24 October 2006
74. The Oil Can Challenge
Black Sheep H3 - 15 Septembeer to 17 Septembeer 2006
The highlight of this year’s Lake Hartwell campout was actually a multi-hour chunk. We were on trail and under the canopy when it started. First we were stepping on wet, grassy reeds. Then the reeds had a squishy sound from the water underneath them. Then the reeds were totally submerged. That’s when we heard the screaming from the hounds up ahead, and we knew this was going to get nasty. Right then, the canopy cleared out to a full-fledged swamp. The best (worst?) part was the deepest part, when water came up just over my navel. I looked down and saw my whistle and Camelback mouthpiece in the murky, brown mess. Luckily, the footing was OK, because if there would have been shoe-sucking mud under water this deep, we would have been swimming to get across.
I came in right after the FRB’s, and the bimbos were already prepared for the long ride back to camp. They had vehicles waiting for us, and when I came into view, they immediately motioned me toward the first car in line. As soon as my ass hit the seat, we were off. I think I was at the end about 30 seconds. Now that’s service. We got back to camp one carload at a time, most of us going right to the lake to jump in and wash off. This would be one of the rare times that circle came to us.
Bwana announced the Oil Can Challenge in circle, but I immediately dismissed it because I was already getting drunk. So it was just coincidence that I walked back to the house and saw everyone standing around the block of ice, cheering. Two uncomfortable hashers were just pulling their numb asses off the block, looking rather ill. Their times were both around a minute. As they were receiving their shirts, EverQueer walked toward the ice with a look of determination on his face. It was over as soon as it began. 14 seconds and all 25.4 ounces were gone. He actually spent more time puking it all up. He stood with his forearm on a tree, head on his forearm, hurling and dry heaving and giving everyone the finger as they taunted him. But he didn’t get too worked up over it. 14 seconds is 14 seconds, no matter how you look at it.
Two people didn’t make it in 90 seconds, but got shirts anyway. No one complained, since the obvious torture they went through was worth every second. Better still was the people who kept puking and consuming at the same time. They’d get around 5 ounces down and hurl it back up in a stream of white froth. One of the pukers was Surly… Surly Temple… King of the Wild Front Queers. He couldn’t even be bothered to lean over. He just stayed upright and let the puke shoot out of his mouth to the grass in front of his feet. Another few sips and another frothy stream. Boob Teaser, a beer-mile champion, got the non-puke award at 16 seconds.
The surprise of the day came from Hired Snatch. If he isn’t the oldest Sheeper, he sure looks it. He quietly sat down and popped the top, as the pack noticed his unsteady grip on the can. The clock began and that fucker drained every drop in 19 seconds flat. This from the guy who had a diabetic episode last year and almost died on trail. That’s one tough sum’bitch.
The peer pressure chorus got louder each time I turned down a round, until Gentry finally announced he would sponsor me. Well, hey, if someone was going to put their money where my mouth was, how could I refuse?
Oil cans are odd. They are stronger than normal cans, and the larger size gives them more weight. So it feels like you’re drinking from the pull-tab era of the ‘70’s. I pulled my swim trunks down and sat on the frozen block. Déjà vu set in as soon as I took my traditional test sip. Doing this is the same for me every time.
“GO!”
The cheering fades from my ears as my half-minded concentration kicks in. As usual, I get a few ounces down and have to pause briefly as my system comprehends what’s going on. It’s a strange feeling. I think at least some of it has to do with my stomach reluctantly starting to expand. This whole process doesn’t take long, and I start chugging. The last few ounces are always painful, but I know I have to get through it fast because my stomach tells me stuff’s coming back up. I tip the empty can over my cranium, jump off the nice and go to the edge of the circle. But I never puke. I can’t, even if I wanted to; fingers down my throat included. (Now you know why I can’t play tippy cup.) But I give everyone a few seconds of impressive audio with violent belching to get out all the carbonation.
There’s another Challenge in the can. Pun intended. The only thing left to do was to go get my Oil Can Shirt and wait for the buzz to kick in.
As with every year, thank you to Oops and Deposit Slit for opening up your house to us lushes.
May the Hash Get a Piece
The highlight of this year’s Lake Hartwell campout was actually a multi-hour chunk. We were on trail and under the canopy when it started. First we were stepping on wet, grassy reeds. Then the reeds had a squishy sound from the water underneath them. Then the reeds were totally submerged. That’s when we heard the screaming from the hounds up ahead, and we knew this was going to get nasty. Right then, the canopy cleared out to a full-fledged swamp. The best (worst?) part was the deepest part, when water came up just over my navel. I looked down and saw my whistle and Camelback mouthpiece in the murky, brown mess. Luckily, the footing was OK, because if there would have been shoe-sucking mud under water this deep, we would have been swimming to get across.
I came in right after the FRB’s, and the bimbos were already prepared for the long ride back to camp. They had vehicles waiting for us, and when I came into view, they immediately motioned me toward the first car in line. As soon as my ass hit the seat, we were off. I think I was at the end about 30 seconds. Now that’s service. We got back to camp one carload at a time, most of us going right to the lake to jump in and wash off. This would be one of the rare times that circle came to us.
Bwana announced the Oil Can Challenge in circle, but I immediately dismissed it because I was already getting drunk. So it was just coincidence that I walked back to the house and saw everyone standing around the block of ice, cheering. Two uncomfortable hashers were just pulling their numb asses off the block, looking rather ill. Their times were both around a minute. As they were receiving their shirts, EverQueer walked toward the ice with a look of determination on his face. It was over as soon as it began. 14 seconds and all 25.4 ounces were gone. He actually spent more time puking it all up. He stood with his forearm on a tree, head on his forearm, hurling and dry heaving and giving everyone the finger as they taunted him. But he didn’t get too worked up over it. 14 seconds is 14 seconds, no matter how you look at it.
Two people didn’t make it in 90 seconds, but got shirts anyway. No one complained, since the obvious torture they went through was worth every second. Better still was the people who kept puking and consuming at the same time. They’d get around 5 ounces down and hurl it back up in a stream of white froth. One of the pukers was Surly… Surly Temple… King of the Wild Front Queers. He couldn’t even be bothered to lean over. He just stayed upright and let the puke shoot out of his mouth to the grass in front of his feet. Another few sips and another frothy stream. Boob Teaser, a beer-mile champion, got the non-puke award at 16 seconds.
The surprise of the day came from Hired Snatch. If he isn’t the oldest Sheeper, he sure looks it. He quietly sat down and popped the top, as the pack noticed his unsteady grip on the can. The clock began and that fucker drained every drop in 19 seconds flat. This from the guy who had a diabetic episode last year and almost died on trail. That’s one tough sum’bitch.
The peer pressure chorus got louder each time I turned down a round, until Gentry finally announced he would sponsor me. Well, hey, if someone was going to put their money where my mouth was, how could I refuse?
Oil cans are odd. They are stronger than normal cans, and the larger size gives them more weight. So it feels like you’re drinking from the pull-tab era of the ‘70’s. I pulled my swim trunks down and sat on the frozen block. Déjà vu set in as soon as I took my traditional test sip. Doing this is the same for me every time.
“GO!”
The cheering fades from my ears as my half-minded concentration kicks in. As usual, I get a few ounces down and have to pause briefly as my system comprehends what’s going on. It’s a strange feeling. I think at least some of it has to do with my stomach reluctantly starting to expand. This whole process doesn’t take long, and I start chugging. The last few ounces are always painful, but I know I have to get through it fast because my stomach tells me stuff’s coming back up. I tip the empty can over my cranium, jump off the nice and go to the edge of the circle. But I never puke. I can’t, even if I wanted to; fingers down my throat included. (Now you know why I can’t play tippy cup.) But I give everyone a few seconds of impressive audio with violent belching to get out all the carbonation.
There’s another Challenge in the can. Pun intended. The only thing left to do was to go get my Oil Can Shirt and wait for the buzz to kick in.
As with every year, thank you to Oops and Deposit Slit for opening up your house to us lushes.
May the Hash Get a Piece
# posted by L&F @ 7:47 PM 
