22 July 2008
94. But We're Screaming Inside
Black Sheep H3 - 20 July 08
We pulled up to Welcome All Park and were greeted to 90-degree heat and a near-dead silence from every living thing in the area. The electricity in the air was non existent. Was this a hash? Did we accidentally arrive at the wrong outdoor event? No, there were Sheepers milling about in the shade, pretending to stretch. But it was so quiet. Even the air was overly still.
Chicken came over and handed me two gorgeous Bodum double-hulled rocks glasses. Just because I'm a fan of exceptional design. I belted out a quality "YAY!" that had me almost feeling guilty; sort of like if I had used a bullhorn in a library.
Wee Little Bit and Gentrifuckation were off to the side, whispering about the evilness they were going to throw our way. Then more whispering as the hares gave the bimbos their needed information. Was anyone actually talking at normal level?
The amount of time it took to get everyone circled up can only be described as forever. Pu$$y Pilot blessed the hares, who dashed northward into the heat. The pack shuffled off five minutes later. Note I said "shuffled." Slack Sheep in full effect.
Our first check was at the edge of a ball field, and the point of least resistance through shiggy led to a YBF. I went east and instantly became the DFL when trail was found through some moderate resistance to the west. I was dehydrated before trail even started, and trying to catch up with the slowish hounds was a chore. Ice cold water in the camelback helped a little. I was finally in the middle of the pack when we looked to the left and realized the hares circle-jerked us through the forest. We were almost right back at the start.
Most hashers who know the area will say that trails usually go north out of Welcome All Park, but after our circle jerk we he*ded due south, squeezing between an office complex fence and some briary hamsterland. It wasn’t until we hit the surprisingly cool water of a creek that I started snapping out of my physical coma.
Out of the creek we hit an access road that was almost totally overgrown, and followed blobs of flour through a graveyard and over South Fulton Parkway. This is where the hares presented us with their best idea of the day: Jugs of cold water, iced down in a trash bag. Yes, iced down. Maybe Hired Snatch should have consumed a little extra. More on that later.
We hit a check at some railroad tracks and asked the two nearby office park attendants which way the r*nner ahead of us went. Each of them pointed in a different direction. This was apparently where the hares split up. Wee Little Bit went down the tracks to do the last part of trail, while Gentri kept marking trail to the south.
Second best idea of the day: Taking us through a monstrous concrete graveyard. No joke… literal mountains of concrete pieces. Entire traffic dividers. Huge, thick slabs. And somehow we ended up on top of one of the mountains. The walkers took the winding truck path down, the rest of us tried our luck at following flour down the sheer face. A piece slipped out from under my foot and hurtled right toward PP. My brain tracked the piece in slow motion as I braced for the worst. Luckily, the tumbling slowed and the chunk tapped him on the back. That’s when I decided to stop until no one was directly underneath me. Lesson learned.
Third best idea of the day: The hares found old growth forest, between the creek and Roosevelt Highway. It was a gorgeous area with no undergrowth and plenty of room to stretch out. And there was even more of it on the other side of a wide power cut.
East on Roosevelt and North on Welcome All Road put us at a smaller branch of the bigger power cut. And underneath the closest tower was a massive BN.
The On-In was at a shady access road between the power cut and Welcome All Road, just south of South Fulton Parkway. Everyone was too busy checking for ticks to greet the incoming hounds with shouts of "On In." Yup, more quiet. Gentri had just pulled the third tick off his legs when he got a call from Read My Boobs. Hired was down the street and around the corner, overheated and quite miserable. Wee picked them up and Hired cooled down by consuming cold BEvERages. Bunny Tuna was DFL and in similar shape. She had been stung at least six times by yellowjackets and came in with the chills, then proceeded to amaze everyone by popping two Benadryl and downing a beer without appearing affected at all.
The beer had perked up most of the Sheep by the time circle started. Trail Trial was positive and back to a normal decibel level. Of note was Camel Toe, who was applauded for completing 23 of the 24 Hash Marathon hashes so far, and the clear leader with only 3 more hashes to go. Also, your GM and RA made a certain assless-shorts-wearing hound sit on the block for Swing Low. Isn't that sacrilegious? Well, there was an extra down-down involved, so my vote is sacrilLICIOUS.
A tip of the woolen sheep hat to the motivated hares for piecing together a quality Sunday trail. And thanks to all who came out to play in the heat.
May the Hash Get a Piece
We pulled up to Welcome All Park and were greeted to 90-degree heat and a near-dead silence from every living thing in the area. The electricity in the air was non existent. Was this a hash? Did we accidentally arrive at the wrong outdoor event? No, there were Sheepers milling about in the shade, pretending to stretch. But it was so quiet. Even the air was overly still.
Chicken came over and handed me two gorgeous Bodum double-hulled rocks glasses. Just because I'm a fan of exceptional design. I belted out a quality "YAY!" that had me almost feeling guilty; sort of like if I had used a bullhorn in a library.
Wee Little Bit and Gentrifuckation were off to the side, whispering about the evilness they were going to throw our way. Then more whispering as the hares gave the bimbos their needed information. Was anyone actually talking at normal level?
The amount of time it took to get everyone circled up can only be described as forever. Pu$$y Pilot blessed the hares, who dashed northward into the heat. The pack shuffled off five minutes later. Note I said "shuffled." Slack Sheep in full effect.
Our first check was at the edge of a ball field, and the point of least resistance through shiggy led to a YBF. I went east and instantly became the DFL when trail was found through some moderate resistance to the west. I was dehydrated before trail even started, and trying to catch up with the slowish hounds was a chore. Ice cold water in the camelback helped a little. I was finally in the middle of the pack when we looked to the left and realized the hares circle-jerked us through the forest. We were almost right back at the start.
Most hashers who know the area will say that trails usually go north out of Welcome All Park, but after our circle jerk we he*ded due south, squeezing between an office complex fence and some briary hamsterland. It wasn’t until we hit the surprisingly cool water of a creek that I started snapping out of my physical coma.
Out of the creek we hit an access road that was almost totally overgrown, and followed blobs of flour through a graveyard and over South Fulton Parkway. This is where the hares presented us with their best idea of the day: Jugs of cold water, iced down in a trash bag. Yes, iced down. Maybe Hired Snatch should have consumed a little extra. More on that later.
We hit a check at some railroad tracks and asked the two nearby office park attendants which way the r*nner ahead of us went. Each of them pointed in a different direction. This was apparently where the hares split up. Wee Little Bit went down the tracks to do the last part of trail, while Gentri kept marking trail to the south.
Second best idea of the day: Taking us through a monstrous concrete graveyard. No joke… literal mountains of concrete pieces. Entire traffic dividers. Huge, thick slabs. And somehow we ended up on top of one of the mountains. The walkers took the winding truck path down, the rest of us tried our luck at following flour down the sheer face. A piece slipped out from under my foot and hurtled right toward PP. My brain tracked the piece in slow motion as I braced for the worst. Luckily, the tumbling slowed and the chunk tapped him on the back. That’s when I decided to stop until no one was directly underneath me. Lesson learned.
Third best idea of the day: The hares found old growth forest, between the creek and Roosevelt Highway. It was a gorgeous area with no undergrowth and plenty of room to stretch out. And there was even more of it on the other side of a wide power cut.
East on Roosevelt and North on Welcome All Road put us at a smaller branch of the bigger power cut. And underneath the closest tower was a massive BN.
The On-In was at a shady access road between the power cut and Welcome All Road, just south of South Fulton Parkway. Everyone was too busy checking for ticks to greet the incoming hounds with shouts of "On In." Yup, more quiet. Gentri had just pulled the third tick off his legs when he got a call from Read My Boobs. Hired was down the street and around the corner, overheated and quite miserable. Wee picked them up and Hired cooled down by consuming cold BEvERages. Bunny Tuna was DFL and in similar shape. She had been stung at least six times by yellowjackets and came in with the chills, then proceeded to amaze everyone by popping two Benadryl and downing a beer without appearing affected at all.
The beer had perked up most of the Sheep by the time circle started. Trail Trial was positive and back to a normal decibel level. Of note was Camel Toe, who was applauded for completing 23 of the 24 Hash Marathon hashes so far, and the clear leader with only 3 more hashes to go. Also, your GM and RA made a certain assless-shorts-wearing hound sit on the block for Swing Low. Isn't that sacrilegious? Well, there was an extra down-down involved, so my vote is sacrilLICIOUS.
A tip of the woolen sheep hat to the motivated hares for piecing together a quality Sunday trail. And thanks to all who came out to play in the heat.
May the Hash Get a Piece
# posted by L&F @ 8:15 PM 
19 July 2008
93. The Naked Man
Atlanta Full Moon H3 - 17 July 08
It’s easy to take Peachtree Creek for granted. As creeks go, it’s not that spectacular. It’s not wildly deep and it’s not the most pleasantly fragrant water in metro Atlanta. But it’s a liquid goldmine for hares trying to put together a shiggier hash inside the perimeter.
Red Breast and HoPo were the latest hares to take advantage of Peachtree Creek’s prime location, for Thursday night’s Full Moon hash. And that’s where we saw the naked man.
No one’s positive when the naked man first appeared in the area. In fact, most of us have never seen the guy. All we know is that at some point we started seeing his makeshift home underneath a railroad trestle on Peachtree Creek’s south branch, just north of I-85. The trestle is actually a large concrete bridge, and the underside is curved at the top. If you’re in the creek and look up, you’ll notice a long ledge on each side, stretching the entire length of the bridge. They’re not that far up, but to get on top of them, you have to be on the ends of the bridge where the dirt and rock piles give you a boost; getting to it from the middle is almost impossible.
The naked man’s makeshift home is on the south ledge. On the other side is some sort of colorful mural facing the water. So on one side there’s beauty; on the other side there’s crap. Now, this guy doesn’t have a whole lot of crap, but as far as under-the-overpass-living homeless dudes go, he’s got more junk than most. Blankets, stuff to sit on, a largish igloo cooler, some sort of pads to lay on, and a bunch of little shit that’s hard to focus on while you’re deftly avoiding stuff underfoot, but you can still get the feeling all that crap would come in handy for a such a wayward gentleman. Yes, he has clothes, too. Let’s not forget that part. He just wasn’t wearing them when we came through.
I think only one unfortunate hound saw the man’s cash and prizes. Slim Jim and the Twins. His own personal full moon, if you know what I’m saying. Niplets came around a corner of the creek and noticed the clothesless guy hurriedly trotting out of view. He reappeared while trying to slip on pants and then disappeared again. That’s when Niplets heard something you don’t want to hear when you’re slogging through a creek… the sound of rocks hitting the water and cracking on the exposed boulders. He quickly got to one side and climbed up to the tracks, trying to find the guy by peering through the shiggy. No sign of him. This now-half-naked guy was in some strategic spot hidden from view, somewhere at an elevation between Niplets and more approaching FRB’s. I was among this group, but was far enough back to have no idea who was ahead of me. So when I saw the rocks hitting the water, I initially thought some hound was fucking with us. But the rocks were coming too close. And these weren’t little pebbles. Some of the splashes were getting rather large, and when the projectiles connected with the boulders, the sound echoed through the creek’s entire miniature valley.
One of the rocks landed right near me. I wasn’t panicked, but urgently found it necessary to find out where Mother Nature’s missiles where coming from so I could dodge them if needed. Rocks that big could fuck someone up pretty bad. We had just come from a beer stop at Sweetwater Brewery, and maybe it was the full pint I had just chugged, but I let out a thundering bellow that belies my normally (pleasant?) demeanor:
“IF YOU KEEP THROWING THOSE ROCKS, WHEN I GET UP THERE, I’M GOING TO KILL YOU!”
Knowing I had not laid eyes on the rock-thrower, making such threats was not the best idea. Especially looking back, realizing we might have been dealing with a psychopath. But some psychologists and hostage negotiators will be quick to point out that my exclamation carried some weight. Instead of the more vague “You will be killed” or “You are going to die,” I had yelled in the first person: “I am going to kill you!” Apparently that means business. At least to people who don’t know that my only idea of killing is killing a six pack.
The shower of rocks stopped.
Several of us made it up the slippery kudzu hill to the tracks and looked around. No one. Niplets was gone by then, and my attempt at peering through the shiggy was only partially successful; I was only able to see enough of the creek to know no one else was right behind us.
We all got to the end in one piece, and your humble scribe received a warm down-down for the boisterous Rule 6 violation. So I either drank for stupidity, drank for my creepy Jekyll-and-Hyde outburst, or drank for scaring some poor homeless dude who was simply trying to protect his scant, filthy property.
If I ever become jobless and indigent, I already have my living quarters scoped out. It’s underneath the Paces Ferry bridge at the Chattahoochee River. It’s fabulous unclaimed property, although not nearly as impressive as the ledge the naked guy calls home. Hey, the other ledge is free. I could always crash there. I’d just have to supply our friend with some softer stuff to throw.
My name is Lost and Fucked, and I most solemnly swear that the above information is only partially based on fact.
May the Hash Get a Piece
It’s easy to take Peachtree Creek for granted. As creeks go, it’s not that spectacular. It’s not wildly deep and it’s not the most pleasantly fragrant water in metro Atlanta. But it’s a liquid goldmine for hares trying to put together a shiggier hash inside the perimeter.
Red Breast and HoPo were the latest hares to take advantage of Peachtree Creek’s prime location, for Thursday night’s Full Moon hash. And that’s where we saw the naked man.
No one’s positive when the naked man first appeared in the area. In fact, most of us have never seen the guy. All we know is that at some point we started seeing his makeshift home underneath a railroad trestle on Peachtree Creek’s south branch, just north of I-85. The trestle is actually a large concrete bridge, and the underside is curved at the top. If you’re in the creek and look up, you’ll notice a long ledge on each side, stretching the entire length of the bridge. They’re not that far up, but to get on top of them, you have to be on the ends of the bridge where the dirt and rock piles give you a boost; getting to it from the middle is almost impossible.
The naked man’s makeshift home is on the south ledge. On the other side is some sort of colorful mural facing the water. So on one side there’s beauty; on the other side there’s crap. Now, this guy doesn’t have a whole lot of crap, but as far as under-the-overpass-living homeless dudes go, he’s got more junk than most. Blankets, stuff to sit on, a largish igloo cooler, some sort of pads to lay on, and a bunch of little shit that’s hard to focus on while you’re deftly avoiding stuff underfoot, but you can still get the feeling all that crap would come in handy for a such a wayward gentleman. Yes, he has clothes, too. Let’s not forget that part. He just wasn’t wearing them when we came through.
I think only one unfortunate hound saw the man’s cash and prizes. Slim Jim and the Twins. His own personal full moon, if you know what I’m saying. Niplets came around a corner of the creek and noticed the clothesless guy hurriedly trotting out of view. He reappeared while trying to slip on pants and then disappeared again. That’s when Niplets heard something you don’t want to hear when you’re slogging through a creek… the sound of rocks hitting the water and cracking on the exposed boulders. He quickly got to one side and climbed up to the tracks, trying to find the guy by peering through the shiggy. No sign of him. This now-half-naked guy was in some strategic spot hidden from view, somewhere at an elevation between Niplets and more approaching FRB’s. I was among this group, but was far enough back to have no idea who was ahead of me. So when I saw the rocks hitting the water, I initially thought some hound was fucking with us. But the rocks were coming too close. And these weren’t little pebbles. Some of the splashes were getting rather large, and when the projectiles connected with the boulders, the sound echoed through the creek’s entire miniature valley.
One of the rocks landed right near me. I wasn’t panicked, but urgently found it necessary to find out where Mother Nature’s missiles where coming from so I could dodge them if needed. Rocks that big could fuck someone up pretty bad. We had just come from a beer stop at Sweetwater Brewery, and maybe it was the full pint I had just chugged, but I let out a thundering bellow that belies my normally (pleasant?) demeanor:
“IF YOU KEEP THROWING THOSE ROCKS, WHEN I GET UP THERE, I’M GOING TO KILL YOU!”
Knowing I had not laid eyes on the rock-thrower, making such threats was not the best idea. Especially looking back, realizing we might have been dealing with a psychopath. But some psychologists and hostage negotiators will be quick to point out that my exclamation carried some weight. Instead of the more vague “You will be killed” or “You are going to die,” I had yelled in the first person: “I am going to kill you!” Apparently that means business. At least to people who don’t know that my only idea of killing is killing a six pack.
The shower of rocks stopped.
Several of us made it up the slippery kudzu hill to the tracks and looked around. No one. Niplets was gone by then, and my attempt at peering through the shiggy was only partially successful; I was only able to see enough of the creek to know no one else was right behind us.
We all got to the end in one piece, and your humble scribe received a warm down-down for the boisterous Rule 6 violation. So I either drank for stupidity, drank for my creepy Jekyll-and-Hyde outburst, or drank for scaring some poor homeless dude who was simply trying to protect his scant, filthy property.
If I ever become jobless and indigent, I already have my living quarters scoped out. It’s underneath the Paces Ferry bridge at the Chattahoochee River. It’s fabulous unclaimed property, although not nearly as impressive as the ledge the naked guy calls home. Hey, the other ledge is free. I could always crash there. I’d just have to supply our friend with some softer stuff to throw.
My name is Lost and Fucked, and I most solemnly swear that the above information is only partially based on fact.
May the Hash Get a Piece
# posted by L&F @ 6:46 PM
15 July 2008
92. Slogfest
Black Sheep H3 - 6 July 08
A Southern Comfort hydro-hash on Friday. A long downpour in the middle of Pine Lake on Saturday. Obviously, I didn’t get enough water during the weekend and desperately needed more. We got plenty on Sunday.
Warning… Nerd Alert… Actual facts ahead…
Here’s the deal on all this rain: Atlanta is considered a rather large Urban Heat Island. Fewer trees and all the assfault and all the heat generated from so many people and things that they use creates temperatures that are much higher than in the outlying areas. And Atlanta is in the Humid Suptropical climate zone that typically sees rainy summers anyway. All that extra heat rises and forms clouds, and cooler air is sucked into the area and thunderstorms are created. And don’t think they all have to be late-afternoon storms. They carry over to the morning, too. In fact, it’s 10:30a as I’m writing this and there’s a storm blowing through right now. NASA has even shelled out money to study all this crap.
OK, you can relax. Back to the stuff that’s only partially based on fact.
The first drops of rain hit at 1p, right at the start of Atlanta’s annual Gay Pride parade. It got really dark and the sky opened up. Parade attendees later said the drag queens were in pretty bad shape because of all of their running makeup. As for many of the Black Sheepers, we got caught while motoring to the start; lightning overhead, giant claps of thunder and driving rain pelting our cars while we futilely attempted to see out of our windshields. The wipers never had a chance. Traffic on the interstates and side streets slowed to a crawl as the hares were regrouping at the start, quickly trying to mentally piece together a trail that would keep people from drowning.
Welcome to Baastard Day 2008. Foreign Lesion and Bwana talked amongst themselves while the surprisingly large pack slowly tricked in to the abandoned Toys R Us at South Dekalb Mall, off I-20 and Candler Road. The lightning and sheets of rain kept people in their cars or pushed beside the building. Finally near 2p we got enough of a reprieve for Sani to start taking money and have us all circle up for the on-out.
The rain started falling again just as the hares were receiving their blessing. We waited our five minutes in the downpour and scampered off to the visuals of already-dissolving patches of flour. The first section of our slogfest was under a thick canopy along narrow r*nning paths, and featured a false trail that made me the solid D.F.L. behind a single-file backup of hounds. This wouldn’t do. I slowly started passing everyone by crashing through the thick shiggy on the sides of the paths and leaping over piles of deadfall. By the time we climbed up to the edge of an apartment complex, I was among the FRB’s, and the only thing to show for it was my own idiotic sense of accomplishment and the long, bloody scratches on the underside of my arms.
We were in some fast-moving creek when we found out where the hares split their duties. (Heh, I said doodies.) We were approaching a tunnel when we looked up and saw Foreign up on the overpass, throwing clumps of flour at everyone. We threw verbal barbs at him in response, but they obviously weren’t effective. Even the typical Baastard Day make-fun-of-the-French jabs didn’t phase him. Actually, some of us thought he was there to assure everyone that they wouldn’t die when they dove in to the tunnel. The water rushing in was pretty intense, and the water on the other side was pretty deep, but it was manageable.
The rain ended by the time we hit Bwana’s part, but we were constantly reminded of the storm at every step. Mud, slippery vegetation, hounds falling, powerful bodies of water. My GPS crapped out, so the locations of our travels is unknown. All I know is that it was wet. Very. Wet.
The first rays of sunlight greeted us at the end, and most of the clouds were gone by the time we started circle. This is where we found out that we were treated to a circle jerk somewhere on trail. Apparently, all of us passed the bimbos but were blissfully aware of their location right next to us; all sitting there quietly, partially blocked by a construction dumpster, all snickering at our tunnel vision.
I can’t remember whose Boxer puppy that was, but that dog was one of the cutest ones I’ve seen in a long time. And as a bonus, it didn’t mind we were swearing and throwing out tons of sexual innuendo in its presence. One of the walkers even brought it trail treasure: A 2 1/2-foot hard-plastic Barbie-type doll, complete with a full cranium of matted hair and an extreme lack of orifices. The dog turned it into a giant chew toy while the large group of us humans engaged in an extended Trail Trial. Foreign Lesion got up when it was over and showed us that he can leave a rather distinct ass-print on the ice. Poonshine sat down for some random offense and noted with disdain that the doll didn’t have knees. No services rendered here.
Of note was the hares’ song, which was a quick limerick about Foreign that morphed into three other limericks about three other Black Sheepers. Looks like we’re to a point where we can do an entire circle just singing songs about our own loyal ilk.
Two of our newer members got called up as first-timers even though they did the 97-degree death march a month earlier. Bwana decided that Walt Jizzme and Steady Downward Thrust were still first-timers since he hadn’t seen them before. Yes, he misses a hash once in a while. And when these second-timers complained about the repeated newbie label, Bwana instantly gave them a second down-down for not having sat on a true ice block their first time around. That leads us to today’s lesson: Don’t turn Bwana into a Bitch With An Attitude. You will pay for it one way or another.
Our drought makes these summer thunderstorms rather welcome, even if we have to have a shorter trail once in a while. But a little less water might be nice next time around. You got that, G? Cum see what transpires on July 20th when Wee Little Bit does the honors.
May the Hash Get a Piece
A Southern Comfort hydro-hash on Friday. A long downpour in the middle of Pine Lake on Saturday. Obviously, I didn’t get enough water during the weekend and desperately needed more. We got plenty on Sunday.
Warning… Nerd Alert… Actual facts ahead…
Here’s the deal on all this rain: Atlanta is considered a rather large Urban Heat Island. Fewer trees and all the assfault and all the heat generated from so many people and things that they use creates temperatures that are much higher than in the outlying areas. And Atlanta is in the Humid Suptropical climate zone that typically sees rainy summers anyway. All that extra heat rises and forms clouds, and cooler air is sucked into the area and thunderstorms are created. And don’t think they all have to be late-afternoon storms. They carry over to the morning, too. In fact, it’s 10:30a as I’m writing this and there’s a storm blowing through right now. NASA has even shelled out money to study all this crap.
OK, you can relax. Back to the stuff that’s only partially based on fact.
The first drops of rain hit at 1p, right at the start of Atlanta’s annual Gay Pride parade. It got really dark and the sky opened up. Parade attendees later said the drag queens were in pretty bad shape because of all of their running makeup. As for many of the Black Sheepers, we got caught while motoring to the start; lightning overhead, giant claps of thunder and driving rain pelting our cars while we futilely attempted to see out of our windshields. The wipers never had a chance. Traffic on the interstates and side streets slowed to a crawl as the hares were regrouping at the start, quickly trying to mentally piece together a trail that would keep people from drowning.
Welcome to Baastard Day 2008. Foreign Lesion and Bwana talked amongst themselves while the surprisingly large pack slowly tricked in to the abandoned Toys R Us at South Dekalb Mall, off I-20 and Candler Road. The lightning and sheets of rain kept people in their cars or pushed beside the building. Finally near 2p we got enough of a reprieve for Sani to start taking money and have us all circle up for the on-out.
The rain started falling again just as the hares were receiving their blessing. We waited our five minutes in the downpour and scampered off to the visuals of already-dissolving patches of flour. The first section of our slogfest was under a thick canopy along narrow r*nning paths, and featured a false trail that made me the solid D.F.L. behind a single-file backup of hounds. This wouldn’t do. I slowly started passing everyone by crashing through the thick shiggy on the sides of the paths and leaping over piles of deadfall. By the time we climbed up to the edge of an apartment complex, I was among the FRB’s, and the only thing to show for it was my own idiotic sense of accomplishment and the long, bloody scratches on the underside of my arms.
We were in some fast-moving creek when we found out where the hares split their duties. (Heh, I said doodies.) We were approaching a tunnel when we looked up and saw Foreign up on the overpass, throwing clumps of flour at everyone. We threw verbal barbs at him in response, but they obviously weren’t effective. Even the typical Baastard Day make-fun-of-the-French jabs didn’t phase him. Actually, some of us thought he was there to assure everyone that they wouldn’t die when they dove in to the tunnel. The water rushing in was pretty intense, and the water on the other side was pretty deep, but it was manageable.
The rain ended by the time we hit Bwana’s part, but we were constantly reminded of the storm at every step. Mud, slippery vegetation, hounds falling, powerful bodies of water. My GPS crapped out, so the locations of our travels is unknown. All I know is that it was wet. Very. Wet.
The first rays of sunlight greeted us at the end, and most of the clouds were gone by the time we started circle. This is where we found out that we were treated to a circle jerk somewhere on trail. Apparently, all of us passed the bimbos but were blissfully aware of their location right next to us; all sitting there quietly, partially blocked by a construction dumpster, all snickering at our tunnel vision.
I can’t remember whose Boxer puppy that was, but that dog was one of the cutest ones I’ve seen in a long time. And as a bonus, it didn’t mind we were swearing and throwing out tons of sexual innuendo in its presence. One of the walkers even brought it trail treasure: A 2 1/2-foot hard-plastic Barbie-type doll, complete with a full cranium of matted hair and an extreme lack of orifices. The dog turned it into a giant chew toy while the large group of us humans engaged in an extended Trail Trial. Foreign Lesion got up when it was over and showed us that he can leave a rather distinct ass-print on the ice. Poonshine sat down for some random offense and noted with disdain that the doll didn’t have knees. No services rendered here.
Of note was the hares’ song, which was a quick limerick about Foreign that morphed into three other limericks about three other Black Sheepers. Looks like we’re to a point where we can do an entire circle just singing songs about our own loyal ilk.
Two of our newer members got called up as first-timers even though they did the 97-degree death march a month earlier. Bwana decided that Walt Jizzme and Steady Downward Thrust were still first-timers since he hadn’t seen them before. Yes, he misses a hash once in a while. And when these second-timers complained about the repeated newbie label, Bwana instantly gave them a second down-down for not having sat on a true ice block their first time around. That leads us to today’s lesson: Don’t turn Bwana into a Bitch With An Attitude. You will pay for it one way or another.
Our drought makes these summer thunderstorms rather welcome, even if we have to have a shorter trail once in a while. But a little less water might be nice next time around. You got that, G? Cum see what transpires on July 20th when Wee Little Bit does the honors.
May the Hash Get a Piece
# posted by L&F @ 5:20 PM
91. Where's the TP?
Southern Comfort H3 - 4 July 08
It's difficult to look back on this long weekend and realize that there was stuff I actually missed. My hashing trifuckta started Friday night with Southern Comfort. But I guess the major festivities started with Painful Member on Thursday night and continued on to the Peachtree Pub Crawl Friday morning. Let's not forget the bar on-after and the on-after-after pool party Friday afternoon.
So apparently, hashing three straight days isn't even good enough. Well, fuck it. I've got shit to do.
We gathered under the shadow of I-85, way inside the perimeter for SCH3 #678. I guess it would be where midtown and Buckhead meet. We pulled up to find Runs Down My Leg preparing for his haring duties and other various hounds waiting for the chase. Not surprisingly, most of the pack rolled in relatively late due to the incredible amount of hash hangovers and such. Runs Down shuffled off, claiming he only needed a 30-second h*ad start. I guess the pack didn't believe him, because we still gave him 5 minutes and then didn't really try to hard to leave on time.
We left the Definition 6/Public Storage lot on Monroe and stumbled to Armor Drive to find a check directly under I-85. That led to some shiggy and railroad tracks and more shiggy bordering I-85 and then a golf course. Maybe Ansley Golf Club? Then maybe the south fork of Peachtree Creek?
Notice the question marks. That's because I have no idea where we were and my GPS crapped out. All I know is that our demonic hare decided to take us on an epic hydrohash that had us in the water for maybe an hour. Granted, Read My Boobs and I were DFL's and quite slow this time around, but we weren't too far behind everyone. It was the last set of railroad tracks that finally put the F in Dead Fucking Last.
We got out of the creek and crossed some shiggy to the tracks, where we found two pieces of TP. That's it. Two. The previous pieces of trail had been exceptionally marked, so we knew something was wrong. RMB was looking through shiggy as I ran about a quarter-mile eastward down the racks. Nothing. We met up again, and she went west, while I went east again, hoping to find anything that resembled a mark anywhere along the tracks. I finally called the hare, who assured us that the trail indeed h*aded east, and it must have been the train that blew TP away. Considering that the first two pieces of TP were laying at the edge of the shiggy and not anywhere near the tracks, this probably wasn’t the problem, but it was the only explanation we had at the moment. I hung up and looked for RMB. She was a speck in the distance, and it was getting dark, so it was a dim speck at that. I filled up my lungs and gave my Canadian Goose call two major blasts. We met up near the last mark again and I explained what I had learned.
It was now officially dark enough to start hearing fireworks. We turned around on the tracks and saw them starting at Centennial Olympic Park. We had a perfect view. But we needed to get to beer.
We got underneath the Marta tracks, crossed a creek, hit more non-electrified tracks, crossed a street and saw the On-In. That's when we heard the shouting. It was the pack, looking down at us from the Lindberg Marta Station parking lot, up near the top. Much screaming and cackling was heard by the sufficiently lubed pack, which could have either motivated us to come up and join them, or go the other way and find another group of less verbally abusive drunks to play with. We chose the correct option.
Two hours after we left the start, we grabbed beers and watched the fireworks from our perfect vantage point on the fifth level. And we also found out what happened to trail: some homeless dude saw the TP hanging from the shrubbery next to the tracks and thought he had hit paydirt, pulling maybe 1/2-mile of marks so he could wipe his ass with something besides leaves for a few days. Dane said she even tried to get him to pony up some squares and he refused. She finally coaxed him out of a couple strips so the hounds could try to fill in some more of trail.
With the entire pack together, we decided to go up to the top of the parking deck and were doubly entertained by two sets of fireworks; from the Park, and from Lenox Mall. And the Lenox set was even better. Circle was held back on the fifth level at a section where there were no cars and just a few groups of civilians walking through. One of the highlights was RMB’s boob sister House of Boobs getting the first-timer treatment. If you don’t know what the treatment is, maybe you need to show up so you can get the same special attention.
May the Hash Get a Piece
It's difficult to look back on this long weekend and realize that there was stuff I actually missed. My hashing trifuckta started Friday night with Southern Comfort. But I guess the major festivities started with Painful Member on Thursday night and continued on to the Peachtree Pub Crawl Friday morning. Let's not forget the bar on-after and the on-after-after pool party Friday afternoon.
So apparently, hashing three straight days isn't even good enough. Well, fuck it. I've got shit to do.
We gathered under the shadow of I-85, way inside the perimeter for SCH3 #678. I guess it would be where midtown and Buckhead meet. We pulled up to find Runs Down My Leg preparing for his haring duties and other various hounds waiting for the chase. Not surprisingly, most of the pack rolled in relatively late due to the incredible amount of hash hangovers and such. Runs Down shuffled off, claiming he only needed a 30-second h*ad start. I guess the pack didn't believe him, because we still gave him 5 minutes and then didn't really try to hard to leave on time.
We left the Definition 6/Public Storage lot on Monroe and stumbled to Armor Drive to find a check directly under I-85. That led to some shiggy and railroad tracks and more shiggy bordering I-85 and then a golf course. Maybe Ansley Golf Club? Then maybe the south fork of Peachtree Creek?
Notice the question marks. That's because I have no idea where we were and my GPS crapped out. All I know is that our demonic hare decided to take us on an epic hydrohash that had us in the water for maybe an hour. Granted, Read My Boobs and I were DFL's and quite slow this time around, but we weren't too far behind everyone. It was the last set of railroad tracks that finally put the F in Dead Fucking Last.
We got out of the creek and crossed some shiggy to the tracks, where we found two pieces of TP. That's it. Two. The previous pieces of trail had been exceptionally marked, so we knew something was wrong. RMB was looking through shiggy as I ran about a quarter-mile eastward down the racks. Nothing. We met up again, and she went west, while I went east again, hoping to find anything that resembled a mark anywhere along the tracks. I finally called the hare, who assured us that the trail indeed h*aded east, and it must have been the train that blew TP away. Considering that the first two pieces of TP were laying at the edge of the shiggy and not anywhere near the tracks, this probably wasn’t the problem, but it was the only explanation we had at the moment. I hung up and looked for RMB. She was a speck in the distance, and it was getting dark, so it was a dim speck at that. I filled up my lungs and gave my Canadian Goose call two major blasts. We met up near the last mark again and I explained what I had learned.
It was now officially dark enough to start hearing fireworks. We turned around on the tracks and saw them starting at Centennial Olympic Park. We had a perfect view. But we needed to get to beer.
We got underneath the Marta tracks, crossed a creek, hit more non-electrified tracks, crossed a street and saw the On-In. That's when we heard the shouting. It was the pack, looking down at us from the Lindberg Marta Station parking lot, up near the top. Much screaming and cackling was heard by the sufficiently lubed pack, which could have either motivated us to come up and join them, or go the other way and find another group of less verbally abusive drunks to play with. We chose the correct option.
Two hours after we left the start, we grabbed beers and watched the fireworks from our perfect vantage point on the fifth level. And we also found out what happened to trail: some homeless dude saw the TP hanging from the shrubbery next to the tracks and thought he had hit paydirt, pulling maybe 1/2-mile of marks so he could wipe his ass with something besides leaves for a few days. Dane said she even tried to get him to pony up some squares and he refused. She finally coaxed him out of a couple strips so the hounds could try to fill in some more of trail.
With the entire pack together, we decided to go up to the top of the parking deck and were doubly entertained by two sets of fireworks; from the Park, and from Lenox Mall. And the Lenox set was even better. Circle was held back on the fifth level at a section where there were no cars and just a few groups of civilians walking through. One of the highlights was RMB’s boob sister House of Boobs getting the first-timer treatment. If you don’t know what the treatment is, maybe you need to show up so you can get the same special attention.
May the Hash Get a Piece
# posted by L&F @ 5:04 PM
