28 January 2006
59. The Trash Invades Reality
Carolina Trash H3 - No date necessary
ATLANTA (AP) - Police were called to the aftermath of surreal riot on Saturday, located at a construction-site cul-de-sac off Moreland Avenue, just outside the Perimeter.
According to people being treated at the scene, the instigators were a group of runners known as The Carolina Trash, who traveled down from their home base in Fayetteville, North Carolina to find out about the local runs here in Atlanta.
The Trash is one of many groups known as The Hash House Harriers, known collectively as The Drinking Club With a Running Problem, but extreme differences are seen from city to city.
Apparently, the local Hashers laid out a cross-country trail that ended at the secluded cul-de-sac, which will soon be part of the Moreland Vista Apartments.
Witnesses said the visiting members of the Trash were unhappy with the leadership and lack of ambition from everyone involved, and began throwing beer and disrobing.
When the more aggressive locals took offense and began confronting the unhappy pack, the Trashers allegedly began defecating at the site and urinating on everyone within range.
Some of the drunken males even began masturbating, in an attempt to spray additional bodily fluids. One was even projectile-vomiting on command.
This sent some of the Atlanta women screaming, alerting the weekend construction crew working at the nearby apartments.
"When we got to the area, everyone seemed pretty drunk," said construction worker Mark Darymple. "Some people were slipping in human waste, others were coated with red Georgia clay and beer. The entire area smelled like someone spilled Pabst Blue Ribbon in a porta-john. I think the oddest thing I saw was a cat fight where one of the ladies had another pinned to the ground, and the one on top was squeezing her breast milk into the helpless girl's face. Tears and milk. Wow."
Darymple went on to say his crew decided to avoid getting in the middle of the confrontation when the members of the Trash who weren't using their genitals as weapons offered them free beer. "They seemed like they just wanted to have a good time," he said, shrugging his shoulders. "Plus, it was warm there. They were lighting random fires everywhere."
By the time police arrived, most of the group had disbanded, except for the people who were hurt.
They would only give what they called their "hash names," which they said were awarded to them after five runs with the group.
In an ironic moment, one male calling himself I Am My Own Punchline was injured when he slipped on a pile of semen and fell to the ground.
Another named Goody No Shoes said a bottle hit his head and he passed out, only to wake up several minutes later with black marker all over the exposed parts of his body. "I got Sharpied," he sighed, referring to the permanent marker manufactured by Sanford.
A female from Decatur, whose hash name is too explicit to print, said the Trash had staged what they called an Invasion, which is apparently the term they use whenever they leave Fayetteville on a road trip. “They invaded all right.” the woman said, “My personal space, my privacy, my set of morals.” She then cursed for about 15 seconds, kicked a charred running shoe and walked off.
Charges are unlikely to be filed, due to the anonymity of everyone involved, and the refusal of the construction workers to make a statement.
AP-28-JAN-06
ATLANTA (AP) - Police were called to the aftermath of surreal riot on Saturday, located at a construction-site cul-de-sac off Moreland Avenue, just outside the Perimeter.
According to people being treated at the scene, the instigators were a group of runners known as The Carolina Trash, who traveled down from their home base in Fayetteville, North Carolina to find out about the local runs here in Atlanta.
The Trash is one of many groups known as The Hash House Harriers, known collectively as The Drinking Club With a Running Problem, but extreme differences are seen from city to city.
Apparently, the local Hashers laid out a cross-country trail that ended at the secluded cul-de-sac, which will soon be part of the Moreland Vista Apartments.
Witnesses said the visiting members of the Trash were unhappy with the leadership and lack of ambition from everyone involved, and began throwing beer and disrobing.
When the more aggressive locals took offense and began confronting the unhappy pack, the Trashers allegedly began defecating at the site and urinating on everyone within range.
Some of the drunken males even began masturbating, in an attempt to spray additional bodily fluids. One was even projectile-vomiting on command.
This sent some of the Atlanta women screaming, alerting the weekend construction crew working at the nearby apartments.
"When we got to the area, everyone seemed pretty drunk," said construction worker Mark Darymple. "Some people were slipping in human waste, others were coated with red Georgia clay and beer. The entire area smelled like someone spilled Pabst Blue Ribbon in a porta-john. I think the oddest thing I saw was a cat fight where one of the ladies had another pinned to the ground, and the one on top was squeezing her breast milk into the helpless girl's face. Tears and milk. Wow."
Darymple went on to say his crew decided to avoid getting in the middle of the confrontation when the members of the Trash who weren't using their genitals as weapons offered them free beer. "They seemed like they just wanted to have a good time," he said, shrugging his shoulders. "Plus, it was warm there. They were lighting random fires everywhere."
By the time police arrived, most of the group had disbanded, except for the people who were hurt.
They would only give what they called their "hash names," which they said were awarded to them after five runs with the group.
In an ironic moment, one male calling himself I Am My Own Punchline was injured when he slipped on a pile of semen and fell to the ground.
Another named Goody No Shoes said a bottle hit his head and he passed out, only to wake up several minutes later with black marker all over the exposed parts of his body. "I got Sharpied," he sighed, referring to the permanent marker manufactured by Sanford.
A female from Decatur, whose hash name is too explicit to print, said the Trash had staged what they called an Invasion, which is apparently the term they use whenever they leave Fayetteville on a road trip. “They invaded all right.” the woman said, “My personal space, my privacy, my set of morals.” She then cursed for about 15 seconds, kicked a charred running shoe and walked off.
Charges are unlikely to be filed, due to the anonymity of everyone involved, and the refusal of the construction workers to make a statement.
AP-28-JAN-06
# posted by L&F @ 11:04 AM 
15 January 2006
58. Shiggy Porn or Dry Hump?
Black Sheep H3 - 8 January 06
The last time I did a Tastes Like Shit trail, it was of the insanely shiggilicious variety during our trip to Johnson City, Tennessee for the second-ever (and last) TCH3. But a month or two ago, TLS apparently got nicknamed Trails Like Shit for the “communication error” that turned his Atlanta co-haring into a mega cluster. Communication error. That’s like using the phrase “wardrobe malfunction” when your top gets ripped off by a horny guy half your age and your titty makes a guest appearance on national television.
I checked the satellite maps, and there were many possibilities for road rage. So we were going to be treated to orgasma-shiggy or forced into some twisted, temporary celibacy. Either way, I had a feeling we were going to get a workout. Something else that made us interested before we even started was that we were doubling up with the new Slack Sheep. That trail was going to split off at some point and co-hare Sani was going to give the Slackers an easier time.
For a January day, it was incredibly warm as the pack gathered for the 402nd running of the Black Sheep Hash. And holy crap, the turnout was impressive. There was close to 60 runners and bimbos at the start to watch TLS get out of his car in full Elvis attire. Maybe I should mention the day’s Elvis Birthday theme. The hare paraded around the parking lot of Nickajack Park for about 10 minutes, and then put the blazingly white costume away for later use at circle.
After an official Bunny Blessing, the hares departed, flour bags in hand. The expected YBF was found way up a hill and into some thick forest, which had many of the hounds cursing. True trail ended up down Nickajack Park Road for just a bit, then along a powercut and some random dirt to the grassy strip next to the breakdown lane on I-285. Yes, the pack ran along the interstate for a while, going northbound on the southbound side of the highway. This is where the railroad tracks started.
We went down the tracks to an Elvis-approved DS (donut stop) and cut though a little strip of shiggy to another set of tracks, which morphed into a bridge across the Chattahoochee River. This long stretch on the ties was where a number of people had little personal traumas as they tried to stifle one or more of their phobias. Some of us even kissed the ground on the other side when we finally got across. And who can forget the two face-plants.
Flour led us under the bridge, past a freshly dead raccoon, into a few steps of muddy water, and then right back on more tracks. And that brought us right back near 285 on the northbound side.
It was about this point we got off the ties and down into what was sometimes a swamp between the tracks and the river. Today it was bone dry, with the only mud in sight being the dried stuff on top of the leaves. For a mile, we trudged through uneven and litter-strewn forest with the tracks visible up above. One Ball’s translation: Spoiled Wilderness. The scenery was interesting, so we decided to continue following true trail. Between the shiggy and where the mile ended at Bankhead Highway, we ran along an access road for a powercut, where we were treated to a series of abandoned cars, complete with Bonnie-and-Clyde-type holes littering the sides. There was also a massive tire graveyard where we found ourselves among an ocean of black circles.
After a run up Bankhead Highway and through some forest, we ended back at the zig-zagging powercut, which connected us to an extra-wide easement. At the end of our lengthy trek along this little piece of sewer heaven, we finally found a little swamp; calf-deep and just long enough to numb our feet. A final easement brought us to the end, two miles from the start, and off the same street we turned on to get to the park. Length of trail: around 6 1/2 miles.
Because of ankle issues, I’m really damn slow in uneven shiggy, so I sometimes find myself among the last in. Today was one of those days. I barely got changed when circle started. During Trail Trial, most people announced they liked it, especially the mental pain of the bridge. But not surprisingly, there were a few who voiced their displeasure at all the dryness. If you need some perspective, a certain bald someone keeps track of the number of times The Boys get wet on Black Sheeps, and it happens about 75% of the time.
I decided to join the majority and be happy that we got to r*n a 10K among some pretty entertaining and impressive sights. Davey Crochet wrote the official hash trash, and he summed it up well when he thanked the hares: “If it weren’t for you, we couldn’t sit on our fat asses and complain.”
Until next time,
May the Hash Get a Piece
The last time I did a Tastes Like Shit trail, it was of the insanely shiggilicious variety during our trip to Johnson City, Tennessee for the second-ever (and last) TCH3. But a month or two ago, TLS apparently got nicknamed Trails Like Shit for the “communication error” that turned his Atlanta co-haring into a mega cluster. Communication error. That’s like using the phrase “wardrobe malfunction” when your top gets ripped off by a horny guy half your age and your titty makes a guest appearance on national television.
I checked the satellite maps, and there were many possibilities for road rage. So we were going to be treated to orgasma-shiggy or forced into some twisted, temporary celibacy. Either way, I had a feeling we were going to get a workout. Something else that made us interested before we even started was that we were doubling up with the new Slack Sheep. That trail was going to split off at some point and co-hare Sani was going to give the Slackers an easier time.
For a January day, it was incredibly warm as the pack gathered for the 402nd running of the Black Sheep Hash. And holy crap, the turnout was impressive. There was close to 60 runners and bimbos at the start to watch TLS get out of his car in full Elvis attire. Maybe I should mention the day’s Elvis Birthday theme. The hare paraded around the parking lot of Nickajack Park for about 10 minutes, and then put the blazingly white costume away for later use at circle.
After an official Bunny Blessing, the hares departed, flour bags in hand. The expected YBF was found way up a hill and into some thick forest, which had many of the hounds cursing. True trail ended up down Nickajack Park Road for just a bit, then along a powercut and some random dirt to the grassy strip next to the breakdown lane on I-285. Yes, the pack ran along the interstate for a while, going northbound on the southbound side of the highway. This is where the railroad tracks started.
We went down the tracks to an Elvis-approved DS (donut stop) and cut though a little strip of shiggy to another set of tracks, which morphed into a bridge across the Chattahoochee River. This long stretch on the ties was where a number of people had little personal traumas as they tried to stifle one or more of their phobias. Some of us even kissed the ground on the other side when we finally got across. And who can forget the two face-plants.
Flour led us under the bridge, past a freshly dead raccoon, into a few steps of muddy water, and then right back on more tracks. And that brought us right back near 285 on the northbound side.
It was about this point we got off the ties and down into what was sometimes a swamp between the tracks and the river. Today it was bone dry, with the only mud in sight being the dried stuff on top of the leaves. For a mile, we trudged through uneven and litter-strewn forest with the tracks visible up above. One Ball’s translation: Spoiled Wilderness. The scenery was interesting, so we decided to continue following true trail. Between the shiggy and where the mile ended at Bankhead Highway, we ran along an access road for a powercut, where we were treated to a series of abandoned cars, complete with Bonnie-and-Clyde-type holes littering the sides. There was also a massive tire graveyard where we found ourselves among an ocean of black circles.
After a run up Bankhead Highway and through some forest, we ended back at the zig-zagging powercut, which connected us to an extra-wide easement. At the end of our lengthy trek along this little piece of sewer heaven, we finally found a little swamp; calf-deep and just long enough to numb our feet. A final easement brought us to the end, two miles from the start, and off the same street we turned on to get to the park. Length of trail: around 6 1/2 miles.
Because of ankle issues, I’m really damn slow in uneven shiggy, so I sometimes find myself among the last in. Today was one of those days. I barely got changed when circle started. During Trail Trial, most people announced they liked it, especially the mental pain of the bridge. But not surprisingly, there were a few who voiced their displeasure at all the dryness. If you need some perspective, a certain bald someone keeps track of the number of times The Boys get wet on Black Sheeps, and it happens about 75% of the time.
I decided to join the majority and be happy that we got to r*n a 10K among some pretty entertaining and impressive sights. Davey Crochet wrote the official hash trash, and he summed it up well when he thanked the hares: “If it weren’t for you, we couldn’t sit on our fat asses and complain.”
Until next time,
May the Hash Get a Piece
# posted by L&F @ 12:32 PM
01 January 2006
57. I Shaved My Taint
AUGUST 2012 UPDATE:
After years of having the #1 return on Google for "Shaved Taint," I've dropped to #2. Damn you, Stern Fan Network... Howard Stern doesn't even like you. Time for another update so I can try to regain the top spot. This time, I even did some phone research.
There's only one product I've ever used that does a decent job on the junk: the Norelco Bodygroom. It actually works. Read on, grasshopper... safe in the knowledge that Norelco is NOT giving me blow jobs for the plug.
Why Norelco and not the other guys? For one thing, the Bodygroom is the right size for holding and shaving. Also, I've been using Norelco products since I was in junior high, when I was shaving peach fuzz off my shitty little face. Their razors last a long damn time. Even their lower-end products like the Bodygroom have decent battery life. (You're not buying a $120 razor here).
Contacting Norelco did nothing but confirm that I know as much or more than they do. There are three Bodygroom series... the 2020's, the 2030's and the 2040's. If you see a slash and two digits AFTER those four numbers, they are worthless. All the models have the same shaving heads/foils, so don't worry about that part. Note: Do not shave your face with a Bodygroom. It's not made for thick facial hair.
My current suggestion... spend the extra cash and get the BG2040. I haven't used that model, but it has a beard trimmer on the other end. No matter what you see on sites like Amazon, all Bodygrooms have NiMH batteries, take 8 hours to charge, give you 50 minutes of shaving and require a charging stand. You'll hate the charging stand, but suck it up. You'll get clean nuts.
Now, for the actual act of shaving down there...
Hey moron, shower first. And dry off well. Start shaving your balls, because if you can shave your balls, you can shave ANYTHING on your body with no problem. Remember, your ball skin is sort of like a raisin, so you'll have to pull it relatively tight in the area you're shaving. If you don't, and you nick yourself, you're doing it wrong. Trust me, once you have clean balls, you will actually be horrified with yourself if you ever let your ball hair grow out too long. Hair ends up looking odd and is very uncomfortable, not to mention a turnoff for most Significant Others who play down there.
When you're done shaving, even if you still see the microscopic remainder of hairs near the very base of your skin, don't panic. Your skin will be smooth.
As for the taint, unless you squat over a mirror, you'll have to shave it blind. Either way, it's so much easier than shaving the nuts.
Now for an editorial on manliness: I've actually heard dudes brush off the idea of shaving their junk because it would somehow make them less of a guy. They suggest or straight-out say that it will make them a [insert homophobic slur here]. Sure, some guys will never learn, and this paragraph is not for them. Here are questions for everyone else: Have you ever talked to significant others or potential significant others about what they like, or what turns them on? Do you think you're in the bloodline of the biblical Samson and will lose all your man-strength if you cut your hair? Do you have some childhood issues that you've turned into crippling adult baggage? What the hell is wrong with you? It's fucking ball hair. Get over it and clean up.
I have spoken.
NOW BACK TO YOUR REGULAR PROGRAMMING
Carolina Trash H3 - 9 DecemBEER 05 to 11 DecemBEER 05
I couldn’t decide how to start this damn thing, so I’ll start it five times.
1. This is the tale of Prom 2005, also known as The Trash Invades Their Home Turf.
2. Yes, I count my hashes. The payoffs are few and far between, like the one that cropped up at Prom 2005. First off, this was my 200th hash as L&F. More importantly, this was my 100th out-of-town hash. Yes, you drunk wankers, I have held my own personal Hash Invasion 100 times. And not surprisingly, a majority of them have been in North Carolina. And without even knowing I was celebrating such an important milestone, the Trash decided to bestow upon me something rather impressive.
3. I have a new prized possession: a smelly, oily bib. The following is a bit of blathering regarding the events surrounding my favorite event from Prom 2005... when five semi-sober hashers were bathed in rancid turkey oil, beer and random nasty foodstuffs.
4. OK, how was I to know that my considerate and successful effort to clean up my genitalia would lead to so many strange looks? Was it because it was ME who was advertising it? Fine, then take me out of the equation for a moment so you can answer the following question without vomiting: Let's say you're a harriette, or a confused young man, and you’re down there at eye level with a guy’s junk, what would you rather see and then start licking with an incredible amount of gusto? A hairy sack, or a clean, smooth sack? One nut, one and a half nuts or the more-typical two, I’m going to bet a sparkly clean bag wins out every time. And even if the taint ain’t your thing, you’ve got to realize that some guy who just spent the better part of an evening trimming and shaving his legs, and then shaving his package, would definitely want to finish the job. Tip from past experience: leave a little up top or you’ll end up looking like a well-endowed 7-year-old.
So there we were. Drinking Saturday night at John J’s. Many of us were showing a lot of skin, or showing a lot of clothing that didn’t seem very normal. I had just succeeded in frightening one of the few civilians in the bar, so I bailed out of that conversation before there was any trouble. And what better way to keep a low profile than turn around to the nearest hasher and loudly proclaim that I had shaved my taint. As you already know, I got some strange looks. But this time, a few shaving fans gave their support. All of a sudden, out of nowhere, I’m told that guys don’t HAVE taints. Huh? Well, that turned into a rather compelling discussion. But maybe I should start at the beginning of the weekend.
5. It was Friday at 8:30p, and the Atlanta-ites had just landed at the Hash Hotel in Fayettenam for Prom from Hell 2005. And we had just missed the U-Haul for the pub crawl. But there was a rumor that we were already going to be we were already going to be treated to the first amazing gesture of hashpotality… the U-Haul was cumming back to the hotel to pick us up. Sure enough, a couple minutes later, an oversized truck pulls up to the front of the hotel. And there’s this strange noise coming from it. As we approached, the noise got louder, and there was a faint rumbling. By the time we got to the back of the U-Haul, we heard a chorus of muffled singing and realized that everyone from the pub crawl was in back. We opened the sliding door to the second amazing gesture of hashpotality… the loudest and most energetic greeting we Atlanta wankers have ever received. Thanks, you drunk bastards.
Yucca. Holy shit, there was lots of yucca.
Since we were late, our first bar was the official second bar, and it was here that the driver and passengers (who shall remain nameless) decided to park right over a muddy water hole. As soon as the door rolled up, the mass of people in the back of the U-Haul started pushing the people in the front right into the water. Mass chaos ensued, and much unhappiness was had by all. A couple of people actually left to go change, since they were dripping-wet from the waist down (and not in a good way).
Without a doubt, Friday night was the night to get drunk. And we did. There was a bar somewhere in the middle of our journey where there were strippers. This was where I started seeing people stammering and weaving and falling down. Someone said we had driven all the way to Spring Lake, which made sense, since at least one leg of the trip seemed to consist of quite a bit of driving. On the way back toward town, I noticed people passing out while standing up in the U-Haul. This is always an entertaining sight. Whoever was driving the truck was kind enough to swing by the hotel again, and it was at this point I heard someone say they just sat in puke. There was also an obliterated harriette who was being held up by two chivalrous harriers. She made it into her room, but only with quite a bit of help. It was midnight, and I had been up 20 hours on 4 hours of sleep, so I decided to crash. From what I gathered later, the masses went back to John J’s until around 2 or 3, where people got even more tanked on more beer and Ruby Relaxers.
Flash-forward to mid-morning Saturday. The more motivated drunks were up doing what they do best, as well as helping pass around bags containing items of fast-food goodness. I’d like to point out that this was when the owners of the hotel realized they had made a mistake by letting us stay there. We were all congregating outside, or standing outside our rooms shouting at the congregations. Let’s not forget the hotel employee who was freaking out about the disassembled bed in the hashpotality suite. Other than that dude, there was a lot of positive energy in the parking lot, and it lasted for hours. Sooner or later, the energy made its way to the back lot, and we circled up for trail.
This might be a good time to point out that not everyone made it to the start. There were a couple very hungover people still in bed. Puking was involved, as well as moaning and groaning (and not in a good way). The one or two who made it to circle were shuffling around as if they were auditioning for a zombie flick. And they would have won the part, no problem.
Trail started with road, which morphed into railroad tracks, which turned into a gut-wrenching walk on the ties high above the Cape Fear river. What got us across? The beer stop was on the other side. Everything after the beer stop was shiggilicious, with plenty of forest and hills. The finale was everything between the second beer stop and the end, which was an Arboretum or some other sort of gorgeous area of greenery.
As for circle, I’ll cut right to the chase. The bibbing was phenomenal, and you already know why I feel that way. Unfortunately, a few of you have decided to become worked up and bitter because the five of us (Me, Red Breast, Diddy, Piggy, Dolly Style) ended up with bibs that were practically gunk-proofed by the peanut oil that came straight from the turkey fryer. Well, let me put you fuckers at ease, if I may.
First off, Ass Spelunker dropped year-old milk into the mix. And there was the typical skankified meat and other unkind foods. Spitzer was my bib hostess, and as she held the glorious, dripping piece of black cloth over my cranium, all I could smell is vomit. (Was it the milk, or the combination of everything?) Then, Buck let us have a full splash from the bucket right across our faces. Now, I’ve seen people who have been able to get up and either wash off or wipe up right after their bibbings. But when you have oil all over you, no amout of water is going to help. And all wiping did for us was grind the oil deeper into our pores. It was at this point the simmering turkey smell started taking over, and I could almost see the fumes as we hopped into the back of the truck, on our way back to the hotel.
Cleanup was entertaining, to say the least. First, I tried to get pools of oil and chunks of shit out of my ears, and then tried to get the oily coating off my eyes so I could make the blur go away. Once my senses were restored to full working order, I removed my still-dripping bib and put it between two hotel towels. After a few stomps with my fuming feet, I removed the bib to find something interesting. Do you remember the episode of the Simpsons where Homer tried to gain weight so he could work from home? He knew there was enough fat in his food if he could wipe it across a paper towel and have the towel turn clear. Well, the bath towels soaked up the grease from the outer bands of the bib and turned parts of the white terry cloth into a tamped-down translucent mess. And I’m not kidding… in the middle of this towel outline I could see “CTrH3,” where the bib gave up even more oil. As for me, I soaped-down four times before I was able to feel clean enough to put on clothes. But I still smelled like turkey.
[I’ve had the bib two weeks now, and although there’s not a whole lot of flour or food chunks stuck to it, it’s really starting to smell rancid. I’ve taken it to two hashes, and even ran with it between layers of winter clothes. But even after all that, I can still put the bib down on a piece of cardboard and have the paper soak up oil.]
But wait folks, there’s more. The official Prom was Saturday night at John J’s, where we all gathered, dressed to impress, and knocked down unlimited amounts of PBR. The average amount of drama ensued, including a female-attacking-male fight and a health scare involving a lot of tongues and the transmission of Strep Throat. Drinks were drunk, awards were recieved, Paddy and Bill energetically entertained, and a good time was had by all.
One side note from our time at John J’s: We definitely ironed out the question of whether guys have taints. The answer is… of course they do. Taint the ass, taint the nuts. As Three Ring pointed out, it’s actually GIRLS who don’t have taints. They have Cuzziffits. Cuzziffit wasn’t there, the hole would be THIS BIG. [Add the sound of applause here, please.]
Sunday morning: more electricity in the parking lot, and later, the Fat Boy/Holy Crap I’m Hungover Trail. We of the Atlanta Contingent made it to the start to see everyone off, and then began the longish drive home.
Thanks to everyone who made this the best Prom since the last Prom. And special thanks to our diligent hash scribe, Chef Boy R Dum, for actually posting something of substance. (Yahoo post #5675). Oh yeah, and May the Hash Get a Piece.
# posted by L&F @ 10:15 AM
