13 June 2008
90. The Hedon Shooting Star Hash
Camp Hedon - 23 May 2008
It was a stark and dormy night. The electrical arcs from the Jacob’s Ladder and the intense lightning outside were the only sources of illumination aiding the Drunken Scientist in his latest quest: creating delightful boozish delights for the upcumming Hedon Shooting Star Hash.
Welcum to the Drunken Scientist’s Lair, located at a super-secret location 9.4 miles from the middle of downtown Atlanta. Elevation 969. Yup, that’s 900 plus 69. Exactly a one-mile crawl on ASSfault (and a little dirt) up to the highest point inside the Perimeter: Mount Wilkinson, home of a really old cemetery. The Drunken Scientist’s Lair is where the most-requested shooters are made, and where the most infamous Bib Mix fermented for an entire year before it was dumped on unsuspecting Carolina Trashers.
Lightning, dead people, rancid liquid and lots of liquor. And maybe even a Mwah-Ha-Ha-Ha or two. You feeling the mood here? Good, let’s change it really quick.
Angels sang as gallons of liquid made their way to the 2008 installment of Camp Hedon on Friday evening. The Drunken Scientist (let’s just call him the DS for now) wheelbarrowed all his shit to a campsite, and with the help of his big-boobied companion, had everything situated in less than an hour. But it was already late, so the DS had to hurry and put the finishing touches on his three shots. Luckily, four hashers volunteered to host other stops, and that took a lot of the pressure off.
From what I can remember, the Hash started at 11p at the outdoor kitchen, after the DS made many high-energy laps around camp reminding people of this glorious event. He tried delegating the job of busting up the graham crackers for the Key Lime Pie crust, but unfortunately, the delegatees tried breaking the crackers without taking them out of the wrappers and ground all three packs into dust. Glass half full or half empty? Half full. One less thing to worry about.
Shot cups were passed out from several hired minions and the DS heard a comment that he would hear from separate people at least four more times before midnight: “It’s like herding cats, huh?” Yeah, but that’s to be celebrated when you have more than 100 really drunk people trying to get even more drunk. And let me assure you: seven stops will put some people down.
Head Nurse’s Pink Panty Pulldowns were a great way to start. Vodka, pink lemonade and Sprite Zero. Light, slightly tart and not too sweet. She made the DS so proud when she brought out a test batch the weekend before during the Hedon work party. Research? Excellent. And this big batch was just as good, and there was soooo much more. The pourers had plenty to work with, and were giving out seconds and some thirds.
The DS had his flashing jester hat on, and was finally able to get the needed attention by standing on a cooler and giving his Canadian Goose call an energetic blow. On Out to the second stop. Up to the Tiki Bar for Key Lime Pie. A quality version of Jesus Saves started at the tippy cup tables. The pourers realized it was best just to walk around and catch people who held their cups out. There was about a quart left in one bottle, and a really drunk road whore who shall remain nameless noticed the DS at a cooler full of ice, putting the bottle back in. She was later seen walking around with it, taking swigs and slurring. Yay for booze.
A twist on the Ruby Relaxer was the star of the third stop, held at Dick the Boy Wonder’s tent, because he happened to be camping at the perfect spot on trail. The original Ruby Relaxer comes from TRASHland in Fayetteville, NC. This version started off with a really strong combination of five mango vodkas, mixed until they tasted good. Next came equal parts of Malibu, vodka, pineapple juice and cranberry juice. Another quality song was started here; maybe Yogi Bear, I can’t remember. Turns out pouring and listening are too difficult to do at the same time. At least if you don’t want to spill. I remember seeing someone downing five straight shots. Ohhhh, that’s going to hurt in the morning.
Blue Juice hosted the fourth stop, and he had a new arrival to the Shooting Star lineup: Cherry Bombs. He took a gallon of maraschino cherries and soaked them in rum. It took three calls to get everyone moving from the previous stop, but once they arrived, the cherries went quick. I got reports the next day that this is where several people started blacking out.
On to stop number five. The Jax crew had pitchers of Red Headed Sluts ready for the masses. Jagermeister, peach schnapps and cranberry juice. Some people started bailing out of the hash by the time we moved on from here. But there were still more than 100 people hanging on. The area where Jax was staying is off the long dirt road that comes in from the street. It’s a well-trafficked area, and the next day, I walked by some spots that smelled like vomit. In fact, I recall an anonymous hasher puking in a trash can close by the next morning.
Stop six seemed to be the loudest one. It was held at the front of the house where registration would be the next day. This was the dessert shot, named Costa Rican Crack because it’s so addicting. Costa Rican espresso, chocolate vodka, amaretto, Frangelico and half-and-half to cut the sweetness down. Boobs were coming out, and various people were sucking dessert off them.
The grand finale was Apple Pie, courtesy of Thanks for the Mammaries. If you’ve never done Apple Pie shots, you now have a life goal. Sit in a chair, tilt your cranium back, open your mouth wide and have pourers dump vodka and apple juice into your pie hole. Then comes the squirt of whipped cream and the dash of cinnamon. Shake that cranium, swallow and scream it like you mean it: APPLE PIE! It’s good stuff, and it can get pretty entertaining, especially when the pourers or drinkers start getting naked. One comment on the cinnamon: add superfine sugar and put the mix in salt shakers. Avoid powdered sugar, and especially avoid trying to tap straight cinnamon into someone’s mouth. What doesn’t go up their nose makes the shot taste gritty.
The DS watched hashers slur, stagger and fall. Ah, life’s definitely good. And it’s all thanks to the generous fuckers who donated cash. Without you guys, none of that would have happened. You rock.
May the Hash Get a Piece.
It was a stark and dormy night. The electrical arcs from the Jacob’s Ladder and the intense lightning outside were the only sources of illumination aiding the Drunken Scientist in his latest quest: creating delightful boozish delights for the upcumming Hedon Shooting Star Hash.
Welcum to the Drunken Scientist’s Lair, located at a super-secret location 9.4 miles from the middle of downtown Atlanta. Elevation 969. Yup, that’s 900 plus 69. Exactly a one-mile crawl on ASSfault (and a little dirt) up to the highest point inside the Perimeter: Mount Wilkinson, home of a really old cemetery. The Drunken Scientist’s Lair is where the most-requested shooters are made, and where the most infamous Bib Mix fermented for an entire year before it was dumped on unsuspecting Carolina Trashers.
Lightning, dead people, rancid liquid and lots of liquor. And maybe even a Mwah-Ha-Ha-Ha or two. You feeling the mood here? Good, let’s change it really quick.
Angels sang as gallons of liquid made their way to the 2008 installment of Camp Hedon on Friday evening. The Drunken Scientist (let’s just call him the DS for now) wheelbarrowed all his shit to a campsite, and with the help of his big-boobied companion, had everything situated in less than an hour. But it was already late, so the DS had to hurry and put the finishing touches on his three shots. Luckily, four hashers volunteered to host other stops, and that took a lot of the pressure off.
From what I can remember, the Hash started at 11p at the outdoor kitchen, after the DS made many high-energy laps around camp reminding people of this glorious event. He tried delegating the job of busting up the graham crackers for the Key Lime Pie crust, but unfortunately, the delegatees tried breaking the crackers without taking them out of the wrappers and ground all three packs into dust. Glass half full or half empty? Half full. One less thing to worry about.
Shot cups were passed out from several hired minions and the DS heard a comment that he would hear from separate people at least four more times before midnight: “It’s like herding cats, huh?” Yeah, but that’s to be celebrated when you have more than 100 really drunk people trying to get even more drunk. And let me assure you: seven stops will put some people down.
Head Nurse’s Pink Panty Pulldowns were a great way to start. Vodka, pink lemonade and Sprite Zero. Light, slightly tart and not too sweet. She made the DS so proud when she brought out a test batch the weekend before during the Hedon work party. Research? Excellent. And this big batch was just as good, and there was soooo much more. The pourers had plenty to work with, and were giving out seconds and some thirds.
The DS had his flashing jester hat on, and was finally able to get the needed attention by standing on a cooler and giving his Canadian Goose call an energetic blow. On Out to the second stop. Up to the Tiki Bar for Key Lime Pie. A quality version of Jesus Saves started at the tippy cup tables. The pourers realized it was best just to walk around and catch people who held their cups out. There was about a quart left in one bottle, and a really drunk road whore who shall remain nameless noticed the DS at a cooler full of ice, putting the bottle back in. She was later seen walking around with it, taking swigs and slurring. Yay for booze.
A twist on the Ruby Relaxer was the star of the third stop, held at Dick the Boy Wonder’s tent, because he happened to be camping at the perfect spot on trail. The original Ruby Relaxer comes from TRASHland in Fayetteville, NC. This version started off with a really strong combination of five mango vodkas, mixed until they tasted good. Next came equal parts of Malibu, vodka, pineapple juice and cranberry juice. Another quality song was started here; maybe Yogi Bear, I can’t remember. Turns out pouring and listening are too difficult to do at the same time. At least if you don’t want to spill. I remember seeing someone downing five straight shots. Ohhhh, that’s going to hurt in the morning.
Blue Juice hosted the fourth stop, and he had a new arrival to the Shooting Star lineup: Cherry Bombs. He took a gallon of maraschino cherries and soaked them in rum. It took three calls to get everyone moving from the previous stop, but once they arrived, the cherries went quick. I got reports the next day that this is where several people started blacking out.
On to stop number five. The Jax crew had pitchers of Red Headed Sluts ready for the masses. Jagermeister, peach schnapps and cranberry juice. Some people started bailing out of the hash by the time we moved on from here. But there were still more than 100 people hanging on. The area where Jax was staying is off the long dirt road that comes in from the street. It’s a well-trafficked area, and the next day, I walked by some spots that smelled like vomit. In fact, I recall an anonymous hasher puking in a trash can close by the next morning.
Stop six seemed to be the loudest one. It was held at the front of the house where registration would be the next day. This was the dessert shot, named Costa Rican Crack because it’s so addicting. Costa Rican espresso, chocolate vodka, amaretto, Frangelico and half-and-half to cut the sweetness down. Boobs were coming out, and various people were sucking dessert off them.
The grand finale was Apple Pie, courtesy of Thanks for the Mammaries. If you’ve never done Apple Pie shots, you now have a life goal. Sit in a chair, tilt your cranium back, open your mouth wide and have pourers dump vodka and apple juice into your pie hole. Then comes the squirt of whipped cream and the dash of cinnamon. Shake that cranium, swallow and scream it like you mean it: APPLE PIE! It’s good stuff, and it can get pretty entertaining, especially when the pourers or drinkers start getting naked. One comment on the cinnamon: add superfine sugar and put the mix in salt shakers. Avoid powdered sugar, and especially avoid trying to tap straight cinnamon into someone’s mouth. What doesn’t go up their nose makes the shot taste gritty.
The DS watched hashers slur, stagger and fall. Ah, life’s definitely good. And it’s all thanks to the generous fuckers who donated cash. Without you guys, none of that would have happened. You rock.
May the Hash Get a Piece.
# posted by L&F @ 4:07 PM 
12 June 2008
89. Death March
Black Sheep H3 - 8 March 08
My angel and devil were talking. The devil hangs out on my right shoulder. No, the other right. There you go. The devil chimed in first, as usual:
"Loooooost... go to Blaaack Sheeeeeep. All the Cool Kids are going. Meh."
(My devil says Meh a lot. Some evil verbal tic.)
"Cool Kids? It's supposed to get up to 97 degrees today. That's not COOL. The only people who will be there are the Hardcore Kids."
"But everyone who does Black Sheep is a Cool Kid, hardcore or not. And you know Colonel Clit; he doesn’t do assfault. You puritan tard. Meh. L&F, go. You can doooo iiiiit."
I had to interrupt at this point. They're both so annoying. "Shut up. Both of you. Angel, pack my dry bag. Devil, prepare the chariot. We're going."
Let me fill you in on the heat. The average temperature for March 8 in Roswell, GA is 83 degrees. The record was 94. Notice I said WAS. The temperature for BSH3 #468? Yeah, the angel was right. 97 degrees.
The start was in front of the DSW at Northpoint Mall. A stone’s throw from GA 400. The hares were Colonel Clit and Little Willy. Maybe a dozen hounds and a large number of bimbos gathered at the start trying to figure out what the hares were going to do. A majority of the pack had no doubt… we were going to be subterranean.
Shiggy was so close we smelled it, but it was too far away to use as a toilet. So I had to take a leak in a disturbingly clean and enclosed Verizon trash area. I think I heard the pee sizzling as it hit the pavement.
Fuck, it was hot. And the heat had quite a few hounds deciding they would bimbo. Sani blessed the hares with an abundance of beer at 2:10 and the pack gave chase five minutes later.
We trotted to the back of the mall and immediately found a check. Into a tunnel. It was so much cooler down there, and there were even some light sticks to confirm we weren’t going to wrong way. We made a sharp left turn into a connecting tunnel, continually noticing the manholes with bright light streaming in from the sun directly overhead. A count-back forced us all the way back to the check, and gave the evil hares the HEAD start they had planned for.
True Trail was up a dryish creek bed and through another tunnel under 400. We crossed Westside Parkway and hit a dirt road leading to a construction site and the toughest check of the day. I immediately went straight, running a quarter mile to the far edge of the only piece of ASSfault in the area. No luck, so back I went. We would all try larger and larger circles away from the check, and some of us were getting flummoxed due to the lack of flour and the hot sun frying our brains. We were longing to be back under the canopy. Someone finally picked up trail just past the ASSfault, between 500 and 600 yards away from the check. This was the main reason the hares’ five-mile trail turned into a six-mile trail for many of us, and the oppressive heat in this treeless piece of hell was what jump-started our mental unraveling.
Another problem that almost erased our will to live was an obvious change in hares; at some point we started struggling to find marks. We found out later that most of us had been split into three sub-packs for most of the afternoon, and having three or four people able to spread out to find T.P. was a requirement for continuing our timely forward mobility.
The next two miles had us on a partially overgrown access road and a sewer easement, r*nning in a long semi-circular piece of shiggy separating office complexes. Threading the needle. The highlight here: all the poison ivy. I’ve seen taller batches and thicker batches, but I’ve never seen such a wide expanse with so much PI growing everywhere. I shrugged off that poisonous feeling, knowing that rubbing alcohol has always kept me from getting stricken.
The remainder of trail followed Foe Killer Creek and Big Creek. For a mile and a half, we ran beside the water, inside the water, across the water, or trudged through the muddy or swampy messes nearby. The muddy area was a gorgeous swampy-looking expanse that contained the usual deadfall and sparse trees, but with a carpet of bright greenery at our feet instead of water. The actual skanky liquid came later, and it was here that visiting hasher Alcoholiday from Las Vegas let out a tortured yell. We turned around to find that a hidden tree branch had stabbed him in the upper thigh. From the lack of blood, we determined that he would live, so we trudged on. We needed beer.
The marks suddenly stopped south of Mansell Road, in a thin strip of hamsterland between the creek and 400. We looked for maybe 10 minutes and gave up; busting through a set of briars to gather at the nearby bridge under 400. I still had some energy left, but I was unwilling to look for any more marks. I plopped my happy ass down and called the hares. Turns out a hound had told Little Willy to go re-mark this last bit, so he was out re-marking somewhere, but another hound who just came in was able to give us d'erections: Cross the creek under 400 and head north along a power cut. The end was under the shade of the only clump of trees in the area, near the end of Beaver Creek Road.
I looked around at everyone and realized that my brain was simply not functioning. My Camelback was dry, and for the first time ever, so was my doo-rag. Holy shit, was I that dehydrated? I filled my mug with wonderfully cold beer and drained it, then quickly refilled the mug and drained it again. Chugging three Diet Cokes gave me enough energy to get changed.
A male/female pair of first-timers (I’m horrible with nerd names) came in a few minutes after me, and were in amazingly good spirits considering what we all just went through. They definitely earned their props today, along with everyone else. The FRB’s came in at 2 1/2 hours; DLF’s were 10 minutes shy of three hours.
There was much rejoicing when Sani announced were were all in. Circle started soon after, and we all recapped our long afternoon. As I looked around at all of us, I realized something amazing: Just the day before, a few of us had gone to the Virginia-Highland Summerfest and saw medics wheeling people away who succumbed to the heat just walking from booth to booth. And here we were, doing this much for this long. So thanks to the hares for letting us realize just how hardcore we all are. Definitely another memorable Black Sheep.
Epilogue: I found out later that the trail was supposed to be a mile shorter. Little Willy apparently got turned around in the swamps and added a mile, then ran out of TP. That explains it.
May the Hash Get a Piece… hopefully in an air-conditioned room.
My angel and devil were talking. The devil hangs out on my right shoulder. No, the other right. There you go. The devil chimed in first, as usual:
"Loooooost... go to Blaaack Sheeeeeep. All the Cool Kids are going. Meh."
(My devil says Meh a lot. Some evil verbal tic.)
"Cool Kids? It's supposed to get up to 97 degrees today. That's not COOL. The only people who will be there are the Hardcore Kids."
"But everyone who does Black Sheep is a Cool Kid, hardcore or not. And you know Colonel Clit; he doesn’t do assfault. You puritan tard. Meh. L&F, go. You can doooo iiiiit."
I had to interrupt at this point. They're both so annoying. "Shut up. Both of you. Angel, pack my dry bag. Devil, prepare the chariot. We're going."
Let me fill you in on the heat. The average temperature for March 8 in Roswell, GA is 83 degrees. The record was 94. Notice I said WAS. The temperature for BSH3 #468? Yeah, the angel was right. 97 degrees.
The start was in front of the DSW at Northpoint Mall. A stone’s throw from GA 400. The hares were Colonel Clit and Little Willy. Maybe a dozen hounds and a large number of bimbos gathered at the start trying to figure out what the hares were going to do. A majority of the pack had no doubt… we were going to be subterranean.
Shiggy was so close we smelled it, but it was too far away to use as a toilet. So I had to take a leak in a disturbingly clean and enclosed Verizon trash area. I think I heard the pee sizzling as it hit the pavement.
Fuck, it was hot. And the heat had quite a few hounds deciding they would bimbo. Sani blessed the hares with an abundance of beer at 2:10 and the pack gave chase five minutes later.
We trotted to the back of the mall and immediately found a check. Into a tunnel. It was so much cooler down there, and there were even some light sticks to confirm we weren’t going to wrong way. We made a sharp left turn into a connecting tunnel, continually noticing the manholes with bright light streaming in from the sun directly overhead. A count-back forced us all the way back to the check, and gave the evil hares the HEAD start they had planned for.
True Trail was up a dryish creek bed and through another tunnel under 400. We crossed Westside Parkway and hit a dirt road leading to a construction site and the toughest check of the day. I immediately went straight, running a quarter mile to the far edge of the only piece of ASSfault in the area. No luck, so back I went. We would all try larger and larger circles away from the check, and some of us were getting flummoxed due to the lack of flour and the hot sun frying our brains. We were longing to be back under the canopy. Someone finally picked up trail just past the ASSfault, between 500 and 600 yards away from the check. This was the main reason the hares’ five-mile trail turned into a six-mile trail for many of us, and the oppressive heat in this treeless piece of hell was what jump-started our mental unraveling.
Another problem that almost erased our will to live was an obvious change in hares; at some point we started struggling to find marks. We found out later that most of us had been split into three sub-packs for most of the afternoon, and having three or four people able to spread out to find T.P. was a requirement for continuing our timely forward mobility.
The next two miles had us on a partially overgrown access road and a sewer easement, r*nning in a long semi-circular piece of shiggy separating office complexes. Threading the needle. The highlight here: all the poison ivy. I’ve seen taller batches and thicker batches, but I’ve never seen such a wide expanse with so much PI growing everywhere. I shrugged off that poisonous feeling, knowing that rubbing alcohol has always kept me from getting stricken.
The remainder of trail followed Foe Killer Creek and Big Creek. For a mile and a half, we ran beside the water, inside the water, across the water, or trudged through the muddy or swampy messes nearby. The muddy area was a gorgeous swampy-looking expanse that contained the usual deadfall and sparse trees, but with a carpet of bright greenery at our feet instead of water. The actual skanky liquid came later, and it was here that visiting hasher Alcoholiday from Las Vegas let out a tortured yell. We turned around to find that a hidden tree branch had stabbed him in the upper thigh. From the lack of blood, we determined that he would live, so we trudged on. We needed beer.
The marks suddenly stopped south of Mansell Road, in a thin strip of hamsterland between the creek and 400. We looked for maybe 10 minutes and gave up; busting through a set of briars to gather at the nearby bridge under 400. I still had some energy left, but I was unwilling to look for any more marks. I plopped my happy ass down and called the hares. Turns out a hound had told Little Willy to go re-mark this last bit, so he was out re-marking somewhere, but another hound who just came in was able to give us d'erections: Cross the creek under 400 and head north along a power cut. The end was under the shade of the only clump of trees in the area, near the end of Beaver Creek Road.
I looked around at everyone and realized that my brain was simply not functioning. My Camelback was dry, and for the first time ever, so was my doo-rag. Holy shit, was I that dehydrated? I filled my mug with wonderfully cold beer and drained it, then quickly refilled the mug and drained it again. Chugging three Diet Cokes gave me enough energy to get changed.
A male/female pair of first-timers (I’m horrible with nerd names) came in a few minutes after me, and were in amazingly good spirits considering what we all just went through. They definitely earned their props today, along with everyone else. The FRB’s came in at 2 1/2 hours; DLF’s were 10 minutes shy of three hours.
There was much rejoicing when Sani announced were were all in. Circle started soon after, and we all recapped our long afternoon. As I looked around at all of us, I realized something amazing: Just the day before, a few of us had gone to the Virginia-Highland Summerfest and saw medics wheeling people away who succumbed to the heat just walking from booth to booth. And here we were, doing this much for this long. So thanks to the hares for letting us realize just how hardcore we all are. Definitely another memorable Black Sheep.
Epilogue: I found out later that the trail was supposed to be a mile shorter. Little Willy apparently got turned around in the swamps and added a mile, then ran out of TP. That explains it.
May the Hash Get a Piece… hopefully in an air-conditioned room.
# posted by L&F @ 10:12 PM
