15 March 2008
86. Like a Virgin... Hare
Black Sheep H3 - 2 March 08
I stepped out of the car and it hit me; this strange feeling that I rarely experience. I know I haven’t hashed in a while. Maybe it was the excitement of the impending chase. Maybe it was the positive auras of so many snare-thirsty hounds milling about all around me. It was this intense inner awareness. What the hell was it? Some sort of intense mental clarity?
Oh. Sobriety.
Well, shit. We can’t have that now, can we? At least I was able to move past this silly intellectual garbage rather early. One sniff of my hash shoes helped rid my mind of any creepy tranquility. How can dry, crusty shoes smell this bad? I took a huge mouthful of water from my Camelback and took aim, sending a fine spray of water across both shoes to soften them up. With my feet now properly installed, I only had one more challenge: Fight the urge to lay down on my tailgate and take a nap in the warm sun.
Apathy.
Bwana pulling up with the beer helped knock out any remaining bits of laziness. Our hares were the apt female team of Blue Ball Special and Boner Rooter. Miss Rooter had this anxious, pensive stance, as if her virgin Black Sheep lay was causing a little stress. I’ve seen it. I’ve felt it. Many Black Sheepers deal with it right before a trail.
Fear.
We were up 400 off Holcomb Bridge Road and Market Blvd, unbothered by non-hashers in the abandoned parking lot of a Home Depot. We circled up and let the hares go with a promise of doubling our wait time to 10 minutes. While we stood there, we heard rumors that Bone Hole may have just returned from adding a little Foreplay to trail. Bimbos were schooled, dry bags were situated, and then the moment arrived.
On Out.
We dashed west; a beeline toward 400. This was where we met up with the FRB’s, returning from Bone Hole’s massive countback that actually went all the way through a tunnel. So a lot of us put in an entire mile by the time we crossed over 400 on Holcomb Bridge Road. The next mile was a mix of shiggy, assfault and easements as we made our way north, squeezing through the urban maze. After we started HEADing east, we got to the edge of a park and saw a BN, tempting us with the promise of mid-trail brew.
Shenanigans.
From what we learned later, some evil hounds got hold of flour and laid a false mark to get us all excited. But our liquid frustrations were soon forgotten, because at 2.3 miles, our forward motion was slowed by the singular reason many of us showed up in the first place. Swamp. Finally, all the running and the shiggy and the water and the mud all combined to give us what we were craving:
Orgasm.
Our journey back to the east side of 400 was a rocky one, perilously creeping along the huge rocks and slippery dirt, high above the creek below. We hit another swamp and then a power cut, where we looked directly south and spotted a hill. A runner, a biker and a car all disappeared down the other side. But trail went east, into a swamp.
Circle Jerk.
We took the swamp, since your loyal scribe always feels the need to experience any opportunity to get The Boys wet. And yes, the boys were vigorously dampened here. We pulled ourselves out of the swamp to a greenway-type road and the sight of civilians apparently amused at our route. We soiled their pretty road with the dirty water draining from our stanky clothes and gradually made our way to the hill, which led to a greenway parking lot. You’ve gotta love being a grimy hasher, running near annoying joggers who love the sight of themselves while they’re out once a year, swaggering along in their expensive tech duds.
Worthless.
Imagine an oval clock. The dead Home Depot where we started would be 6:30. The end was at 3:00, about a mile from the start, at the parking lot and open area near something under construction off Old Alabama Road. A school, I think. Who gives a shit. I finally had beer. One of the last people who came in was a familiar HNFN gentleman whose nerd name unfortunately escapes me at the moment. Well, he nearly passed out when he came in and had to be resuscitated before circle. I don’t know why that didn’t factor in to his naming, but his hockey shirt and some story about his past made up for it.
Two Minutes for Cross Dressing.
Maybe this is just me, but all the Black Sheep circles I’ve been to over the past year or two have been really entertaining. Lots of quick comments that still don’t disrupt circle and extra-credit frivolity that continually keeps you interested. Wild accusations, Black Sheep panties, licking of the ice, and etcetera. Sweet, sweet etcetera. And let’s not forget two hariettes sitting on the ice with long, black boots on. Why? We learned this when the hares’ song came, sung to the tune of Madonna’s Like a Virgin. Just a sample:
I got cramps
I got damp
I got stuck
In a fucking swamp
And I wish I was
Yeah I wiii-ii-ii--iished I was
A Black Sheep tramp
I was a virgin… HARE
Laying for the very first time
I was a viii-ii-iirgin hare
And I liked it
Snared from behind
Nice. OK, freaks, Two Crabs is doing the honors tomorrow. In the Austell area, with a promise of birthday-boy chicanery. Motor to Legion’s Park and look for hashers pretending to stretch.
May the Hash Get a Piece
I stepped out of the car and it hit me; this strange feeling that I rarely experience. I know I haven’t hashed in a while. Maybe it was the excitement of the impending chase. Maybe it was the positive auras of so many snare-thirsty hounds milling about all around me. It was this intense inner awareness. What the hell was it? Some sort of intense mental clarity?
Oh. Sobriety.
Well, shit. We can’t have that now, can we? At least I was able to move past this silly intellectual garbage rather early. One sniff of my hash shoes helped rid my mind of any creepy tranquility. How can dry, crusty shoes smell this bad? I took a huge mouthful of water from my Camelback and took aim, sending a fine spray of water across both shoes to soften them up. With my feet now properly installed, I only had one more challenge: Fight the urge to lay down on my tailgate and take a nap in the warm sun.
Apathy.
Bwana pulling up with the beer helped knock out any remaining bits of laziness. Our hares were the apt female team of Blue Ball Special and Boner Rooter. Miss Rooter had this anxious, pensive stance, as if her virgin Black Sheep lay was causing a little stress. I’ve seen it. I’ve felt it. Many Black Sheepers deal with it right before a trail.
Fear.
We were up 400 off Holcomb Bridge Road and Market Blvd, unbothered by non-hashers in the abandoned parking lot of a Home Depot. We circled up and let the hares go with a promise of doubling our wait time to 10 minutes. While we stood there, we heard rumors that Bone Hole may have just returned from adding a little Foreplay to trail. Bimbos were schooled, dry bags were situated, and then the moment arrived.
On Out.
We dashed west; a beeline toward 400. This was where we met up with the FRB’s, returning from Bone Hole’s massive countback that actually went all the way through a tunnel. So a lot of us put in an entire mile by the time we crossed over 400 on Holcomb Bridge Road. The next mile was a mix of shiggy, assfault and easements as we made our way north, squeezing through the urban maze. After we started HEADing east, we got to the edge of a park and saw a BN, tempting us with the promise of mid-trail brew.
Shenanigans.
From what we learned later, some evil hounds got hold of flour and laid a false mark to get us all excited. But our liquid frustrations were soon forgotten, because at 2.3 miles, our forward motion was slowed by the singular reason many of us showed up in the first place. Swamp. Finally, all the running and the shiggy and the water and the mud all combined to give us what we were craving:
Orgasm.
Our journey back to the east side of 400 was a rocky one, perilously creeping along the huge rocks and slippery dirt, high above the creek below. We hit another swamp and then a power cut, where we looked directly south and spotted a hill. A runner, a biker and a car all disappeared down the other side. But trail went east, into a swamp.
Circle Jerk.
We took the swamp, since your loyal scribe always feels the need to experience any opportunity to get The Boys wet. And yes, the boys were vigorously dampened here. We pulled ourselves out of the swamp to a greenway-type road and the sight of civilians apparently amused at our route. We soiled their pretty road with the dirty water draining from our stanky clothes and gradually made our way to the hill, which led to a greenway parking lot. You’ve gotta love being a grimy hasher, running near annoying joggers who love the sight of themselves while they’re out once a year, swaggering along in their expensive tech duds.
Worthless.
Imagine an oval clock. The dead Home Depot where we started would be 6:30. The end was at 3:00, about a mile from the start, at the parking lot and open area near something under construction off Old Alabama Road. A school, I think. Who gives a shit. I finally had beer. One of the last people who came in was a familiar HNFN gentleman whose nerd name unfortunately escapes me at the moment. Well, he nearly passed out when he came in and had to be resuscitated before circle. I don’t know why that didn’t factor in to his naming, but his hockey shirt and some story about his past made up for it.
Two Minutes for Cross Dressing.
Maybe this is just me, but all the Black Sheep circles I’ve been to over the past year or two have been really entertaining. Lots of quick comments that still don’t disrupt circle and extra-credit frivolity that continually keeps you interested. Wild accusations, Black Sheep panties, licking of the ice, and etcetera. Sweet, sweet etcetera. And let’s not forget two hariettes sitting on the ice with long, black boots on. Why? We learned this when the hares’ song came, sung to the tune of Madonna’s Like a Virgin. Just a sample:
I got cramps
I got damp
I got stuck
In a fucking swamp
And I wish I was
Yeah I wiii-ii-ii--iished I was
A Black Sheep tramp
I was a virgin… HARE
Laying for the very first time
I was a viii-ii-iirgin hare
And I liked it
Snared from behind
Nice. OK, freaks, Two Crabs is doing the honors tomorrow. In the Austell area, with a promise of birthday-boy chicanery. Motor to Legion’s Park and look for hashers pretending to stretch.
May the Hash Get a Piece
# posted by L&F @ 11:22 AM 
85. Introducing the King
Black Sheep H3 - 6 Jan 08
So there I was. Sober. And looking straight at Elvis Presley, standing in a suburban parking lot. I wouldn't really describe him as the Fat Elvis, but he had the Fat-Elvis clothes on; those white sequiny duds that made him look like the Pillsbury Dough Boy had fallen in a vat of shiny cake decorations.
All of a sudden, we were called to circle to send off the hare, and Elvis started stripping. "Oh God, my eyes," I thought as I got ready to shield myself. But Elvis had hashing clothes on underneath. Huh? Finally, The King removed his glasses and I realized it was only TLS, fooling us all again for the third or fourth year in a row.
You mean I was the only one fooled? Wow, I have to lay off the Mescal.
So there we were, now all on the same page. The hungry pack, counting down the five minutes until we could all chase after Tastes Like Shit on his annual Elvis Birthday Hash. TLS shares a birthday around the same time as The King, which (I'm guessing) is how this yearly debacle began.
Maybe I should mention that we started at Union Hill Park off Winward Parkway, east of 400. Northern shiggy. Someone was actually keeping the right time, which the more spry members of the group thought was worthless, since they said they would instantly snare anyway. Hmmm. Bwana was anxiously taking about swampland to the east. But 400 and some tunnels were to the west. On Out.
Flour had us immediately diving into the forest, heading west. Half the pack was obviously hung over and started following a front-runner who wasn't following flour. Oops. Soon everyone was back on track, only to find a CB at the edge of a parking lot which pretty much had us backtracking right past the start. We were now sprinting west across McGinnis Ferry Rd.
North now, paralleling civilization, which never seemed that far away. But it was slow-going, with deadfall, briars and a bunch of those orange flood barriers. The pack deftly trudged over a series of dry swamps here. Several of us took a wrong turn in a thick patch of forest, and spent a painful amount of time trying to get back to the last mark. True trail took us around a swamp that still had plenty of water in it.
The pace picked up considerably when we turned east again, with a lot of easement and fireroad r*nning. One of the memorable features here was a walk over a very low dam-type concrete wall-thing in a creek. It kept us dry, but only from the calves up. From the ankles down, we were submerged in freezing water that had a lot of hounds screaming. I recall crossing a couple creeks too. We sprinted over or under McFarland Rd, Shiloh Rd, and Old Alpharetta Rd, then paralleled a creek. It was here, near the water fighting undergrowth, that your humble scribe started hearing something about a snare from the front of the pack. Apparently I had caught up with the FRB’s. At mile 4 we hit road, and I quickly caught up with the hare. Energized by the warm weather, a few of us actually beat the hare to the end, thanks to the assfault and the sight of the famous Oops/Deposit Slit truck.
Cums on the Ceiling was our On-In host and once in her back yard, we were greeted to beer, orange food and plenty of space to mingle about. Elvis decorations were plentiful, including posters, a fake Elvis parking sign and a string of tiny paper records circling the umbrella on the deck.
Trail trial was mostly positive, with the only complaints being the mile of road rage at the end, and the insane amount of hair we were forced to see on TLS’s ass. Regarding trail, I had no complaint, knowing that I finally got my shoes wet after 5 straight dry hashes.
There was much licking of the ice this time around, as various people lifted their chilled buttocks off the block. I'd have to say the best story during circle was from Hot Pocket. She detailed her run-in with an Association Bitch, who was whining about people having fun in her general vicinity. HoPo said she was just looking for her cat, but the AssBit countered with, “What about those other 40 people who just passed by?” HoPo described her response with a shrugging gesture, and then made another gesture as she explained what she said when she was back with the pack: She dropped her shorts to expose her cheeks and yelled, “Hey guys, I found my pussy!” I believe she deserves some sort of down-down for that one next time we see her.
Speaking of next time, we have another annual birthday event planned. Little Easy and Gasshole are teaming up once again for our punishment pleasure. See you on the 20th.
May the Hash Get a Piece
So there I was. Sober. And looking straight at Elvis Presley, standing in a suburban parking lot. I wouldn't really describe him as the Fat Elvis, but he had the Fat-Elvis clothes on; those white sequiny duds that made him look like the Pillsbury Dough Boy had fallen in a vat of shiny cake decorations.
All of a sudden, we were called to circle to send off the hare, and Elvis started stripping. "Oh God, my eyes," I thought as I got ready to shield myself. But Elvis had hashing clothes on underneath. Huh? Finally, The King removed his glasses and I realized it was only TLS, fooling us all again for the third or fourth year in a row.
You mean I was the only one fooled? Wow, I have to lay off the Mescal.
So there we were, now all on the same page. The hungry pack, counting down the five minutes until we could all chase after Tastes Like Shit on his annual Elvis Birthday Hash. TLS shares a birthday around the same time as The King, which (I'm guessing) is how this yearly debacle began.
Maybe I should mention that we started at Union Hill Park off Winward Parkway, east of 400. Northern shiggy. Someone was actually keeping the right time, which the more spry members of the group thought was worthless, since they said they would instantly snare anyway. Hmmm. Bwana was anxiously taking about swampland to the east. But 400 and some tunnels were to the west. On Out.
Flour had us immediately diving into the forest, heading west. Half the pack was obviously hung over and started following a front-runner who wasn't following flour. Oops. Soon everyone was back on track, only to find a CB at the edge of a parking lot which pretty much had us backtracking right past the start. We were now sprinting west across McGinnis Ferry Rd.
North now, paralleling civilization, which never seemed that far away. But it was slow-going, with deadfall, briars and a bunch of those orange flood barriers. The pack deftly trudged over a series of dry swamps here. Several of us took a wrong turn in a thick patch of forest, and spent a painful amount of time trying to get back to the last mark. True trail took us around a swamp that still had plenty of water in it.
The pace picked up considerably when we turned east again, with a lot of easement and fireroad r*nning. One of the memorable features here was a walk over a very low dam-type concrete wall-thing in a creek. It kept us dry, but only from the calves up. From the ankles down, we were submerged in freezing water that had a lot of hounds screaming. I recall crossing a couple creeks too. We sprinted over or under McFarland Rd, Shiloh Rd, and Old Alpharetta Rd, then paralleled a creek. It was here, near the water fighting undergrowth, that your humble scribe started hearing something about a snare from the front of the pack. Apparently I had caught up with the FRB’s. At mile 4 we hit road, and I quickly caught up with the hare. Energized by the warm weather, a few of us actually beat the hare to the end, thanks to the assfault and the sight of the famous Oops/Deposit Slit truck.
Cums on the Ceiling was our On-In host and once in her back yard, we were greeted to beer, orange food and plenty of space to mingle about. Elvis decorations were plentiful, including posters, a fake Elvis parking sign and a string of tiny paper records circling the umbrella on the deck.
Trail trial was mostly positive, with the only complaints being the mile of road rage at the end, and the insane amount of hair we were forced to see on TLS’s ass. Regarding trail, I had no complaint, knowing that I finally got my shoes wet after 5 straight dry hashes.
There was much licking of the ice this time around, as various people lifted their chilled buttocks off the block. I'd have to say the best story during circle was from Hot Pocket. She detailed her run-in with an Association Bitch, who was whining about people having fun in her general vicinity. HoPo said she was just looking for her cat, but the AssBit countered with, “What about those other 40 people who just passed by?” HoPo described her response with a shrugging gesture, and then made another gesture as she explained what she said when she was back with the pack: She dropped her shorts to expose her cheeks and yelled, “Hey guys, I found my pussy!” I believe she deserves some sort of down-down for that one next time we see her.
Speaking of next time, we have another annual birthday event planned. Little Easy and Gasshole are teaming up once again for our punishment pleasure. See you on the 20th.
May the Hash Get a Piece
# posted by L&F @ 11:20 AM
