that helped motivate me to start haring out of town.
Epilogue: My first haring outside Atlanta was in Charlotte about a month later, and I laid it in the name of Southern Comfort Hash House Harriers. And how did the Charlotte hounds fare? I hurt them. All but one bailed out at the beer stop. Hash Hosts: Spitzer and Miss Charlotte. Honorable Mention: Goth, who was the brave soul who finished the trail. You da' man.
3 - Savannah Haring - 15 Jan 05
I'll say it until I die... Atlanta has the best hares and the best trails. There are very few cities out there that like shiggy as much as Atlanta, and Savannahhh's one of them. So when I had the chance to hare a Saturday trail for them, I jumped at the chance. And the shiggy I found was close to orgasmic. Once again, Slip 'n Side volunteered to help me car scout. And once again, she helped cut down on scouting time by picking me up in her car at various points along the trail as I popped out of shiggy, soaking-wet and muddy. The goal was to erase as much assfault as possible, while pushing the length to 4 miles and finding the perfect area for the beer stop... all in record time. And once again, I got really lucky. A huge group turned out, and I was totally flattered with how appreciative they were, both when they trickled in and during circle. For those of you who have never hashed in Savannah, that's a great group of people.
Hash Hosts: Slip's parents. Honorable Mention: GladHeAteHer for giving me the ceremonial hashit and allowing me to drink my fill from that skanky rubber plunger without having to lug the whole thing home.
2 - Charleston Haring - 18 Feb 05 to 20 Feb 05
If that was a perfect day in Savannah, the trip to Charleston turned out to be a perfect weekend. Becoming a live hare for a hash I've never been to before was enough of a draw. But to top it off, Shit Happens somehow managed to rewrite the playbook for Hashpotality, and he made it look easy. We got two tours of the area, a pub crawl Friday night and food all weekend. He even got people to drive in from out of town, including the world-famous Jack Off. I also experienced something new: Phone Scouting. I left Shappens' house about four hours before the Happy Heretics H3 start time in an attempt to piece together a 4-5 mile loop, and I called him about once every mile so he could help me figure out where to go and get me out of binds. Along the way, I ran into the most dangerous pungee sticks I've ever seen, a bum hiding out deep in the shiggy who described himself as a "forestry engineer" and a former Pensacola hasher whose marriage and kids forced her to give up her combo running-and-drinking habit. ("Well, hey, can I defile your house with flour when I run back through here?") But the trail wasn't the big deal this time around. It was the fact that the planets ended up aligning at the exact time everyone got to the on-in at Shappens' back deck. Holy Mother of God. Everyone in attendance was in rare form, and the one-liners came at a dizzying pace... not just before circle, and not just during circle, but for HOURS... continuing through dinner and through the rowdy party that ensued. There was beer, three-man, beer and three-man, homemade shooters and even a little (real) absinthe. We left Sunday afternoon after a fantastic brunch complete with oyster shooters made by a champion oyster shucker. Sweet.
Hash Host: The guy who looks like Ron Jeremy. Honorable Mention: Ear of the Sperm, who might have the quickest wit in the History of Ever. Amkneesia for bringing even more people. And Little Crack Porn, who drove up from Savannah to add to the frivolity.
1 - Charlotte Haring - 30 Jan 05
This trip was technically extra credit, since we were driving home from Triangle's Analversary in Raleigh. Slip and I got to Charlotte early enough to do some last-minute scouting before trail, which was starting and ending at Hollow Beaver's house. I was the "Mystery Hare" and a few people who saw me at the start were a little worried about what would ensue (See the Epilogue in #4.) But I had learned my lesson, and made sure to give the Charlotte lovelies the correct level of shiggy. Entertainment on trail: Snow. More entertainment on trail: For the first time, I laid part of a trail live in an area I had never scouted. I'd be scared to death to do that in a huge piece of shiggy, but when the forest is surrounded by street grids and an easily-assessable train track, the odds of failure are low. And it was quite a rush. Trail was a little long, but everyone was nice when they came in. Then came circle, and the reason this made Number One: I got adopted. Spitzer and Miss Charlotte bought me a Happi Coat and had this embroidered on the front: CLTH3 - Lost and Fucked - Adopted 2004. I'm not sentimental often, but spank my ass and call me speechless, that's the shit.
Hash Host: Hollow Beaver and her gorgeous hash dog Shits 'n Runs. Honorable Mention: Lobster (who I think has 5 hash names by now), for providing an insane amount of entertainment as the Charlotte RA. Long-term Honorable Mention: Miss Spitzer Swallows and Mister Miss Charlotte for taking care of me from my first trip up there, when I timidly snuck into their house for the 2003 Christmas Party. Thanks guys. Hopefully I'm loud enough now.
Until next time,
Kisses and FYYFF's
-L&F
L&F's TOP TEN MOMENTS OF YEAR TWO
10 - Charlotte's Hurts So Good Hash - 18 Sept 04 to 19 Sept 04
A hash event with S&M included? Where do I sign up? As it turns out, Red Breast and I didn't sign up. Bad mistake. But we decided to drive up at the last minute to check out everything as the dust was settling. When we walked up the driveway to the garage we noticed various torture devices that people had been strapped to. The first person to notice me was a highly intoxicated Slappy, who had refused to go but was abducted by hashers, forced into a car and driven to the event against his will. He ran up to me and screamed: "Dude, L&F! I just got my nipples clamped and my ball sack whipped!" Pain is good.
Hash Hosts: Bucket Slut and Deposit Only. Honorable Mention: Shappens for throwing out tons of cash for the booze.
9 - Tidewater Trail - 9 Sept 04
I pulled up to the start of Tidewater's Thursday night trail in Virginia Beach hardly knowing anyone. I stood at the outskirts of the pack while waiting for trail to start, looking sort of... um... Lost. That's when I heard a member of mismanagement yelling to a virgin couple saying that new people weren't allowed to stand around with their thumbs up their asses. That was all the motivation I needed, and ended up acting like a moron until the on-out. Soon everyone knew who I was and they even gave me a re-naming for the day: Donnie the Retard. I constantly got called up to drink during circle, and inadvertently became one of the centers of attention by mystifying people with random Retard(ed) comments and Acts of Super-Human Retard Strength.
Hash host: Laa Laa, who had the best explanation for this phenomenon I've ever heard. "When you're a visitor, you're a NOVELTY." Translation: Take advantage of your visitor status. Honorable Mention: Everyone, since this is a hash that likes songs, and loves it when visitors sing new ones. They even paid attention during the now-infamous "Three-Minute Song."
8 - Black Sheep Trail - 6 March 05
In my book, this was Trail of the Year. GE and Wine Ho laid a live trail that kicked the shit out of many of us, and impressed the shit out of even more. The start was off I-575, exit 8, and most of the trail cut through land owned by the Army Corps of Engineers just to the east of Lake Allatoona. Practically every Black Sheep trail is quality-laden, and what made this one exceptional was the scenery. The scope of everything was huge, including massive flood plains, lung-busting hills and expansive rocky river banks. At one point, another hound and I stopped dead in our tracks to stare at a sprawling mud flat laid out in front of us. His response: "My God, this is epic." Why am I proud to have a name supplied by Black Sheep hashers? It's because of days like this.
7 - Biloxi Trail - 2 Oct 04
This hash and on-after is what every Road Whore dreams of. Well, minus the cluster-fuck of a trail. But even that was forgivable, considering a decent portion of the trail, including the start, was at the beach. Everyone who showed up was exceptionally hashpitable and entertaining. At the same time, they tolerated me like champions as I took over the warm up and hijacked circle. The on-in was at a park, and we sat there for hours next to a keg getting lit. To top it off, everyone was acting like lunatics, making this one of the most hilarious hashes I have ever attended. Want to know what's behind the 4-foot zipper? Drive to Biloxi.
Hash Host: Porkymon, who is giving Dirve (OrlandoH3) competition as owner of the best modern-day Hash House, which includes a fully-stocked bar and screened-in patio with hot tub. Don't forget to peek into his extra room to check out all the dresses, costumes, hash-related goodies and Halloween decorations. I'm going to be stealing that foam alien, bro. Honorable Mention: Burnin' Bush for passing out in the sitting position during dinner at the on-after.
[Update, 17 Sept 05: Porkymon’s house was destroyed by Hurricane Katrina. He lived a half-mile from the bay, and the 20-foot storm surge put his entire house underwater, roof and all. He lost almost everything, including all his hash-related and Halloween-related paraphernalia. The dollar amount makes me dizzy. Contact me if you want to donate any hash items that I can send his way. He’d appreciate it. -L&F]
6 - Trash Haring - 14 Nov 04
We started the weekend in Raleigh on Friday night, hashed with G-Spot in Greensboro on Saturday, then drove to Fayetteville where Red Breast and I were the Hares of Record for the Trash on Sunday afternoon. Spooge Bob Shit Pants and Tonsil Tang gave us a bar next to Fort Bragg as the start and end, and told us where the shiggy was. After some quick car-scouting, the path for trail was essentially a no-brainer since there were very limited ways to connect the pieces of shiggy for an A-to-A loop. Did I say "no-brainer"? Oops. Maybe I need to mention the painfully-long portion of trail we needed to struggle through along a fence separating us from Bragg. The briars there amazingly thick, and stretched over our heads. At one point, I was practically hanging from the vines with briars cutting into my legs, arms and face. I remember looking at an equally tangled Red Breast and heard myself asking "What the hell are we going to do?" Somehow we extracted ourselves, finished scouting and made it back to the start just before people started arriving. For fear of a Hashit, I threw down my stuff and ran back through the briar patch, stomping down as many vines as I could. I made it back with just 10 minutes to spare before the hounds were going to leave. I threw on my packpack full of flour and TP and took off once again. How close was I to getting snared? The FRB came in less than 20 seconds after I did.
Hash Host: Cinco de Layo. Honorable Mention: MC, who didn't have to open her house on Saturday night, but has proven herself time and time again for being one of the best hash hosts ever. Also Spooge and Tang for taking care of the hares and Trashy Transvestite for swallowing a used condom he found at one of our beer stops.
5 - Black Rock Campout - 18 Mar 05 to 20 Mar 05
If I was only able to do one Atlanta event every year, the Black Sheep campout at Black Rock Mountain would be it. And it keeps getting better. This year, we had better beer, a Shooting Star Hash and Chili Cookoff Friday night and yet another lung-busting trail Saturday afternoon. I passed out after gorging myself on pig and beer Saturday evening, but woke up around midnight to a group of drunk hashers (is that redundant?) singing with a synchronicity and clarity that approached perfection. I walked to the fire carrying my headlamp in one hand and my mug in the other. The group, which would end up being The Last People Standing, saw a pair of legs approaching and I heard someone say "Uh oh, here's someone that's going to be shutting us up." I got to the benches around the fire to see Bwana and company doing their best to kill another keg, and Ho Checka guzzling Jameson straight from the bottle. My comment: "I passed out earlier and just woke up to one of the most amazing renditions of "More Beer" I've ever heard. So I thought I'd get up and get drunk." Cheers were heard, rumors were spread and a good time was had by all. This would end up being the highlight of the weekend. As a bonus, the late-night pack was motivated enough to move the block of ice and officially rename Ho Checka. Sing it along with me, people: "Surly... Surly Temple... Queen of the Wild Front Queers." It never gets old.
Honorable Mention: Sani and everyone else who makes this event happen. And to Bwana, who makes sure I get a rego every year, even though I'm such a pathetic backslider.
4 - SoCo Haring - 18 June 04
This is a tale of me getting lucky. (Insert your own joke here.) I took a break from traveling after NC/SC 2004 and spent the next three months hashing with Southern Comfort every Friday night. Out of guilt for more than three full years of SoCo slacking, I finally signed up for a trail and scouted until my feet bled. And it paid off. Although I got snared three times, I was able to keep most of the pack at bay with only a five-minute he*d start and without throwing down impossible checks or prelaid YBF's. Then during circle, Harelips stunned me with the highest honor you can get as a Southern Comfort hasher: He presented me with a Bungholer Award, typically given to hashers who are instrumental in the success of Southern Comfort and who help uphold its traditions. Example: "When you come to a creek, get in the creek, stay in the creek." It was because of this trail and the responses I got that helped motivate me to start haring out of town.
Epilogue: My first haring outside Atlanta was in Charlotte about a month later, and I laid it in the name of Southern Comfort Hash House Harriers. And how did the Charlotte hounds fare? I hurt them. All but one bailed out at the beer stop. Hash Hosts: Spitzer and Miss Charlotte. Honorable Mention: Goth, who was the brave soul who finished the trail. You da' man.
3 - Savannah Haring - 15 Jan 05
I'll say it until I die... Atlanta has the best hares and the best trails. There are very few cities out there that like shiggy as much as Atlanta, and Savannahhh's one of them. So when I had the chance to hare a Saturday trail for them, I jumped at the chance. And the shiggy I found was close to orgasmic. Once again, Slip 'n Side volunteered to help me car scout. And once again, she helped cut down on scouting time by picking me up in her car at various points along the trail as I popped out of shiggy, soaking-wet and muddy. The goal was to erase as much assfault as possible, while pushing the length to 4 miles and finding the perfect area for the beer stop... all in record time. And once again, I got really lucky. A huge group turned out, and I was totally flattered with how appreciative they were, both when they trickled in and during circle. For those of you who have never hashed in Savannah, that's a great group of people.
Hash Hosts: Slip's parents. Honorable Mention: GladHeAteHer for giving me the ceremonial hashit and allowing me to drink my fill from that skanky rubber plunger without having to lug the whole thing home.
2 - Charleston Haring - 18 Feb 05 to 20 Feb 05
If that was a perfect day in Savannah, the trip to Charleston turned out to be a perfect weekend. Becoming a live hare for a hash I've never been to before was enough of a draw. But to top it off, Shit Happens somehow managed to rewrite the playbook for Hashpotality, and he made it look easy. We got two tours of the area, a pub crawl Friday night and food all weekend. He even got people to drive in from out of town, including the world-famous Jack Off. I also experienced something new: Phone Scouting. I left Shappens' house about four hours before the Happy Heretics H3 start time in an attempt to piece together a 4-5 mile loop, and I called him about once every mile so he could help me figure out where to go and get me out of binds. Along the way, I ran into the most dangerous pungee sticks I've ever seen, a bum hiding out deep in the shiggy who described himself as a "forestry engineer" and a former Pensacola hasher whose marriage and kids forced her to give up her combo running-and-drinking habit. ("Well, hey, can I defile your house with flour when I run back through here?") But the trail wasn't the big deal this time around. It was the fact that the planets ended up aligning at the exact time everyone got to the on-in at Shappens' back deck. Holy Mother of God. Everyone in attendance was in rare form, and the one-liners came at a dizzying pace... not just before circle, and not just during circle, but for HOURS... continuing through dinner and through the rowdy party that ensued. There was beer, three-man, beer and three-man, homemade shooters and even a little (real) absinthe. We left Sunday afternoon after a fantastic brunch complete with oyster shooters made by a champion oyster shucker. Sweet.
Hash Host: The guy who looks like Ron Jeremy. Honorable Mention: Ear of the Sperm, who might have the quickest wit in the History of Ever. Amkneesia for bringing even more people. And Little Crack Porn, who drove up from Savannah to add to the frivolity.
1 - Charlotte Haring - 30 Jan 05
This trip was technically extra credit, since we were driving home from Triangle's Analversary in Raleigh. Slip and I got to Charlotte early enough to do some last-minute scouting before trail, which was starting and ending at Hollow Beaver's house. I was the "Mystery Hare" and a few people who saw me at the start were a little worried about what would ensue (See the Epilogue in #4.) But I had learned my lesson, and made sure to give the Charlotte lovelies the correct level of shiggy. Entertainment on trail: Snow. More entertainment on trail: For the first time, I laid part of a trail live in an area I had never scouted. I'd be scared to death to do that in a huge piece of shiggy, but when the forest is surrounded by street grids and an easily-assessable train track, the odds of failure are low. And it was quite a rush. Trail was a little long, but everyone was nice when they came in. Then came circle, and the reason this made Number One: I got adopted. Spitzer and Miss Charlotte bought me a Happi Coat and had this embroidered on the front: CLTH3 - Lost and Fucked - Adopted 2004. I'm not sentimental often, but spank my ass and call me speechless, that's the shit.
Hash Host: Hollow Beaver and her gorgeous hash dog Shits 'n Runs. Honorable Mention: Lobster (who I think has 5 hash names by now), for providing an insane amount of entertainment as the Charlotte RA. Long-term Honorable Mention: Miss Spitzer Swallows and Mister Miss Charlotte for taking care of me from my first trip up there, when I timidly snuck into their house for the 2003 Christmas Party. Thanks guys. Hopefully I'm loud enough now.
Until next time,
Kisses and FYYFF's
-L&F
# posted by L&F @ 6:28 PM
49. Charlotte 600th Trail Stats
Charlotte H3 - 20 May 2005 to 22 May 2005
Number of hares, total: 3
Number of half-minded hares who woke up early to scout Saturday morning: 2
Number of lake police riding official police Sea-Doos who told the hares they couldn’t swim in a public body of water: 1
Number of live hares who got a delicious orange-flour bath as a blessing: 1 (Thanks Lobster)
Number of hounds: A lot. (Thanks y’all)
Number of hares who were sober enough to drive to the beer stop: 1
Number of kegs in the beer truck: 1
Length of lake crossing, in feet: Two hundred SIXTY NINE
Number of miles the hounds ran before the beer stop: 1.57
Number of police who decided not to pull over a truck full of drunk hounds: 2
Total length of trail, in miles: 3.09
Percentage of lake crossings the hares avoided, as a favor to the drunk hounds: 50
Percentage of creeks the hares avoided, as a favor to the drunk hounds: 100
Percentage of swamps the hares avoided, as a favor to the drunk hounds: 100
Percentage of hares who still got bare-ass spanked with a strap due to the shiggy: 33
Percentage of hounds, in circle, who decided it was a shitty trail: 100
Sound volume of circle, in decibels: 110
Percentage of math wizards/number nerds who had a great time at camp: 100
Bonus stat:
Number of Spank Banks the hares made, thanks to skin-tight wrestling singlets and frilly dresses: 2
Love always,
-L&F
Number of hares, total: 3
Number of half-minded hares who woke up early to scout Saturday morning: 2
Number of lake police riding official police Sea-Doos who told the hares they couldn’t swim in a public body of water: 1
Number of live hares who got a delicious orange-flour bath as a blessing: 1 (Thanks Lobster)
Number of hounds: A lot. (Thanks y’all)
Number of hares who were sober enough to drive to the beer stop: 1
Number of kegs in the beer truck: 1
Length of lake crossing, in feet: Two hundred SIXTY NINE
Number of miles the hounds ran before the beer stop: 1.57
Number of police who decided not to pull over a truck full of drunk hounds: 2
Total length of trail, in miles: 3.09
Percentage of lake crossings the hares avoided, as a favor to the drunk hounds: 50
Percentage of creeks the hares avoided, as a favor to the drunk hounds: 100
Percentage of swamps the hares avoided, as a favor to the drunk hounds: 100
Percentage of hares who still got bare-ass spanked with a strap due to the shiggy: 33
Percentage of hounds, in circle, who decided it was a shitty trail: 100
Sound volume of circle, in decibels: 110
Percentage of math wizards/number nerds who had a great time at camp: 100
Bonus stat:
Number of Spank Banks the hares made, thanks to skin-tight wrestling singlets and frilly dresses: 2
Love always,
-L&F
# posted by L&F @ 6:27 PM
48. The Haring of a Lifetime
Savannahhh - 13 January 2005 to 16 January 2005
Humbly submitted by the hare, it's...
THE UNOFFICIAL HASH TRASH OF #???
The possibility of becoming the flour-clad bunny in Savannahhh came up as I was volunteering to help Slip 'n Side move. The conversation went something like this:
L&F: "Hey, I'll take off work both Thurday and Friday and go to Savannahhh for an extended weekend to help you move, if we can go to Thursday's hash, and you can drive me around to scout trail on Friday. Because I'd be haring Saturday, and you'd have to drive me to that, too."
Slip: "Oh my God, of course I'll help you. You're such a wonderful guy for volunteering."
Actually, I think her response was:
"Bugger off, wanker. Find your own damn chauffeur."
But I'm not a big fan of remembering these type of petty details. So onward...
The soon-to-be ex-Savannahhh hasher picked me up at work on Wednesday evening , and about four hours later, I was getting my first taste of her two dogs. Actually, they were getting a taste of me. Her boxer Tobias couldn't stop licking me, and her parent's weimaraner Luke wouldn't stop biting me. In addition to being a furniture mover, I guess I had also volunteered to be a 140-pound canine chew toy. Mmm... human.
Things settled down considerably the next day when the dogs decided to treat me only as a curiosity rather than food. We had decided to scout Thursday, and that ended up consisting of us driving around the outskirts of the city, looking for a large area of shiggy that didn't have too much road and no possibility of tides or neck-deep water. Checked off the list were places along Harry Truman Parkway and across Hwy 204. We then looked at others along Hwy 80, and after driving around Pooler for a while, decided to give up for the day. But driving back to I-16 on Pooler Parkway, we ran into something I can only describe as a shiggy orgasm. First, there was forest, then a power cut, then breaks in the fence lining the entire street. And was that a glimmer of water? Mmm... swampy.
We went back down Hwy 80 later that night for Thursday's hash, hared by RV. This is where I learned some more about traditions of the Savannahhh hash that I had not fully injested in previous trips. These included being as entertaining as possible during chalk talk and ... something I'll never remember... wearing cranium gear in circle. Oh, and it's important for visitors to get quite drunk by the time everyone leaves the on-after. I didn't have much problem obliging. Mmm... beer.
After discussing my half-minded plans to the other half-minds at the on-after, we decided I should try this "new" area for trail. So on Friday, Slip and I went back out and did a little car scouting. Using a school parking lot off Pine Barren road as the starting point, it didn't take long to piece together what would turn out to be a three mile loop of shiggy, which included a lovely end near a lake about 1/2 mile from the start. While an A-B trail would be a little more work, I figured the secluded ending would be worth the effort.
Now, I realize there are some of you more adventurous hares who might find it odd that I would want to go out and pre-run this trail. But as a hasher who has hared 11 trails in Atlanta, let me assure you... it's a habit that I would find quite difficult to break. It's that five-minute head- (yes, I said the h-word) start we get, and the scattered looks of disappointment we get during circle if we do something dumb. Yes, haring in Atlanta has turned me into some sort of paranoid freak. So off I went, GPS in hand, searching for interesting bits of shiggy to take everyone through, while connecting the dots we had made while driving around in the car. Oh, by the way, you obviously do a great job helping your new Savannahhh hashers learn the utmost of southern hashpotality, since Slip actually drove to the lake to wait for me as I ran the entire trail. Well, she DID have a bum knee and a book to read, but still...
On to Saturday. January 15th. The day of the hash. And that bitch Mother Nature and that rat-bastard Father Time couldn't get together and keep the warm weather around for a while longer. It was freaking cold. So I was hopping around trying to keep warm as I watched the hashers roll in. And there was as lot of them. I'd like to think the turnout was high because everyone wanted to see how some out-of-town dork could ruin a perfectly fine day, but no... it was obviously because this was Slip 'n Side and Double Penetration's last hash, as well as one of their last days looking at Spanish moss dangling from the trees. I'm not going to try to list everyone who showed up because I'll forget someone, and that would be bad. Almost as bad as a judge using a penis pump during court cases.
http://www.thesmokinggun.com/archive/0121051judge1.html
Um, sorry. Tangent.
So how did I do on chalk talk? Eh. I'm working on it. Aside from the quality of my rambling, the general consensus was that I had too many marks, which was confusing to people who just wanted to get to the end and drink. So amid the criticism, I faced everyone, grabbed my sack (of flour) and vanished.
Down the street I ambled, only partially comforted by the fact that I had three times the normal lead time I have at home. With floured fingers flying, I threw tit checks, dick checks and a couple dead trails, hoping to buy a little time until I could get to the beer check. The road rage was right at the start, but it was only long enough to get past the school and the private property issues. Mere minutes after I took off, I dove into the watery shiggy off Pine Barren Ave. and shelved the flour in favor of every hasher's favorite TP... Scott thousand-sheet rolls. Ankle deep swamp led to some not-so-bad briars, a glowing-green pine forest and a little jaunt along an access road. At just the right moment, I veered off the road and nimbly dashed back into the forest... only to get tangled up in a patch of nasty briars. I soon freed my pathetic self, and made a beeline for a break in the fence at Pooler Blvd.
Across the street, the forest was less briar-ish, and made for some decent running to the beer stop. It was here amid the glorious cans of PBR and the sound of whistles did I realize I had dropped my GPS. Seconds later, the front of the pack arrived to laugh at my 350-dollar misfortune. At least until Just ????? walked backwards a few yards and found it on the ground. There was much rejoicing, but also more laughing, so I once again grabbed my sack (of flour) and bolted.
Because of the beer stop, I figured I'd have more time for the second part of trail, but this was going to be more difficult to lay. So I stepped it up a bit as I ran north to the next break in the fence on Pooler Blvd. This one led to a disgustingly beautiful swamp, complete with scores of reeds, bamboo, and at times, some hamsterland-type briars. And how can anyone forget the thigh-high creeks? The going was slow but highly entertaining for this mud-loving hare, and I was sad to see it end when I approached the power cut. With the buzz of the wires all around me, I laid marks down to the final piece of forest, which led to the dirt trail around the lake. On In.
The sun had set while I was in the swamp, and it was almost dark by the time I reached the end. As the wet and muddy hounds trickled in, I found myself repeatedly surprised at how cool everyone was being to the person who just gave them such a shitty trail. And during circle, Glad did an impressive job making me drink numerous times for various offenses. And holy crap, the biggest surprise of all... I was allowed to suck down precious malty liquid from the ceremonial Savannahhh Hashit. Wow.
I hate to get sentimental here, but you guys rock. Thanks to everyone for cumming out and proving once again that I'm an idiot for not hashing with you more often.
Until next time... May the Hash Get a Piece
-L&F
Humbly submitted by the hare, it's...
THE UNOFFICIAL HASH TRASH OF #???
The possibility of becoming the flour-clad bunny in Savannahhh came up as I was volunteering to help Slip 'n Side move. The conversation went something like this:
L&F: "Hey, I'll take off work both Thurday and Friday and go to Savannahhh for an extended weekend to help you move, if we can go to Thursday's hash, and you can drive me around to scout trail on Friday. Because I'd be haring Saturday, and you'd have to drive me to that, too."
Slip: "Oh my God, of course I'll help you. You're such a wonderful guy for volunteering."
Actually, I think her response was:
"Bugger off, wanker. Find your own damn chauffeur."
But I'm not a big fan of remembering these type of petty details. So onward...
The soon-to-be ex-Savannahhh hasher picked me up at work on Wednesday evening , and about four hours later, I was getting my first taste of her two dogs. Actually, they were getting a taste of me. Her boxer Tobias couldn't stop licking me, and her parent's weimaraner Luke wouldn't stop biting me. In addition to being a furniture mover, I guess I had also volunteered to be a 140-pound canine chew toy. Mmm... human.
Things settled down considerably the next day when the dogs decided to treat me only as a curiosity rather than food. We had decided to scout Thursday, and that ended up consisting of us driving around the outskirts of the city, looking for a large area of shiggy that didn't have too much road and no possibility of tides or neck-deep water. Checked off the list were places along Harry Truman Parkway and across Hwy 204. We then looked at others along Hwy 80, and after driving around Pooler for a while, decided to give up for the day. But driving back to I-16 on Pooler Parkway, we ran into something I can only describe as a shiggy orgasm. First, there was forest, then a power cut, then breaks in the fence lining the entire street. And was that a glimmer of water? Mmm... swampy.
We went back down Hwy 80 later that night for Thursday's hash, hared by RV. This is where I learned some more about traditions of the Savannahhh hash that I had not fully injested in previous trips. These included being as entertaining as possible during chalk talk and ... something I'll never remember... wearing cranium gear in circle. Oh, and it's important for visitors to get quite drunk by the time everyone leaves the on-after. I didn't have much problem obliging. Mmm... beer.
After discussing my half-minded plans to the other half-minds at the on-after, we decided I should try this "new" area for trail. So on Friday, Slip and I went back out and did a little car scouting. Using a school parking lot off Pine Barren road as the starting point, it didn't take long to piece together what would turn out to be a three mile loop of shiggy, which included a lovely end near a lake about 1/2 mile from the start. While an A-B trail would be a little more work, I figured the secluded ending would be worth the effort.
Now, I realize there are some of you more adventurous hares who might find it odd that I would want to go out and pre-run this trail. But as a hasher who has hared 11 trails in Atlanta, let me assure you... it's a habit that I would find quite difficult to break. It's that five-minute head- (yes, I said the h-word) start we get, and the scattered looks of disappointment we get during circle if we do something dumb. Yes, haring in Atlanta has turned me into some sort of paranoid freak. So off I went, GPS in hand, searching for interesting bits of shiggy to take everyone through, while connecting the dots we had made while driving around in the car. Oh, by the way, you obviously do a great job helping your new Savannahhh hashers learn the utmost of southern hashpotality, since Slip actually drove to the lake to wait for me as I ran the entire trail. Well, she DID have a bum knee and a book to read, but still...
On to Saturday. January 15th. The day of the hash. And that bitch Mother Nature and that rat-bastard Father Time couldn't get together and keep the warm weather around for a while longer. It was freaking cold. So I was hopping around trying to keep warm as I watched the hashers roll in. And there was as lot of them. I'd like to think the turnout was high because everyone wanted to see how some out-of-town dork could ruin a perfectly fine day, but no... it was obviously because this was Slip 'n Side and Double Penetration's last hash, as well as one of their last days looking at Spanish moss dangling from the trees. I'm not going to try to list everyone who showed up because I'll forget someone, and that would be bad. Almost as bad as a judge using a penis pump during court cases.
http://www.thesmokinggun.com/archive/0121051judge1.html
Um, sorry. Tangent.
So how did I do on chalk talk? Eh. I'm working on it. Aside from the quality of my rambling, the general consensus was that I had too many marks, which was confusing to people who just wanted to get to the end and drink. So amid the criticism, I faced everyone, grabbed my sack (of flour) and vanished.
Down the street I ambled, only partially comforted by the fact that I had three times the normal lead time I have at home. With floured fingers flying, I threw tit checks, dick checks and a couple dead trails, hoping to buy a little time until I could get to the beer check. The road rage was right at the start, but it was only long enough to get past the school and the private property issues. Mere minutes after I took off, I dove into the watery shiggy off Pine Barren Ave. and shelved the flour in favor of every hasher's favorite TP... Scott thousand-sheet rolls. Ankle deep swamp led to some not-so-bad briars, a glowing-green pine forest and a little jaunt along an access road. At just the right moment, I veered off the road and nimbly dashed back into the forest... only to get tangled up in a patch of nasty briars. I soon freed my pathetic self, and made a beeline for a break in the fence at Pooler Blvd.
Across the street, the forest was less briar-ish, and made for some decent running to the beer stop. It was here amid the glorious cans of PBR and the sound of whistles did I realize I had dropped my GPS. Seconds later, the front of the pack arrived to laugh at my 350-dollar misfortune. At least until Just ????? walked backwards a few yards and found it on the ground. There was much rejoicing, but also more laughing, so I once again grabbed my sack (of flour) and bolted.
Because of the beer stop, I figured I'd have more time for the second part of trail, but this was going to be more difficult to lay. So I stepped it up a bit as I ran north to the next break in the fence on Pooler Blvd. This one led to a disgustingly beautiful swamp, complete with scores of reeds, bamboo, and at times, some hamsterland-type briars. And how can anyone forget the thigh-high creeks? The going was slow but highly entertaining for this mud-loving hare, and I was sad to see it end when I approached the power cut. With the buzz of the wires all around me, I laid marks down to the final piece of forest, which led to the dirt trail around the lake. On In.
The sun had set while I was in the swamp, and it was almost dark by the time I reached the end. As the wet and muddy hounds trickled in, I found myself repeatedly surprised at how cool everyone was being to the person who just gave them such a shitty trail. And during circle, Glad did an impressive job making me drink numerous times for various offenses. And holy crap, the biggest surprise of all... I was allowed to suck down precious malty liquid from the ceremonial Savannahhh Hashit. Wow.
I hate to get sentimental here, but you guys rock. Thanks to everyone for cumming out and proving once again that I'm an idiot for not hashing with you more often.
Until next time... May the Hash Get a Piece
-L&F
# posted by L&F @ 6:26 PM
47. The Life of a Road-Hare
Charlotte H3 - 30 January 2005
Humbly Submitted by the Hare... it's
THE UNOFFICIAL HASH TRASH OF #585
We were almost to Charlotte before I ever looked at a map.
Slip 'N Side was behind the wheel, one of the eight (!) hashers who
had decided to represent Atlanta at the latest-greatest Triangle
Analversary in Durham. In an impressive gesture of hash dedication,
she decided to chauffer me to Sunday's trail before we motored the
rest of the way home. I was the mystery co-hare of record for
Charlotte's 585th, and we had left the hash hotel early enough so
we could do a little scouting before the official meet time. The
start was at Hollow Beaver's house.
About an hour and a half out of Durham, I got the scoop: Spitzer,
a.k.a. the other co-hare, was iced in at her house and probably
wouldn't get to the start early enough to scout much. Especially
since we had not heard from the beer meister, and she'd have to go
to the store. Having Hollow help scout was a possibility, but she
had gone to Triangle too, and left the hash hotel a little later,
and was at least an hour behind us. It looked like the out-of-
towners were going to be scouting alone, so I unfolded the map and
(gasp) started thinking.
I called Hollow when we got to her house, and only had to talk with
her for about eight minutes to figure out where the shiggy might be
in her neighborhood. Phone scouting... that's a new one. It was
12:10p, so if we wanted to do any car scouting, we'd have to make
it quick. The plan was a clockwise loop with the first big turn at
Campbell Creek Park, and the second big turn at the railroad tracks
at Sharon Amity. The length? Who knew. I guessed 3-4 miles. Ha.
The thought was to go south on Harris a little ways, then try to get
to the park by going west, even though the map said there was no
through streets. Some apartments greeted us on Harris, and would
serve as a decent place to avoid the sidewalk. Right across Harris
from where I could pop out of the apartments was a big area tagged
for demolition. With all the ice and mud on the ground, this would
make for the first decent piece of uneven footing of the day. I
jumped out of Slip's car and was running to where the GPS said there
would be a street on the other side when a football field appeared
in the middle of nowhere. At the end of the field was a strip of
non-private-property shiggy that led to a much-needed street.
Excellent. I ran back to the car, and we quickly found a way to the
park. On foot, I found a sewer easement in the park that would make
for a decent beer stop, and after a few minutes of running the park
trails, I found an exit to a street on the other side. Back to the
car again. A few more minutes of auto hashing was needed to find a
way to the railroad tracks, and it turned out there might be a
forested area to work with. Time was running out, and I had a
general idea of where I'd be going, so we got the beer for the beer
stop, hid it in the forest next to the sewer easement and motored
back to Hollow's house.
Shivering hashers trickled in as I filled my hash bag with about 12
pounds of colored flour and some toilet paper. By the time I left,
the brave pack included, in a politically correct alphabetical
order, Goth, Hollow, Inseminator, Lobster, Material Girl, Miss C,
Pussy Shaved, Shits, Slip, Spitzer and Thumb. Chalk talk included a
warning about dead trail marks, because I was probably going to have
to lay a few if I went the wrong way at any point. On Out.
Right as I was laying my first check on the corner of Trysting and
Park Hickory, I looked up to see Ottowa driving by laughing at me.
Good. One more victim. I waited until he got around the corner and
dove into the apartment complex. It ended up that the pack gave me
a little more than 15 minutes because everyone forgot to time me. I
got another 45 minutes when everyone decided to kick back at the
park for a while with the beer.
It was cold, but not nearly as bad as I thought it was going to be,
and I noticed that the sun was melting some of the ice that was
crunching under my feet. Once out of the park, I worked through the
first of two pieces of road rage for the day, and it ended up being
here that I had to lay down my first and only dead trail because I
went the wrong way. Back at the correct intersection, I added a
check and ran for Hickory Grove Road. I looked east and realized
that I could probably cut a mile off the trail if I went straight
back to Hollow's house. But I was really curious about that
forest. Once the private property issues ended a couple blocks
west, I dove in near Shamrock Drive and found out what was inside
the tree line: briars. Lots of them. Ohhh, and Lobster a.k.a Just
Larry/Urin-8-her/Lightweight Larry would be going through here
commando, with only a kilt on. When I later saw how far up my legs
the briars got me (and got me through my tights no less) I realized
how deadly going commando could have been. About a third of the way
through the forest, the briars cleared up and it was smooth sailing
to the back of a grocery store next to the railroad tracks. It was
here I realized I lost my map, which I knew I'd be drinking for
later. Heading east, I went about half the way to Harris on the
tracks and cut up to a housing development under construction. Then
I cut right back to the tracks. After another two-tenths of a mile,
I left the tracks for good and bolted for the house.
Late-cummer Ottowa was the FRB, but by the time he got in, I had
already showered, changed and had two beers. After most of us hung
out for a while, Spitzer and I went to look for the DFL's, who were
on Harris when we found them. The general consensus was that we had
all gone about 5 miles. (And the general consensus was right… I
checked later, and it was almost an even 5.) With everyone in, we
circled up to the sight of a highly decorated RA. Lobster had on a
huge, black hat emblazoned with a silver skull; bright red, feathery
sleeves and a wooden pole topped with a hand-carved skull. It was
quite fetching. And he will only get better with age, since he said
he's going to add accessories weekly.
As for down-downs, yours truly was abused, as I drank for being the
hare, being an out-of-towner, forgetting to take off my cranium
gear, dropping my map (thanks Goth) and other random acts of super-
human stupidity I can no longer remember. The best down-down of the
batch was when Spitzer and Miss Charlotte presented me with a gift
they had been hanging on to for a couple months… an embroidered
Happi Coat with not only my name on it, but also "Adopted 2004." I
was totally floored, knowing how rare it is for an out-of-town
hasher to be adopted. Thanks guys.
And thanks to everyone who came out to roll the dice with a mystery
hare. It's much appreciated.
Until next time,
May the Hash Get a Piece
-L&F
Humbly Submitted by the Hare... it's
THE UNOFFICIAL HASH TRASH OF #585
We were almost to Charlotte before I ever looked at a map.
Slip 'N Side was behind the wheel, one of the eight (!) hashers who
had decided to represent Atlanta at the latest-greatest Triangle
Analversary in Durham. In an impressive gesture of hash dedication,
she decided to chauffer me to Sunday's trail before we motored the
rest of the way home. I was the mystery co-hare of record for
Charlotte's 585th, and we had left the hash hotel early enough so
we could do a little scouting before the official meet time. The
start was at Hollow Beaver's house.
About an hour and a half out of Durham, I got the scoop: Spitzer,
a.k.a. the other co-hare, was iced in at her house and probably
wouldn't get to the start early enough to scout much. Especially
since we had not heard from the beer meister, and she'd have to go
to the store. Having Hollow help scout was a possibility, but she
had gone to Triangle too, and left the hash hotel a little later,
and was at least an hour behind us. It looked like the out-of-
towners were going to be scouting alone, so I unfolded the map and
(gasp) started thinking.
I called Hollow when we got to her house, and only had to talk with
her for about eight minutes to figure out where the shiggy might be
in her neighborhood. Phone scouting... that's a new one. It was
12:10p, so if we wanted to do any car scouting, we'd have to make
it quick. The plan was a clockwise loop with the first big turn at
Campbell Creek Park, and the second big turn at the railroad tracks
at Sharon Amity. The length? Who knew. I guessed 3-4 miles. Ha.
The thought was to go south on Harris a little ways, then try to get
to the park by going west, even though the map said there was no
through streets. Some apartments greeted us on Harris, and would
serve as a decent place to avoid the sidewalk. Right across Harris
from where I could pop out of the apartments was a big area tagged
for demolition. With all the ice and mud on the ground, this would
make for the first decent piece of uneven footing of the day. I
jumped out of Slip's car and was running to where the GPS said there
would be a street on the other side when a football field appeared
in the middle of nowhere. At the end of the field was a strip of
non-private-property shiggy that led to a much-needed street.
Excellent. I ran back to the car, and we quickly found a way to the
park. On foot, I found a sewer easement in the park that would make
for a decent beer stop, and after a few minutes of running the park
trails, I found an exit to a street on the other side. Back to the
car again. A few more minutes of auto hashing was needed to find a
way to the railroad tracks, and it turned out there might be a
forested area to work with. Time was running out, and I had a
general idea of where I'd be going, so we got the beer for the beer
stop, hid it in the forest next to the sewer easement and motored
back to Hollow's house.
Shivering hashers trickled in as I filled my hash bag with about 12
pounds of colored flour and some toilet paper. By the time I left,
the brave pack included, in a politically correct alphabetical
order, Goth, Hollow, Inseminator, Lobster, Material Girl, Miss C,
Pussy Shaved, Shits, Slip, Spitzer and Thumb. Chalk talk included a
warning about dead trail marks, because I was probably going to have
to lay a few if I went the wrong way at any point. On Out.
Right as I was laying my first check on the corner of Trysting and
Park Hickory, I looked up to see Ottowa driving by laughing at me.
Good. One more victim. I waited until he got around the corner and
dove into the apartment complex. It ended up that the pack gave me
a little more than 15 minutes because everyone forgot to time me. I
got another 45 minutes when everyone decided to kick back at the
park for a while with the beer.
It was cold, but not nearly as bad as I thought it was going to be,
and I noticed that the sun was melting some of the ice that was
crunching under my feet. Once out of the park, I worked through the
first of two pieces of road rage for the day, and it ended up being
here that I had to lay down my first and only dead trail because I
went the wrong way. Back at the correct intersection, I added a
check and ran for Hickory Grove Road. I looked east and realized
that I could probably cut a mile off the trail if I went straight
back to Hollow's house. But I was really curious about that
forest. Once the private property issues ended a couple blocks
west, I dove in near Shamrock Drive and found out what was inside
the tree line: briars. Lots of them. Ohhh, and Lobster a.k.a Just
Larry/Urin-8-her/Lightweight Larry would be going through here
commando, with only a kilt on. When I later saw how far up my legs
the briars got me (and got me through my tights no less) I realized
how deadly going commando could have been. About a third of the way
through the forest, the briars cleared up and it was smooth sailing
to the back of a grocery store next to the railroad tracks. It was
here I realized I lost my map, which I knew I'd be drinking for
later. Heading east, I went about half the way to Harris on the
tracks and cut up to a housing development under construction. Then
I cut right back to the tracks. After another two-tenths of a mile,
I left the tracks for good and bolted for the house.
Late-cummer Ottowa was the FRB, but by the time he got in, I had
already showered, changed and had two beers. After most of us hung
out for a while, Spitzer and I went to look for the DFL's, who were
on Harris when we found them. The general consensus was that we had
all gone about 5 miles. (And the general consensus was right… I
checked later, and it was almost an even 5.) With everyone in, we
circled up to the sight of a highly decorated RA. Lobster had on a
huge, black hat emblazoned with a silver skull; bright red, feathery
sleeves and a wooden pole topped with a hand-carved skull. It was
quite fetching. And he will only get better with age, since he said
he's going to add accessories weekly.
As for down-downs, yours truly was abused, as I drank for being the
hare, being an out-of-towner, forgetting to take off my cranium
gear, dropping my map (thanks Goth) and other random acts of super-
human stupidity I can no longer remember. The best down-down of the
batch was when Spitzer and Miss Charlotte presented me with a gift
they had been hanging on to for a couple months… an embroidered
Happi Coat with not only my name on it, but also "Adopted 2004." I
was totally floored, knowing how rare it is for an out-of-town
hasher to be adopted. Thanks guys.
And thanks to everyone who came out to roll the dice with a mystery
hare. It's much appreciated.
Until next time,
May the Hash Get a Piece
-L&F
# posted by L&F @ 6:25 PM
46. Flock Ewe
Black Sheep H3/Bear Creek H3 - 23 Jan 05
The Trash is the Scribe's Best Friend
Black Sheep Hash #376
Bear Creek Hash #5
Hares: 1 hungover Momma Bear and 1 hungover Poppa Bear
Pack: XXX Cajun Cubs
Every hash trash should have a theme. You know, something to tie everything together in a happy little package. (He said package.) This week's theme should be obvious, considering the two hares were in the middle of their cajun-slash-birthday weekend. But my God, it was cold. I'll try to avoid whining about the sub-40 degree temp and concentrate on what was another great Sunday Sunday Sunday.
It was past 1:30, and we of The Faithful Flock were gathering at a prime shiggified area near the corner of Fulton Industrial and Cambellton Road in south Fulton County. This was a joint hash, with Bwana and Company sharing the joy with Pussy_Pilot, the all-in-one mismanagement team of Bear Creek. The sun was out, but it wasn't doing much good in the warmth department. The first thing I noticed when I pulled up along Cochran Road was that people were shivering. Just as I was wondering whether I should feel guilty for being a backsliding BlackSheeper, I saw L&F fly by with his latest offering: a shiny rainbow spandex miniskirt with a matching tube top. OK, that answers my question: there's no shame at the hash.
Our overachieving hares for the day were Little Easy and Gasshole, who had just been the Hares of Record for Pinelake the day before. They had also been the Hosts of Record for what has been a quality ATL tradition: Easy's Cajun Food Festival. So would all that food and booze slow them down? We would see shortly. PP had us all kneel down before the flour-laden duo, and they were away.
Five minutes later, the pack scampered off down Cochran (he said Coch) Road, where we were immediately greeted by our first check along a power cut. I didn't realize this until later, but there were a ton of hills on this trail. The first one was right near the check, and had a huge, buzzing power line tower sitting on top of it. As some of us dashed up looking for flour, I glanced way down the opposite side of the hill and noticed a small black speck in the distance. That would have been Surly Temple doing his first bit of boxing for the day.
Dollops of flour led us to a huge clear-cut and bulldozed area, where the Evil Developers were building a colony for more intruding humans. All that was rising up through the dirt was some curbs, minus even the sidewalks. We found a check here in the middle of this Georgia-clay desert, which meant we were going to have to do a little extra hunting for the next mark. Minutes later, we ran into another check at the top of another hill, which looked down over an entire valley of opportunities. The pack sprinted down and fanned out, some checking roads leading to nowhere, others combing large areas of grass and dirt. I took the middle of the valley, where a smaller, but still impressive hill awaited me. I rushed up and got an amazing 200+ degree view of hounds everywhere, combing the vast expanse for signs of flour. From here, trail led into the tree line on the other side of the valley. Right before we dove into the forest, we came across Burnt Rubber and Surly Temple's initials scratched in the clay, telling us of a snare.
The rest of trail went very quickly, with lots of forest, but without too many briars or Easy's patented patches of hamsterland. At one point, some of us came flying down a hill to find 2 Crabs and TLS standing on an access road, basking in the glow of another snare. As far as my half-mind can remember, this snare came right before or after our jaunt past a huge water treatment plant that had millions of dollars of equipment sitting on... yup... more Georgia clay. Hell no, they couldn't be bothered to lay down assfault.
The last third of trail contained two big creek crossings. We got over the biggest one with the help of a huge drainage pipe. For the other one, most of us were able to leap to a point halfway up the bank on the other side, and climb our way up to the top. Because of that, we hit the On In with our feet dry. (Translation: relatively warm.) Not only that, we were greeted to large pots of hot food, hot spiked cider and other culinary delights. We stuffed our faces and guzzled our brew with the Chattahoochee River flowing next to us.
Pussy Pilot tore us away from the fire and circled us up for a series of soon-to-be (in)famous Bear Creek down-downs, consisting of Beast Light spiked with Malt Liquor.
I heard two Tales of the Trail when we got in. One was that Gasshole got lost somehow, and ended up coming in toward the back of the pack as a hound. Another involved Sani, Yuron, Donny, Red Breast, Yassir and Bwana having to make a huge detour near the water treatment plant because they were trying to avoid some really cranky guy with big equipment. No, not the equipment in his pants, equipment that had motors. Imagine the group's surprise when they ran into the chivalrous pair of Bunny and Davey, who had waited for them about 30 minutes to make sure they got back to flour. Awwwwww, that's sweet.
Also overheard at the On In: 1. (near the fire) "The best is having a hot ass." (And not near the fire) 2. "Only my boobs are cold." and 3. "If I had any more shrinkage, I'd have an inny."
Notable mentions include Out-of-Towners Goldilocks and TLS, Maconites Cheaper and Floppy Dick, and two new faces, Puta Cockinit and Slip 'n Side.
Sheepers, the Gispert Memorial Hash is February 6th. And Cubbies, the next Bear Creek is February 27th. Hey, PP, thanks for all the time you're putting into your new hash. It's noticed and appreciated. And thanks to everyone for cumming out. Beer was drunk, rumors were spread and a good time was had by all.
Until next time,
May the Hash Go in Peace
May the Hash Get a Piece
The Trash is the Scribe's Best Friend
Black Sheep Hash #376
Bear Creek Hash #5
Hares: 1 hungover Momma Bear and 1 hungover Poppa Bear
Pack: XXX Cajun Cubs
Every hash trash should have a theme. You know, something to tie everything together in a happy little package. (He said package.) This week's theme should be obvious, considering the two hares were in the middle of their cajun-slash-birthday weekend. But my God, it was cold. I'll try to avoid whining about the sub-40 degree temp and concentrate on what was another great Sunday Sunday Sunday.
It was past 1:30, and we of The Faithful Flock were gathering at a prime shiggified area near the corner of Fulton Industrial and Cambellton Road in south Fulton County. This was a joint hash, with Bwana and Company sharing the joy with Pussy_Pilot, the all-in-one mismanagement team of Bear Creek. The sun was out, but it wasn't doing much good in the warmth department. The first thing I noticed when I pulled up along Cochran Road was that people were shivering. Just as I was wondering whether I should feel guilty for being a backsliding BlackSheeper, I saw L&F fly by with his latest offering: a shiny rainbow spandex miniskirt with a matching tube top. OK, that answers my question: there's no shame at the hash.
Our overachieving hares for the day were Little Easy and Gasshole, who had just been the Hares of Record for Pinelake the day before. They had also been the Hosts of Record for what has been a quality ATL tradition: Easy's Cajun Food Festival. So would all that food and booze slow them down? We would see shortly. PP had us all kneel down before the flour-laden duo, and they were away.
Five minutes later, the pack scampered off down Cochran (he said Coch) Road, where we were immediately greeted by our first check along a power cut. I didn't realize this until later, but there were a ton of hills on this trail. The first one was right near the check, and had a huge, buzzing power line tower sitting on top of it. As some of us dashed up looking for flour, I glanced way down the opposite side of the hill and noticed a small black speck in the distance. That would have been Surly Temple doing his first bit of boxing for the day.
Dollops of flour led us to a huge clear-cut and bulldozed area, where the Evil Developers were building a colony for more intruding humans. All that was rising up through the dirt was some curbs, minus even the sidewalks. We found a check here in the middle of this Georgia-clay desert, which meant we were going to have to do a little extra hunting for the next mark. Minutes later, we ran into another check at the top of another hill, which looked down over an entire valley of opportunities. The pack sprinted down and fanned out, some checking roads leading to nowhere, others combing large areas of grass and dirt. I took the middle of the valley, where a smaller, but still impressive hill awaited me. I rushed up and got an amazing 200+ degree view of hounds everywhere, combing the vast expanse for signs of flour. From here, trail led into the tree line on the other side of the valley. Right before we dove into the forest, we came across Burnt Rubber and Surly Temple's initials scratched in the clay, telling us of a snare.
The rest of trail went very quickly, with lots of forest, but without too many briars or Easy's patented patches of hamsterland. At one point, some of us came flying down a hill to find 2 Crabs and TLS standing on an access road, basking in the glow of another snare. As far as my half-mind can remember, this snare came right before or after our jaunt past a huge water treatment plant that had millions of dollars of equipment sitting on... yup... more Georgia clay. Hell no, they couldn't be bothered to lay down assfault.
The last third of trail contained two big creek crossings. We got over the biggest one with the help of a huge drainage pipe. For the other one, most of us were able to leap to a point halfway up the bank on the other side, and climb our way up to the top. Because of that, we hit the On In with our feet dry. (Translation: relatively warm.) Not only that, we were greeted to large pots of hot food, hot spiked cider and other culinary delights. We stuffed our faces and guzzled our brew with the Chattahoochee River flowing next to us.
Pussy Pilot tore us away from the fire and circled us up for a series of soon-to-be (in)famous Bear Creek down-downs, consisting of Beast Light spiked with Malt Liquor.
I heard two Tales of the Trail when we got in. One was that Gasshole got lost somehow, and ended up coming in toward the back of the pack as a hound. Another involved Sani, Yuron, Donny, Red Breast, Yassir and Bwana having to make a huge detour near the water treatment plant because they were trying to avoid some really cranky guy with big equipment. No, not the equipment in his pants, equipment that had motors. Imagine the group's surprise when they ran into the chivalrous pair of Bunny and Davey, who had waited for them about 30 minutes to make sure they got back to flour. Awwwwww, that's sweet.
Also overheard at the On In: 1. (near the fire) "The best is having a hot ass." (And not near the fire) 2. "Only my boobs are cold." and 3. "If I had any more shrinkage, I'd have an inny."
Notable mentions include Out-of-Towners Goldilocks and TLS, Maconites Cheaper and Floppy Dick, and two new faces, Puta Cockinit and Slip 'n Side.
Sheepers, the Gispert Memorial Hash is February 6th. And Cubbies, the next Bear Creek is February 27th. Hey, PP, thanks for all the time you're putting into your new hash. It's noticed and appreciated. And thanks to everyone for cumming out. Beer was drunk, rumors were spread and a good time was had by all.
Until next time,
May the Hash Go in Peace
May the Hash Get a Piece
# posted by L&F @ 6:23 PM
45. Russian Roulette-Lite
Southern Comfort H3 - 10 Decembeer 2004
The way I see it, Southern Comfort is like Russian Roulette-Lite. There’s a sense of exhilaration while you’re playing, but it can easily blow up in your face. I had a lot of time to think about this before the hash Friday, since I live 42 miles from the start. Will the trail suck? Will the hare get us lost? Will I get my own self lost and be the next victim to wonder around aimlessly in the dark while everyone else is doing down-downs in circle? It’s that Pays-Your-Money-Takes-Your-Chances mentality that keeps me cumming back.
It was exactly 7p when I pulled into the start, and of course, it was already dark. Surly “The Ho” Temple was our hare for the evening, and he was alternating between jumping in place and adding layers of clothes, partly to keep warm, and partly to energize himself up for whatever type of trail he was going to torture us with. I had no choice but to wonder if tonight was going to be ugly. First off, there was talk about last week’s hash, where no one solved the first check. Then, I thought back to the hare, who just months before, had been on Hare Probation.
The Ho left the Ho(me Depot) parking lot at 7:30p, with just 4 1/2 hours of pathetic, underage life remaining. A good-sized pack had assembled to wish him a happy birthday, and we were glad to take off after our five minute wait so we could warm up. We took a short trek west to one of the night’s many downed fences and ended up heading north, up the side of I-75. Near exit 221, for any of you interested in knowing. Exit two-“21”. Get it? The crafty hare did this on purpose.
We entered the shiggy at some point, and found a check near a tunnel. Some of the hares automatically dove in the creek and ran under the interstate. Others hung around waiting. The smart ones found out that trail did not go under I-75, and kept trudging north. This was where we encountered our first swamp of the evening. Because it had been raining so much, the swamps were high. But hey, don’t get the idea that they smelled any better than they normally do. The water was not as cold as we thought it was going to be, and without drainage, there were some parts that smelled just as foul as they do in the summer.
Even some of the non-swampy parts of trail were muddy and wet, and we were pleased with the muck, as well as with the adequate amount of markings the hare was laying. At about the half-way point, we popped out of the shiggy and hit the road at what I guessed was close to the start. A quick street crossing led us to a large area of tall grass and a check. Soon after was a large area of thick, chest-high bamboo, with briars weaving their way underneath. For those of us who didn’t follow true trail at this point, navigating our way through this mess turned out to be quite a chore. From what my half-mind can remember, we hit two more swamps, the last one being the worst (best?). By the time we got to the On-In, I was drenched up to my stomach.
Who lost out on Russian Roulette-Lite this evening? Our fearless leader Harelips. He boxed the wrong way and did his best to find trail before giving up. The Clits, who drove down for circle and to wish the hare a happy birthday, picked up our RA at the start and drove him to the end. There was much rejoicing as we all gathered for circle, where we gave three Virgins their Special Brew. This might be a good time to thank the “out of towners”: Tink and Cheaper, your loyalty is appreciated. Of course, the notable down-down of the evening was for The Ho, who was not only turning into a man, but proved his manliness with a quality trail. Nice work, sir.
Do you want your Happy Hour to be cold, dark and wet? Join us next Friday, December 17th, when Lemon Nads turns us all into dirty, giggling masochists.
Until next time,
On Out
The way I see it, Southern Comfort is like Russian Roulette-Lite. There’s a sense of exhilaration while you’re playing, but it can easily blow up in your face. I had a lot of time to think about this before the hash Friday, since I live 42 miles from the start. Will the trail suck? Will the hare get us lost? Will I get my own self lost and be the next victim to wonder around aimlessly in the dark while everyone else is doing down-downs in circle? It’s that Pays-Your-Money-Takes-Your-Chances mentality that keeps me cumming back.
It was exactly 7p when I pulled into the start, and of course, it was already dark. Surly “The Ho” Temple was our hare for the evening, and he was alternating between jumping in place and adding layers of clothes, partly to keep warm, and partly to energize himself up for whatever type of trail he was going to torture us with. I had no choice but to wonder if tonight was going to be ugly. First off, there was talk about last week’s hash, where no one solved the first check. Then, I thought back to the hare, who just months before, had been on Hare Probation.
The Ho left the Ho(me Depot) parking lot at 7:30p, with just 4 1/2 hours of pathetic, underage life remaining. A good-sized pack had assembled to wish him a happy birthday, and we were glad to take off after our five minute wait so we could warm up. We took a short trek west to one of the night’s many downed fences and ended up heading north, up the side of I-75. Near exit 221, for any of you interested in knowing. Exit two-“21”. Get it? The crafty hare did this on purpose.
We entered the shiggy at some point, and found a check near a tunnel. Some of the hares automatically dove in the creek and ran under the interstate. Others hung around waiting. The smart ones found out that trail did not go under I-75, and kept trudging north. This was where we encountered our first swamp of the evening. Because it had been raining so much, the swamps were high. But hey, don’t get the idea that they smelled any better than they normally do. The water was not as cold as we thought it was going to be, and without drainage, there were some parts that smelled just as foul as they do in the summer.
Even some of the non-swampy parts of trail were muddy and wet, and we were pleased with the muck, as well as with the adequate amount of markings the hare was laying. At about the half-way point, we popped out of the shiggy and hit the road at what I guessed was close to the start. A quick street crossing led us to a large area of tall grass and a check. Soon after was a large area of thick, chest-high bamboo, with briars weaving their way underneath. For those of us who didn’t follow true trail at this point, navigating our way through this mess turned out to be quite a chore. From what my half-mind can remember, we hit two more swamps, the last one being the worst (best?). By the time we got to the On-In, I was drenched up to my stomach.
Who lost out on Russian Roulette-Lite this evening? Our fearless leader Harelips. He boxed the wrong way and did his best to find trail before giving up. The Clits, who drove down for circle and to wish the hare a happy birthday, picked up our RA at the start and drove him to the end. There was much rejoicing as we all gathered for circle, where we gave three Virgins their Special Brew. This might be a good time to thank the “out of towners”: Tink and Cheaper, your loyalty is appreciated. Of course, the notable down-down of the evening was for The Ho, who was not only turning into a man, but proved his manliness with a quality trail. Nice work, sir.
Do you want your Happy Hour to be cold, dark and wet? Join us next Friday, December 17th, when Lemon Nads turns us all into dirty, giggling masochists.
Until next time,
On Out
# posted by L&F @ 6:21 PM
44. The Non-Hash Wedding
Camp Diva H3 - 19 Novembeer 2004 to 21 Novembeer 2004
So there we were. Sitting on the carpet at the airport gate. Drinking. Yours truly had the foresight to bring along dice and a plastic bottle full of rum, so RB and I grabbed two cokes and started playing Three-Man in true hash fashion. It’s surprising how fast you can get drunk when only two people are playing, especially when you heavy-up on the booze and turn Rum n’ Coke into Rum n’. We were getting sort of loud, but hey, that’s what Delta gets for delaying our flight 40 minutes.
We were flying to Kansas City to witness Insufficient Cums and Hermaphrodick do something really stupid: exchange wedding vows. And as I was told repeatedly over the course of the past month, this was NOT a hash wedding. In other words, I would be using nerd names, I would dress appropriately, and I would NOT, under any circumstances, make people question my sanity. In fact, I was actually threatened with compliance when I volunteered to be the flower girl for the ceremony by wearing a little dress, walking down the aisle on my knees and tossing rose petals in front of the blushing bride.
“No, no, no. Don’t you dare horrify the guests.”
I have an excuse for my difficulty in imagining this as a non-hash event. Every time I’ve seen the happy couple, it’s been at a hash, at a bar, or at a party. To me, Brandi Melissa Robinson of Atlanta, GA was IC, a.k.a. Dahhhling. And Sean Richard Ryan of Augusta, GA was appropriately nicknamed Puppy, sooner or later called that for way he acted around his wife-to-be.
We got to the suburban Doubletree Hotel at midnight. Top floor, please. We found out the hotel bar had just closed, so we jumped in the rocket-ship rental and motored to the nearest sports bar for a pre-lube, greeted by continuous replays of the NBA’s worst-ever brawl. Apparently, Indiana and Detroit fans went to watch some b-ball and a hockey game broke out.
The real fun started early the next morning, when we woke up to go with IC to the Chapel. Wedding Day. November 20, 2004. Thanks to my platonic, loyal, Whipping-Boy-type relationship with the bride, I would be allowed to witness what few males ever get to see: the bride getting ready before the ceremony. IC and her maid of honor Just Sarah got to the hotel around 3 hours before the wedding was supposed to start to pick us up. Apparently, there was a creative way we were all getting back. Yours truly was decked out in a loosely-cut yet heavily starched tan shirt, a deeply and warmly designed silk tie, 100-dollar imported black wool pants and newly polished black leather shoes. My sudden transformation into a partly respectable male put the ladies at ease, as they realized I might be able to contain myself after all.
Things I Learned From Being With The Girls:
--If you’re a bride and you’re going to rent a car for the trip from the hotel to the Chapel, get the biggest freaking S.U.V. you can find. All your stuff will thank you, including your wedding dress.
--The goal for my next life is to become a Berka Boy. If you don’t know what this is, do yourself a favor and find out.
--A Fluffer is more than someone on a porn set. It is also the person who is responsible for constantly adjusting the massive amount of fabric at the bottom of the wedding dress. The fluffer for the ceremony was the maid of honor, and she taught me well. I proved my worth in this category multiple times throughout the rest of the day.
--Fixing your hair is the first thing you need to do on wedding day. Especially if you add a tiny tiara, so you can walk around proudly representing the diva set.
--Subway is acceptable pre-wedding food, especially if you’re wearing a tiara.
--Stick-on bras are a great way to add cleavage.
The ceremony was being held at the Chapel at Fort Leavenworth. We got onto base early enough to check out the famous prison, as well as the former prison building down the street. We exited the massive S.U.V. and were greeted with a serene view of the Missouri River, cutting through the base at the back of the Chapel. Inside the building was also quite impressive, with its clean lines, lots of gold and silver, and plenty of warm wood and stained glass.
RB’s job was to transform IC from her regular lovely human self, into an ethereal heavenly goddess. She did an amazing job. As if on cue, as soon as IC’s underthings were situated and RB started working with the makeup, the cameraman arrived and got some nice shots of the backstage goings-on. My job was to take some pictures with a digital camera and, of course, not to cause trouble. Not long after we arrived, IC was ready to go.
Puppy was outside in his Army uniform, complete with sword. No, not his own gigantic personal “sword” he’s rumored to have, but an actual, fairly sharp, highly polished military sword, tucked away in its shining metal condom. It wasn’t long before we were all seated and he made his way up to the front.
I’m not one to be overly emotional, but weddings and porn movies with happy endings get me all misty. And when I saw the bride walk into the Chapel, I had to take some drastic mental measures to keep from shedding a tear. What did I do? I thought back to the weekend IC and Puppy met. October 10, 11 and 12, 2003.
There was sex right away. We had gone to the Florida-Georgia Inter-Course south of Savannah in St. Mary’s, Georgia. Camp was a hotel, and our goal was to stay drunk all weekend. IC and Puppy started talking and the next thing I know… sex. A hasher ran into one of the hotel rooms a bunch of us were hanging out in, and said she just saw them having sex down the hall with the door cracked open. Of course, everyone jumped up to take a look. I stayed back, realizing that watching IC have sex would be like watching my own sister have sex. Whether or not they actually left the door open is a matter of debate. Let’s just put it this way: they consummated their friendship with witnesses present. And there would be plenty more consummating in the months to come. For the rest of the weekend, whenever IC disappeared, Puppy could be seen walking around the hotel grounds trying to find her. I was asked quite a few times, and I was also approached by other hashers, who told me that if I saw IC, I should let Puppy know. One of the best visuals of the weekend came when I was hanging out in a hotel room across the courtyard from the room IC and I were sharing. I looked across to see Puppy at the window, knocking and peering in and knocking some more. About 15 minutes later he was back for some more peering and knocking. At some point she stopped disappearing, and they’ve been pretty much inseparable ever since. Especially when there’s the chance for some lovin’ in an abandoned school bus. Isn’t that right, Misses Cums?
With my emotions under control, I was able to enjoy the rest of the wedding without the fear of bawling. It was at this point I finally understood why this was an event where acceptable hash behavior wasn’t acceptable: This was a true religious event, complete with a man in flowing robes everyone called Father, and void of things normally seen at hash events, like brief nudity, swearing and the guzzling of malty beverages. When the man named Father pronounced them husband and wife, there was much rejoicing.
The rejoicing continued outside the Chapel, when IC’s dad, Just Russ, pulled up in the vehicle that a large group of the wedding guests arrived in: The Love Bus. It was a decorated school bus, and this would be our transportation to the reception at the hotel. The first thing Just Russ did when he parked the bus in front of the Chapel was open the back and pull out a cooler of full of beer. There was also a cooler of champagne. So while the cameraman was doing his job, those interested in imbibing did their deed right in front of the House of God. With discreet plastic cups, of course.
I’ve got to give it up for the group people who rode the bus back to the reception. That was a good time. I was the last one on board, and by chance, got to cause trouble in the back, across the aisle from the bride and groom. You know what they say... The Cool Kids always sit in the back of the bus.
It was about a quarter to five in the afternoon when we got back to the hotel, and it was time to get to work. RB had the idea to decorate IC and Puppy’s room, and I was sober enough and motivated enough to drive around town to find stuff. But I had to get it done quickly before dinner was served. By 6, I was back at the reception hall, where people were already halfway through eating. I came running up to the bar to find it covered. The bartender was standing there and said they closed the bar during dinner because they were serving wine at the table with the meal. The look of horror on my face was obviously enough for her to make an exception. She took a step toward the beer and said, “Um, but I can still get you something if you’d like.” Ah, local brew.
Because of the adrenaline I built up from frantically shopping, I was able to inhale two plates of dinner in about 15 minutes, all the while maintaining the required Wedding Reception Composure. While I was eating, I found out IC had noticed my absence early on, and had been inquiring about my location. Apparently, people were making up some interesting excuses, like “Oh, he was pissy and left for a while” and a classic one from someone who didn’t know that I don’t smoke pot: “Um, he went outside with so-and-so to get high.” Wow.
The next order of business was to give IC her wedding present. I was able to corner her right outside the dining hall near the bar, as she and some fluffers were heading to the bathroom. I had a huge silver bow behind my back that was over 12 inches across. “Daahling,” I said as I walked closer, “it’s now time for your wedding gift. I give it to you along with my warmest congratulations, and with a most sincere wish for your lifelong happiness. Due to the fact that I flew out here for this lovely and memorable event...” I whipped the bow out from behind my back and slapped it on my chest. “...congratuations!” As IC and the fluffers walked away laughing, the bartender looked at me and said, “Wow, you pulled that off well.” Ha. This isn’t the first time I’ve done that.
For the next two hours or so, the decorations and IC and Puppy’s key were making the rounds, as people made their way up to the room to either get a look at the damage, or to help out. The decorations were of the wedding variety, with most of them being shiny or of a respectable color. Luckily, I had purchased just enough to make the room look decorated, but not garish. There was ribbon, thin streamers and wrapping paper to act as wallpaper. To top it off, we took two huge bags of Hershey’s Kisses and placed them candy all over the room. In the coffee mugs, on the phone, on the TV, etc. We even put a couple handfuls inbetween the pillows and pillowcases. It shouldn’t surprise you to learn someone even brought the cameraman up to the room to take pictures. I swear to God, I think he took a picture of every one of those Kisses. As a finishing touch, I taped that big, silver bow right above their bed.
This might be a good time to give a shout-out to the best man and the maid of honor, who did an excellent job giving their speeches. And let’s not forget the cutting of the cake, where we all found out that Puppy could put his sword to good use. The cameraman nearly orgasmed when he saw Puppy bravely slice the first piece of cake with his shimmering piece of steel.
The rest of the night was sort of a blur, and I owe most of it to the fact that I drank the bar out of their stash of local beer. The first dance was a well-kept secret until it was played, and when it started, many of us thought it was going to be a polka. Nope. It was simply the beginning of what would be the Chicken Dance. They get an A for originality for that one.
It was during the dancing that Puppy decided we needed to do a trail while we were in Kansas. We rounded up a couple people, and decided that since RB and IC were together again, we would have this be the first ever running of the Camp Diva Hash House Harriers.
For those of you who don’t know, Camp Diva started a couple years back during a road trip to Charlotte. A few Atlanta harriettes decided it was better to Never Leave Camp, and to get a Whipping Boy to do their bidding. Soon after, yours truly found it was better to give than receive and was given the title. The whole thing was never taken too seriously, but at least in my opinion, it was a constant source of entertainment.
It stands to reason that Divas wouldn’t even leave camp for their own trail, and this one would be no exception. A few other people joined them in their lack of ambition. So the hounds for this little adventure ended up being Puppy and Just Sarah, and thankfully, they took the Beverage of Choice (BEER) with them for circle.
With a 30-second head start, I ran through the hotel, throwing balled-up bar napkins on the floor. I rushed past one reception hall to see people dressed up as chickens and pigs, dancing. Hmmm. It was about this time I heard a semi-not-sober Just Sarah behind me shouting, “Hey, wait up!” When I stopped, she tagged me and said, “Ha Ha, I snared you. I get your pants now, right?” Apparently, there’s a long-standing tradition in some hashes that you get to take the hare’s pants at the On-In if you snare. Truth be told, I’m not too shy about taking my pants off in public if the situation presents itself, but this was not really the time. So all I could think to say was, “Huh?” She continued. And she continued. “I was told I get to take your pants if I snare you. And I snared you. So you have to give me your pants, right?” At this point, we were running through the hotel lobby and out the door. “So when we get back, I get your pants, right?” We decided in advance that we would have a quick circle outside, so the On-In was behind The Love Bus in the hotel parking lot. Puppy joined us while Just Sarah was again questioning the logistics behind the acquisition of my pants.
Yours truly ran the first ever circle of the Camp Diva Hash House Harriers, and I’d like to proudly say that a good time was had by all. Just Sarah got a down-down for Hare Snare, for being FRB, for being FBI, and for using nerd names in circle. Puppy got a down-down for being DFL, and got a Rule 6 Violation for getting married. I did my down-down for being hare and for being a hare that’s stupid enough to turn around when a hound yells “Stop.” Our final drink of the night was a Down-Down-By-Proxy for the Divas that Never Leave Camp. Songs were of the amazingly quick variety, consisting of those with one or two lines. Some songs we simply cut short. A truncated version of Swing Low ended the festivities.
“May the hash go in peace.”
“May the hash get a piece.”
“Now about those pants...”
When we got back, some of the older folks in the group were going off bed. Others were thinking about moving to the hotel bar. Before I left, I got the reception bartender to make us a monstrous nightcap in a one-liter carafe: One of the strongest Long Island Ice Teas in the history of ever. Vodka, gin, rum, triple sec, a dash of sweet and sour, and a dash of coke. I don’t remember how long everyone was at the bar. All I remember is that everyone was there when RB and I went outside briefly for some air, and were all gone when we went back in. So we sat at the bar and had one last round, and became the Last Two Standing. Can I get a “Yay” from the audience, please.
A lot of us gathered in the morning for a caravan back to IC’s parent’s house, where we were greeted to a huge spread of food. Just Russ gave RB and I first dibs on made-to-order omelets, since we had to catch our flight back to Atlanta. But we weren’t the only ones leaving soon; IC and Puppy were packing for their flight back to Germany. We hung out for an hour, eating and sampling Bloody Marys and eating a little more. As we drove off to the airport, I realized I had just attended the most flawless wedding weekend I have ever experienced, and one of the best events of the year.
So here’s a big thanks to everyone involved who kept us entertained and fed and drunk. And of course, thanks and congrats to IC and Puppy. Good luck guys.
By the way, Just Sarah never got my pants.
Until next time,
On Out
So there we were. Sitting on the carpet at the airport gate. Drinking. Yours truly had the foresight to bring along dice and a plastic bottle full of rum, so RB and I grabbed two cokes and started playing Three-Man in true hash fashion. It’s surprising how fast you can get drunk when only two people are playing, especially when you heavy-up on the booze and turn Rum n’ Coke into Rum n’. We were getting sort of loud, but hey, that’s what Delta gets for delaying our flight 40 minutes.
We were flying to Kansas City to witness Insufficient Cums and Hermaphrodick do something really stupid: exchange wedding vows. And as I was told repeatedly over the course of the past month, this was NOT a hash wedding. In other words, I would be using nerd names, I would dress appropriately, and I would NOT, under any circumstances, make people question my sanity. In fact, I was actually threatened with compliance when I volunteered to be the flower girl for the ceremony by wearing a little dress, walking down the aisle on my knees and tossing rose petals in front of the blushing bride.
“No, no, no. Don’t you dare horrify the guests.”
I have an excuse for my difficulty in imagining this as a non-hash event. Every time I’ve seen the happy couple, it’s been at a hash, at a bar, or at a party. To me, Brandi Melissa Robinson of Atlanta, GA was IC, a.k.a. Dahhhling. And Sean Richard Ryan of Augusta, GA was appropriately nicknamed Puppy, sooner or later called that for way he acted around his wife-to-be.
We got to the suburban Doubletree Hotel at midnight. Top floor, please. We found out the hotel bar had just closed, so we jumped in the rocket-ship rental and motored to the nearest sports bar for a pre-lube, greeted by continuous replays of the NBA’s worst-ever brawl. Apparently, Indiana and Detroit fans went to watch some b-ball and a hockey game broke out.
The real fun started early the next morning, when we woke up to go with IC to the Chapel. Wedding Day. November 20, 2004. Thanks to my platonic, loyal, Whipping-Boy-type relationship with the bride, I would be allowed to witness what few males ever get to see: the bride getting ready before the ceremony. IC and her maid of honor Just Sarah got to the hotel around 3 hours before the wedding was supposed to start to pick us up. Apparently, there was a creative way we were all getting back. Yours truly was decked out in a loosely-cut yet heavily starched tan shirt, a deeply and warmly designed silk tie, 100-dollar imported black wool pants and newly polished black leather shoes. My sudden transformation into a partly respectable male put the ladies at ease, as they realized I might be able to contain myself after all.
Things I Learned From Being With The Girls:
--If you’re a bride and you’re going to rent a car for the trip from the hotel to the Chapel, get the biggest freaking S.U.V. you can find. All your stuff will thank you, including your wedding dress.
--The goal for my next life is to become a Berka Boy. If you don’t know what this is, do yourself a favor and find out.
--A Fluffer is more than someone on a porn set. It is also the person who is responsible for constantly adjusting the massive amount of fabric at the bottom of the wedding dress. The fluffer for the ceremony was the maid of honor, and she taught me well. I proved my worth in this category multiple times throughout the rest of the day.
--Fixing your hair is the first thing you need to do on wedding day. Especially if you add a tiny tiara, so you can walk around proudly representing the diva set.
--Subway is acceptable pre-wedding food, especially if you’re wearing a tiara.
--Stick-on bras are a great way to add cleavage.
The ceremony was being held at the Chapel at Fort Leavenworth. We got onto base early enough to check out the famous prison, as well as the former prison building down the street. We exited the massive S.U.V. and were greeted with a serene view of the Missouri River, cutting through the base at the back of the Chapel. Inside the building was also quite impressive, with its clean lines, lots of gold and silver, and plenty of warm wood and stained glass.
RB’s job was to transform IC from her regular lovely human self, into an ethereal heavenly goddess. She did an amazing job. As if on cue, as soon as IC’s underthings were situated and RB started working with the makeup, the cameraman arrived and got some nice shots of the backstage goings-on. My job was to take some pictures with a digital camera and, of course, not to cause trouble. Not long after we arrived, IC was ready to go.
Puppy was outside in his Army uniform, complete with sword. No, not his own gigantic personal “sword” he’s rumored to have, but an actual, fairly sharp, highly polished military sword, tucked away in its shining metal condom. It wasn’t long before we were all seated and he made his way up to the front.
I’m not one to be overly emotional, but weddings and porn movies with happy endings get me all misty. And when I saw the bride walk into the Chapel, I had to take some drastic mental measures to keep from shedding a tear. What did I do? I thought back to the weekend IC and Puppy met. October 10, 11 and 12, 2003.
There was sex right away. We had gone to the Florida-Georgia Inter-Course south of Savannah in St. Mary’s, Georgia. Camp was a hotel, and our goal was to stay drunk all weekend. IC and Puppy started talking and the next thing I know… sex. A hasher ran into one of the hotel rooms a bunch of us were hanging out in, and said she just saw them having sex down the hall with the door cracked open. Of course, everyone jumped up to take a look. I stayed back, realizing that watching IC have sex would be like watching my own sister have sex. Whether or not they actually left the door open is a matter of debate. Let’s just put it this way: they consummated their friendship with witnesses present. And there would be plenty more consummating in the months to come. For the rest of the weekend, whenever IC disappeared, Puppy could be seen walking around the hotel grounds trying to find her. I was asked quite a few times, and I was also approached by other hashers, who told me that if I saw IC, I should let Puppy know. One of the best visuals of the weekend came when I was hanging out in a hotel room across the courtyard from the room IC and I were sharing. I looked across to see Puppy at the window, knocking and peering in and knocking some more. About 15 minutes later he was back for some more peering and knocking. At some point she stopped disappearing, and they’ve been pretty much inseparable ever since. Especially when there’s the chance for some lovin’ in an abandoned school bus. Isn’t that right, Misses Cums?
With my emotions under control, I was able to enjoy the rest of the wedding without the fear of bawling. It was at this point I finally understood why this was an event where acceptable hash behavior wasn’t acceptable: This was a true religious event, complete with a man in flowing robes everyone called Father, and void of things normally seen at hash events, like brief nudity, swearing and the guzzling of malty beverages. When the man named Father pronounced them husband and wife, there was much rejoicing.
The rejoicing continued outside the Chapel, when IC’s dad, Just Russ, pulled up in the vehicle that a large group of the wedding guests arrived in: The Love Bus. It was a decorated school bus, and this would be our transportation to the reception at the hotel. The first thing Just Russ did when he parked the bus in front of the Chapel was open the back and pull out a cooler of full of beer. There was also a cooler of champagne. So while the cameraman was doing his job, those interested in imbibing did their deed right in front of the House of God. With discreet plastic cups, of course.
I’ve got to give it up for the group people who rode the bus back to the reception. That was a good time. I was the last one on board, and by chance, got to cause trouble in the back, across the aisle from the bride and groom. You know what they say... The Cool Kids always sit in the back of the bus.
It was about a quarter to five in the afternoon when we got back to the hotel, and it was time to get to work. RB had the idea to decorate IC and Puppy’s room, and I was sober enough and motivated enough to drive around town to find stuff. But I had to get it done quickly before dinner was served. By 6, I was back at the reception hall, where people were already halfway through eating. I came running up to the bar to find it covered. The bartender was standing there and said they closed the bar during dinner because they were serving wine at the table with the meal. The look of horror on my face was obviously enough for her to make an exception. She took a step toward the beer and said, “Um, but I can still get you something if you’d like.” Ah, local brew.
Because of the adrenaline I built up from frantically shopping, I was able to inhale two plates of dinner in about 15 minutes, all the while maintaining the required Wedding Reception Composure. While I was eating, I found out IC had noticed my absence early on, and had been inquiring about my location. Apparently, people were making up some interesting excuses, like “Oh, he was pissy and left for a while” and a classic one from someone who didn’t know that I don’t smoke pot: “Um, he went outside with so-and-so to get high.” Wow.
The next order of business was to give IC her wedding present. I was able to corner her right outside the dining hall near the bar, as she and some fluffers were heading to the bathroom. I had a huge silver bow behind my back that was over 12 inches across. “Daahling,” I said as I walked closer, “it’s now time for your wedding gift. I give it to you along with my warmest congratulations, and with a most sincere wish for your lifelong happiness. Due to the fact that I flew out here for this lovely and memorable event...” I whipped the bow out from behind my back and slapped it on my chest. “...congratuations!” As IC and the fluffers walked away laughing, the bartender looked at me and said, “Wow, you pulled that off well.” Ha. This isn’t the first time I’ve done that.
For the next two hours or so, the decorations and IC and Puppy’s key were making the rounds, as people made their way up to the room to either get a look at the damage, or to help out. The decorations were of the wedding variety, with most of them being shiny or of a respectable color. Luckily, I had purchased just enough to make the room look decorated, but not garish. There was ribbon, thin streamers and wrapping paper to act as wallpaper. To top it off, we took two huge bags of Hershey’s Kisses and placed them candy all over the room. In the coffee mugs, on the phone, on the TV, etc. We even put a couple handfuls inbetween the pillows and pillowcases. It shouldn’t surprise you to learn someone even brought the cameraman up to the room to take pictures. I swear to God, I think he took a picture of every one of those Kisses. As a finishing touch, I taped that big, silver bow right above their bed.
This might be a good time to give a shout-out to the best man and the maid of honor, who did an excellent job giving their speeches. And let’s not forget the cutting of the cake, where we all found out that Puppy could put his sword to good use. The cameraman nearly orgasmed when he saw Puppy bravely slice the first piece of cake with his shimmering piece of steel.
The rest of the night was sort of a blur, and I owe most of it to the fact that I drank the bar out of their stash of local beer. The first dance was a well-kept secret until it was played, and when it started, many of us thought it was going to be a polka. Nope. It was simply the beginning of what would be the Chicken Dance. They get an A for originality for that one.
It was during the dancing that Puppy decided we needed to do a trail while we were in Kansas. We rounded up a couple people, and decided that since RB and IC were together again, we would have this be the first ever running of the Camp Diva Hash House Harriers.
For those of you who don’t know, Camp Diva started a couple years back during a road trip to Charlotte. A few Atlanta harriettes decided it was better to Never Leave Camp, and to get a Whipping Boy to do their bidding. Soon after, yours truly found it was better to give than receive and was given the title. The whole thing was never taken too seriously, but at least in my opinion, it was a constant source of entertainment.
It stands to reason that Divas wouldn’t even leave camp for their own trail, and this one would be no exception. A few other people joined them in their lack of ambition. So the hounds for this little adventure ended up being Puppy and Just Sarah, and thankfully, they took the Beverage of Choice (BEER) with them for circle.
With a 30-second head start, I ran through the hotel, throwing balled-up bar napkins on the floor. I rushed past one reception hall to see people dressed up as chickens and pigs, dancing. Hmmm. It was about this time I heard a semi-not-sober Just Sarah behind me shouting, “Hey, wait up!” When I stopped, she tagged me and said, “Ha Ha, I snared you. I get your pants now, right?” Apparently, there’s a long-standing tradition in some hashes that you get to take the hare’s pants at the On-In if you snare. Truth be told, I’m not too shy about taking my pants off in public if the situation presents itself, but this was not really the time. So all I could think to say was, “Huh?” She continued. And she continued. “I was told I get to take your pants if I snare you. And I snared you. So you have to give me your pants, right?” At this point, we were running through the hotel lobby and out the door. “So when we get back, I get your pants, right?” We decided in advance that we would have a quick circle outside, so the On-In was behind The Love Bus in the hotel parking lot. Puppy joined us while Just Sarah was again questioning the logistics behind the acquisition of my pants.
Yours truly ran the first ever circle of the Camp Diva Hash House Harriers, and I’d like to proudly say that a good time was had by all. Just Sarah got a down-down for Hare Snare, for being FRB, for being FBI, and for using nerd names in circle. Puppy got a down-down for being DFL, and got a Rule 6 Violation for getting married. I did my down-down for being hare and for being a hare that’s stupid enough to turn around when a hound yells “Stop.” Our final drink of the night was a Down-Down-By-Proxy for the Divas that Never Leave Camp. Songs were of the amazingly quick variety, consisting of those with one or two lines. Some songs we simply cut short. A truncated version of Swing Low ended the festivities.
“May the hash go in peace.”
“May the hash get a piece.”
“Now about those pants...”
When we got back, some of the older folks in the group were going off bed. Others were thinking about moving to the hotel bar. Before I left, I got the reception bartender to make us a monstrous nightcap in a one-liter carafe: One of the strongest Long Island Ice Teas in the history of ever. Vodka, gin, rum, triple sec, a dash of sweet and sour, and a dash of coke. I don’t remember how long everyone was at the bar. All I remember is that everyone was there when RB and I went outside briefly for some air, and were all gone when we went back in. So we sat at the bar and had one last round, and became the Last Two Standing. Can I get a “Yay” from the audience, please.
A lot of us gathered in the morning for a caravan back to IC’s parent’s house, where we were greeted to a huge spread of food. Just Russ gave RB and I first dibs on made-to-order omelets, since we had to catch our flight back to Atlanta. But we weren’t the only ones leaving soon; IC and Puppy were packing for their flight back to Germany. We hung out for an hour, eating and sampling Bloody Marys and eating a little more. As we drove off to the airport, I realized I had just attended the most flawless wedding weekend I have ever experienced, and one of the best events of the year.
So here’s a big thanks to everyone involved who kept us entertained and fed and drunk. And of course, thanks and congrats to IC and Puppy. Good luck guys.
By the way, Just Sarah never got my pants.
Until next time,
On Out
# posted by L&F @ 6:20 PM
43. Peer Pressure to Get Back to Biloxi
Biloxi H3 - 11 Octobeer 04
[Posted on the Yahoo Group for Biloxi H3:]
“And a moron picked a stupid time to go to California.”
[My reply]
I had two options.
OPTION THE FIRST
I can’t go.
OPTION THE SECOND
Dear Mommy and Daddy:
Thank you so much for my birthday present. I really needed that $500 for gas money, and I’ll be using all of it. I know I’ve only been here a day, but I can’t stay. There’s this Toga Hash in Biloxi I need to go to. I hung out with the hashers there a couple weeks ago, and not only was it entertaining, it was also highly educational. I learned the importance of a 4-foot zipper and I found a place where you can drag a keg to a park bench and hang out without getting messed with by cops. I learned the importance of giving chalk to hounds, and realized that visitors can get away with a whole lot more than they can when they’re at home. Oh, and the Biloxi hashers are trying to help me overcome my fear of “climbing the tree.” As you can see, I have a compelling reason for going back. Sorry for ducking out in the middle of the night. I figured it would save me from getting beat.
Your son,
L&F
a.k.a. Moron
[Posted on the Yahoo Group for Biloxi H3:]
“And a moron picked a stupid time to go to California.”
[My reply]
I had two options.
OPTION THE FIRST
I can’t go.
OPTION THE SECOND
Dear Mommy and Daddy:
Thank you so much for my birthday present. I really needed that $500 for gas money, and I’ll be using all of it. I know I’ve only been here a day, but I can’t stay. There’s this Toga Hash in Biloxi I need to go to. I hung out with the hashers there a couple weeks ago, and not only was it entertaining, it was also highly educational. I learned the importance of a 4-foot zipper and I found a place where you can drag a keg to a park bench and hang out without getting messed with by cops. I learned the importance of giving chalk to hounds, and realized that visitors can get away with a whole lot more than they can when they’re at home. Oh, and the Biloxi hashers are trying to help me overcome my fear of “climbing the tree.” As you can see, I have a compelling reason for going back. Sorry for ducking out in the middle of the night. I figured it would save me from getting beat.
Your son,
L&F
a.k.a. Moron
# posted by L&F @ 6:16 PM
42. Memories from Hashfest
Savannahhh - 24 Septembeer 2004
Friday night. 10p. Arriving and seeing camp completely empty. (There’s a fire pit?)
Pallet Bar.
Tippy Cup, Naked Tippy Cup and Survivor Tippy Cup.
The injuries sustained during Tippy Cup.
Hide the Nilla Wafer. (Nilla must be pronounced knee’-luh, and there must be way too many rules)
Yucca good. Late-night “coffee” bad.
Hot breakfast.
Hot shower.
Zippy trail. (Never leave camp)
Getting called into circle 8 times.
Unholy Mattressmony.
Shooting Star hash.
The burning of the Pallet Bar.
The incredible amount of puking stories.
Noticing that hurricane Jeanne waited until 11a on Sunday to blow in.
Friday night. 10p. Arriving and seeing camp completely empty. (There’s a fire pit?)
Pallet Bar.
Tippy Cup, Naked Tippy Cup and Survivor Tippy Cup.
The injuries sustained during Tippy Cup.
Hide the Nilla Wafer. (Nilla must be pronounced knee’-luh, and there must be way too many rules)
Yucca good. Late-night “coffee” bad.
Hot breakfast.
Hot shower.
Zippy trail. (Never leave camp)
Getting called into circle 8 times.
Unholy Mattressmony.
Shooting Star hash.
The burning of the Pallet Bar.
The incredible amount of puking stories.
Noticing that hurricane Jeanne waited until 11a on Sunday to blow in.
# posted by L&F @ 6:15 PM
41. Post-Lube for Virginia’s Interhash
Carolina Trash H3 - 12 Septembeer 2004
I learned that Trashers are very patient when trying to give an overly Lost out-of-towner directions to the start.
I learned that the power of persuasion, when used the correct way on a fellow parental unit, can allow you to take your baby along on a swim across a river. Twice.
I learned that river water can be as black as swamp water.
I learned where the largest batch of mosquitoes is located in the United States.
I learned that I can never look at cheese balls the same way again.
I learned that you can make a sarong out of anything... even a dirty, ragged rug that looks like it hasn't been washed in years.
I learned way too much about Trasher genitals.
I learned that trashers are very patient when dealing with an overly excited out-of-towner who just got his Trash mug.
I learned that Trashers are very patient when trying to give an overly Lost out-of-towner directions to the start.
I learned that the power of persuasion, when used the correct way on a fellow parental unit, can allow you to take your baby along on a swim across a river. Twice.
I learned that river water can be as black as swamp water.
I learned where the largest batch of mosquitoes is located in the United States.
I learned that I can never look at cheese balls the same way again.
I learned that you can make a sarong out of anything... even a dirty, ragged rug that looks like it hasn't been washed in years.
I learned way too much about Trasher genitals.
I learned that trashers are very patient when dealing with an overly excited out-of-towner who just got his Trash mug.
# posted by L&F @ 6:12 PM
40. Return of Stunt Snail
Carolina Trash H3 - 12 Septembeer 2004
What I’d like to know is… Why is your hash scribe always gone when I show up to do a Trash trail? The only time I ever see his ass is when he’s out of town, wearing a dress or puking up Guinness. Since I had 6 hours to kill on the drive home, I thought I’d keep my eyes off the road as much as possible and do the write-up in the car. So for all you wanks that couldn’t make it on the 12th, here’s what you missed, from the eyes of this week’s STUNT SNAIL.
The planets must have aligned just right last Monday, because that was the day SPOOGE posted the d’erections to the start. Is it just me, or is that a Trash record? Not only that, he also got hares for the next two weeks. Somebody deserves a little lovin’. Or because of the obvious motivation here, maybe somebody already got some.
The posted “Mystery Hare” was Tonsil Tang, which was of no surprise to anyone who knew both Spooge and Tang live in Spring Lake.
Over-achievers for the day were the people who drove down from Virginia’s Interhash to catch trail.
Apparently, there’s some fallout from the whole RICHARD SIMMONS/BLOW ME debacle. Some anonymous hounds approached me at VaIH and wanted me to pass along that they had gotten word from an anonymous 7Hills hasher, who says - quote - “I did not have sex with that woman, Miss Lewinsky.” Oh wait, wrong quote. Shit. I can’t find the real one. You’ll have to trust me. There’s fallout.
--(Nothing to fear here) L&F
What I’d like to know is… Why is your hash scribe always gone when I show up to do a Trash trail? The only time I ever see his ass is when he’s out of town, wearing a dress or puking up Guinness. Since I had 6 hours to kill on the drive home, I thought I’d keep my eyes off the road as much as possible and do the write-up in the car. So for all you wanks that couldn’t make it on the 12th, here’s what you missed, from the eyes of this week’s STUNT SNAIL.
The planets must have aligned just right last Monday, because that was the day SPOOGE posted the d’erections to the start. Is it just me, or is that a Trash record? Not only that, he also got hares for the next two weeks. Somebody deserves a little lovin’. Or because of the obvious motivation here, maybe somebody already got some.
The posted “Mystery Hare” was Tonsil Tang, which was of no surprise to anyone who knew both Spooge and Tang live in Spring Lake.
Over-achievers for the day were the people who drove down from Virginia’s Interhash to catch trail.
Apparently, there’s some fallout from the whole RICHARD SIMMONS/BLOW ME debacle. Some anonymous hounds approached me at VaIH and wanted me to pass along that they had gotten word from an anonymous 7Hills hasher, who says - quote - “I did not have sex with that woman, Miss Lewinsky.” Oh wait, wrong quote. Shit. I can’t find the real one. You’ll have to trust me. There’s fallout.
--(Nothing to fear here) L&F
# posted by L&F @ 6:11 PM
39. An Unadvertised Annual Tradition
Darkside H3 - 29 August 2004
Now don’t get me wrong. I love S0B. But when you crave a little more on a Sunday, it’s nice to have another option. Black Sheep helps. So does Hog Mountain. The upcumming Bear Creek Hash sounds hopeful when it starts next month. Well, for this month, a member of mismanagement from Black Sheep decided to step up during his off-week and give Atlanta’s overly ambitious Wankers that little extra.
Well, maybe more than a little. This is the Darkside we’re talking about. Preparing for the typical amount of pain, I went through my mental checklist. Water? Check. Gel pack? Check. A larger set of balls? Check. I even grabbed my GPS, because you never knew when you’re going to get Lost.
I motored to the start to find everyone already there but the hare. Those in attendance included (apologies if I forget anyone): 2 Crabs, Calamari Richard/Whooah-Ohh!, Dane Bramaged, Elvis, Fore Inch, Gass Hole, the Ho, L&F, Little Easy, Pvssy Pilot, Snail Trail, and the harriette formerly known as Rat Killer. Our chef and bimbo extraordinaire was Rat’s A$$, who summed up his mindset perfectly: "I'm not r*nning 10 miles, fvck that!" Late cummers included our second bimbo One Ball, as well as Just Johann, who not only sniffed us out and caught up, but was the FRB of the evening. And that’s after he did S0B. Oh, and he got named during circle, too. More on that later.
B!tch With An Attitude was our hare of record, and for the fourth August in a row, he took one for the team and signed up for the 10-miler. At 5:30, he grabbed his bag (of flour) and hobbled away. We promised him 10 minutes, because he’s old. 9 minutes and 59 seconds later, the pack gave chase. Because we’re rebels like that.
The start was the Marta Park ‘n Ride at GA 400, exit 11. It had been raining on and off all afternoon, and it was raining up until we circled up, and then it never rained again.
The trail can be divided into thirds. The first part was about 3 miles of solid-ground shiggy and road. The first check was quite difficult, and took the pack about 10 minutes to solve. So Bwana was up about 20 minutes. But as soon as we hit shiggy, we knew he was in trouble. Some of the toilet paper was broken down, which meant he had prelaid some of the trail to a bigger lead. Now he was having to redo it. And the last thing you want to do before haring a 10-mile Darkside by yourself is expend any energy.
The second part was about 4 miles down the Big Creek Greenway, which until now, I had no idea it existed. Coincidentally, last week’s Moonlight went through here. This was where our tired hare started getting snared. Shortly after we emerged from the Greenway, we hit our first water stop.
The last part was where the shiggy really started. A muddy dirt r*nning trail led to a power cut, some hamsterland, and a trek under GA 400. I got under the highway to see three of the hounds up ahead, walking down a sewer easement. And walking meant the hare had been snared for the third time. All of a sudden, we ran into Bwana and Rat’s A$$, taking bags out of the Bimbo Mobile. It seems like our hare decided to call it a night at the second water stop. Well, we were at 9+ miles at this point, and I was too freaking tired to be anything but happy. We watched the full moon cum up as we ate. Oh, and of course, there was beer.
One thing I like about Darkside circles is the lack of ambition shown by everyone involved. Think very quick, and very laid back. Three highlights of the evening included 1. The singing of the shortest hash song ever. “Drink it down down down down…” Seriously, you can’t get any shorter than that. 2. The naming of Just Johann, who will always and forever be known as Mister Mom. 3. The re-re-naming of Rat Killer, who up until now has been cursed with two unmemorable names. Taking care of that was her attendance at last month’s Darkside, when she was the FRB. Then she basically named herself when she told Dane Bramaged that she Likes It Long. So...here’s to Likes It Long, she’s true blue...
A number of thank you’s are in order. To Rat’s A$$ for bimbo’ing, to One Ball for keeping him company, to Rat’s A$$, Elvis, Dane Bramaged and Snail Trail for the food, and to Bwana for the lay. And of course, thank you to everyone who cums out to support one of the longest hashes in the country.
Join us next time, when the quest for beer reaches its monthly extreme.
Dark. Long. Hard.
You’ve been warned.
Now don’t get me wrong. I love S0B. But when you crave a little more on a Sunday, it’s nice to have another option. Black Sheep helps. So does Hog Mountain. The upcumming Bear Creek Hash sounds hopeful when it starts next month. Well, for this month, a member of mismanagement from Black Sheep decided to step up during his off-week and give Atlanta’s overly ambitious Wankers that little extra.
Well, maybe more than a little. This is the Darkside we’re talking about. Preparing for the typical amount of pain, I went through my mental checklist. Water? Check. Gel pack? Check. A larger set of balls? Check. I even grabbed my GPS, because you never knew when you’re going to get Lost.
I motored to the start to find everyone already there but the hare. Those in attendance included (apologies if I forget anyone): 2 Crabs, Calamari Richard/Whooah-Ohh!, Dane Bramaged, Elvis, Fore Inch, Gass Hole, the Ho, L&F, Little Easy, Pvssy Pilot, Snail Trail, and the harriette formerly known as Rat Killer. Our chef and bimbo extraordinaire was Rat’s A$$, who summed up his mindset perfectly: "I'm not r*nning 10 miles, fvck that!" Late cummers included our second bimbo One Ball, as well as Just Johann, who not only sniffed us out and caught up, but was the FRB of the evening. And that’s after he did S0B. Oh, and he got named during circle, too. More on that later.
B!tch With An Attitude was our hare of record, and for the fourth August in a row, he took one for the team and signed up for the 10-miler. At 5:30, he grabbed his bag (of flour) and hobbled away. We promised him 10 minutes, because he’s old. 9 minutes and 59 seconds later, the pack gave chase. Because we’re rebels like that.
The start was the Marta Park ‘n Ride at GA 400, exit 11. It had been raining on and off all afternoon, and it was raining up until we circled up, and then it never rained again.
The trail can be divided into thirds. The first part was about 3 miles of solid-ground shiggy and road. The first check was quite difficult, and took the pack about 10 minutes to solve. So Bwana was up about 20 minutes. But as soon as we hit shiggy, we knew he was in trouble. Some of the toilet paper was broken down, which meant he had prelaid some of the trail to a bigger lead. Now he was having to redo it. And the last thing you want to do before haring a 10-mile Darkside by yourself is expend any energy.
The second part was about 4 miles down the Big Creek Greenway, which until now, I had no idea it existed. Coincidentally, last week’s Moonlight went through here. This was where our tired hare started getting snared. Shortly after we emerged from the Greenway, we hit our first water stop.
The last part was where the shiggy really started. A muddy dirt r*nning trail led to a power cut, some hamsterland, and a trek under GA 400. I got under the highway to see three of the hounds up ahead, walking down a sewer easement. And walking meant the hare had been snared for the third time. All of a sudden, we ran into Bwana and Rat’s A$$, taking bags out of the Bimbo Mobile. It seems like our hare decided to call it a night at the second water stop. Well, we were at 9+ miles at this point, and I was too freaking tired to be anything but happy. We watched the full moon cum up as we ate. Oh, and of course, there was beer.
One thing I like about Darkside circles is the lack of ambition shown by everyone involved. Think very quick, and very laid back. Three highlights of the evening included 1. The singing of the shortest hash song ever. “Drink it down down down down…” Seriously, you can’t get any shorter than that. 2. The naming of Just Johann, who will always and forever be known as Mister Mom. 3. The re-re-naming of Rat Killer, who up until now has been cursed with two unmemorable names. Taking care of that was her attendance at last month’s Darkside, when she was the FRB. Then she basically named herself when she told Dane Bramaged that she Likes It Long. So...here’s to Likes It Long, she’s true blue...
A number of thank you’s are in order. To Rat’s A$$ for bimbo’ing, to One Ball for keeping him company, to Rat’s A$$, Elvis, Dane Bramaged and Snail Trail for the food, and to Bwana for the lay. And of course, thank you to everyone who cums out to support one of the longest hashes in the country.
Join us next time, when the quest for beer reaches its monthly extreme.
Dark. Long. Hard.
You’ve been warned.
# posted by L&F @ 6:10 PM
