21 July 2007
83. Easements, Paths and French People-Pleasers
What do you get when you cross the Black Sheep Hash with Bastille Day? The ANnuAL Baastard Day, and a flood of French jokes. Surrender your time for a moment to find out what happens when a group of Sheepers gather in Lithonia with white flags waving.
Here’s what happens: we wonder where the hares are. I think it was around 1:50p as we were milling around the parking lot of the Southeast Athletic Complex when someone asked “Hey, where are the hares?” At once, everyone raised up both their hands and shouted, “I GIVE UP! I don’t know!”
Ok, no more awful French jokes.
Foreign Lesion and BWanA were apparently stuck in traffic. They finally took leave of the pack at 2:10. Two minutes later we smelled blood: We actually saw the hares dive into the forest on the other side of the baseball fields.
2 Crabs, our own speedy human bloodhound, sprinted for the snare. But Surly Temple and Burnt Rubber had boxed just right and beat him to it. I think we had been out less than 10 minutes.
We gave the hares five more minutes and continued along some more easements, which gradually pushed us south toward a tunnel we all knew was cumming. To get there, we crossed numerous creeks, either by jumping over them or going across pipes.
This early on, I already realized I would spend the rest of the day as I normally spend every Black Sheep Sunday: constantly passing Cheaper on trail, and constantly watching him get right back ahead of me. At this point, it has become a running joke. Pun intended.
We hit the tunnel under I-20, and from what I can remember, it was dry from the drought. About 500 feet later we hit a new r*nning surface: old golf cart path. Apparently we were in an area that once housed a golf course, but is now full of apartments. I’d have to say, this area was quite fascinating.
We kept going south to a wide creek that allowed us to get our feet fully wet. The hornets loved us. EpiPen anyone?
West now to a long easement, then a largish patch of forest and an apartment complex. A dirt path led us to a parking lot on the east side of Farington Park. Travel time: somewhere around an hour, maybe 3 1/2 miles.
Random facts:
--Some of the harriettes oogled the incredibly fit guys playing soccer on the field next to the On-In. But these gentlemen didn’t drink beer after the game, so we were unsure of their coolness factor.
--Two rare sightings today in the Black Sheep world: Little Sister and Choice of New Penetration, who joined Deposit Slit and made a beeline for the end. Hey, nice to have you. We’ll take your money too.
--The walkers weren’t too far behind the runners, and you can tell the walkers were rather pleased with that.
If you’re not too familiar with the Black Sheep Trail Trial, it is your chance to opine. Either thoughts about trail, or a story about what happened to you during the r*n. Hopefully it doesn’t start with “I got up this morning and it was hard.” Most all the people who had an opinion about the quality of trail were of the happy variety. In fact, the typical hashers who normally have post-swamp frowns were all smiles. The two detractors were GE (who came late and caught up to the rest of the pack in about 5 minues) and Wee Little Bit, who stared at both hares and said “This hash was a lot like a stage of the Tour de France that starts in England: Not genuine.” But that wasn’t even the zinger of the day. That award goes to Coffee Bean. But due to the fact that he was talking smack about another hasher that wasn’t there to defend himself/herself, I can’t repeat it here. Let’s just say that if you want to join in all the low-brow frivolity, get your ass to the trail.
Our fearless leader was tired from haring and had people choose their own songs. And again today, Hired Snatch came in DFL during circle. He was just in time to catch a mug of beer through the hash lottery.
There’s one more story left from the day. How about a post within a post? Here’s a cut and paste from what your humble scribe left on the Trash Board late that night.
A Trash Tale from ATL
So there I was. Drinking at Pine Lake’s 1050th circle yesterday.
A visitor was called up and said her name is Just Ann and that
she’s from Fayetteville, North Carolina. Being that I know a thing
or two about that fine city, I inquired immediately.
Turns out a gent named Beer Slut took his daughter Just Ann to a
couple Trash trails back in 1990 when she was nine years old. She
did some other hashes in her various temporary hometowns across
the cuntree, and she now hashes with the Pecan City H3 in Albany,
Georgia. But she still claims Fayetteville. Smart.
Anyway, after 11 hashes, she still had no name. Surly Temple was
standing there during my drunken interrogation and told her that if she
came to Black Sheep today she would get a name. Not only did she
show up, she represented well.
A certain Trasher wearing his cherished bib held witness to this
magnormous event. Just Ann’s companion Just Henry was there, and
was asked who made him cum. He announced that Just Ann made him
cum, and in fact, she made him cum a lot. So for now on and forever
more, Just Henry will be known as Sir Cumalot. Due to the whole royalty
theme, and the fact that our brains were sufficiently primed with the Hash
BEvERage of Choice, Just Ann will for now on and forever more be known
as Off With Your Dick. Shouts of approval were heard among the pack.
So now you know how a girl who became Trash by Relation finally got her
name after a 17-year wait.
FYYFF’s
If that doesn't warm your precious little heart, you're a soul-less cretin. Drink a couple shots of 90-proof bourbon to recharge your insides and read it again.
Now remember to be good little drinkers and join the flock tomorrow, July 22, when Tastes Like Chicken and perhaps a mystery co-hare give us a great reason to love alternate Sundays. (D’erections hopefully posted later today.)
May the Hash Get a Piece
82. The Choo Choo Hash
So there I was. Drinking. When I realized that I hadn’t been to a
Apparently, if you tell the drunks in
It was hot at the start, in a temperature sort of way. And lots of out-of-towners. In fact, there was more out-of-town hounds than in-town hounds (the locals drank for that later). SB dashed across the parking lot for his 10 minute HEAD-start, while the pack gyrated to “Father Abraham” and a certain Trasher hijacked circle just long enough to belt out “It’s Grandma.” On Out.
For those of you breathlessly following along with Google Maps, we hit
I had pushed really hard to this point, so the swimming was quite difficult. Some of us cramped in the water. Somehow, we all got across to a
A mile of shiggy completed the circle jerk back to the house. Huge piles of deadfall were here, as well as a creek that turned into a warm, stinky, watery mire; either chest-deep or waist-deep, depending on your height. Just before we hit the actual lake, flour took us to
Once everyone was in, circle commenced almost immediately. As was expected, we were “forced” to drink for any number of offenses. Your Humble Scribe consumed for crimes such as being a first-timer, being an out-of-towner, and being an extremely lazy swimmer. Hot dogs and other delights followed, as well as extra beer as a thank-you gift for the travelers. Plans for an on-after campout fizzled, so Pump’tkin and I ended up getting drunk with her wine-loving parental units. The homemade Licor 43 I brought for camp? We drank it at the house. Ha.
Thank you to every warm-blooded being that helped make it an entertaining day.
May the Hash Get a Piece
