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 
