18 February 2009
104. Squid Urine
Black Sheep H3 - 15 Febeerary 09
Guess who's on the wagon? Your humble scribe needs to lose 10 pounds so dress clothes fit again. What does that mean for you? An astoundingly inaccurate hash trash that includes not only the normal Scribe Lies, but also a ton of inaccuracies that will leave you wishing I had never learned to type.
Sunday morning started crappy enough: cloudy, dreary and 50. By Sunday afternoon, it was sunny and maybe in the low-to-mid 60's. T-shirt r*nning weather in February. Nice.
The anal joint Black Sheep/Bear Creek hash started at Southwest Hospital and Medical Center, near where Cascade and Fairburn crash into each other. The title of the hospital suggests what quadrant of Atlanta that's in. We pulled in to one of the entrances and were greeted by a group of wild turkeys hanging out near one of the entrances. And they weren't too interested in fleeing at the sight of us. Maybe 10 females surrounded one very happy male, who was sticking out his chest in a display of power, pride and dominance.
20 seconds later, we pulled up to see the hares in the exact same stance. Oh crap. Hash history tells us that Squid Dick and Urine Development are capable of running Darksides, and do so willingly. Not only that, Squid had just volunteered to hare Friday's SoCo hash at the last minute. Did he have something to prove? What kind of torture were we in for? We would soon find out.
On Out. We scampered to the west end of the complex and due south on the other side of a long metal fence, which was keeping us from scaring anyone on the other side. Another little strip of shiggy brought us to Plainville Drive, where we jumped into the woods and hit an oil pipeline.
The second check was the beast. It was where the pipeline crossed an access road at Utoy Creek. First was a YBF to the south, then nothing. Sober, not hung over and still full of energy, I decided to take one for the team and venture east to look for marks. I was a full 3/10 of a mile away, at the top of a ridge on the access road when I heard a whistle to the north, inside the treeline. I looked back toward the check and it was obvious no one but me heard the whistle. I was tempted to jump into the woods and make a beeline toward the sound, but my conscience got the best of me. I ran back to the check, went backwards on trail just a little ways on the pipeline, and hopped into the woods there. East again. Skeptical people followed until the marks appeared. Well, they still followed after they saw marks, but they weren't skeptical anymore.
We crossed Fairburn Rd, some RR tracks and North Utoy Creek to another check. Continuing on forced us to follow TP up a very steep, rocky cliff. This was the first visual treat of the day, and there would be a few more before we were done.
Northward. To a spot where the evil hares decided to practically circle-jerk us, going under Benjamin Mays Rd, then crossing North Utoy Creek two more times, and back to Benjamin Mays Rd by trudging down the side of 285. We hit a crazy hill to get to the side of Mays High School, climbing a lung-busting 75 feet, then gradually back down another 100 feet to a power cut.
This is where things get a little hazy. Easements and some other random goodness brought us to this massive concrete graveyard. There was nothing as high as some of the mountains we've seen on previous trails, but the piles this time around were numerous and stretched for an impressive distance, with undergrowth all around. How freaking long had these things been here?
After two or three more creek crossings, we hit a spot were two sets of railroad tracks converged, and we squeezed between them to an access road, heading due north, next to and slightly below one set of tracks. A huge, ancient metal thing that looked like a giant yard-art cow greeted us as we returned to Utoy Creek. How high was it? 30 feet? It looked like something that maybe once pumped something from the d'erection of the tracks over toward the creek. Plug this in to Google Maps and you can see it from above:
N33 43.775 W84 30.955
But what the hell were those udder-looking things? And why am I asking so many questions? We crossed the creek to a long field of hamsterland to the end, right back to that tough second check, around a half mile from the start. Length of trail: one-half of a 10-mile Darkside. 10 miles divided by 2 hares = 5 miles. Yeah, that's pretty good Hash Math.
There was much drinking thanks to Ballerina, who drove down to the On-In to sell us more beer. Since Pussy Pilot blessed the hares, Bone Hole ran circle, and he had his hands full, trying to control about 50 sufficiently lubed hashers for a longish Trail Trial.
During our chance to opine, we learned one of the first-timers had hashed in Cairo, but had never experienced our type of shiggy before. Turns out desert running and forest running are just slightly different. Imagine that. He attempted to comment on the hamsterland, which he appeared to be fascinated with. He mentioned something about going through it for about 300 meters. Meters? Well, much was said about him trying to confuse us with his scary system of measurement, and he was instantly named 100 Peters. He then decided to continue talking about the hamsterland and how he had to bend over a lot, so he was instantly renamed Bent Over for 100 Peters. Someone suggested he better stop talking before he got more added to his name, because knowing his luck, he would have mentioned something even worse, like having a long, sharp briar scrape across his ass, and he would have been re-renamed Bending Over for 100 Peters Made My Ass Bloody or something equally horrific. And there's no good acronym for all that. Trust me.
Our hares did a great job, strategically connecting memorable pieces of shiggy so we could have plenty to gawk at during our journey to beer. Join us next time when Blue Ball Special and Boner Rooter team up again. These ladies came through last year, and we all expect the same splendid outcum this time around.
May the Hash Get a Piece
Guess who's on the wagon? Your humble scribe needs to lose 10 pounds so dress clothes fit again. What does that mean for you? An astoundingly inaccurate hash trash that includes not only the normal Scribe Lies, but also a ton of inaccuracies that will leave you wishing I had never learned to type.
Sunday morning started crappy enough: cloudy, dreary and 50. By Sunday afternoon, it was sunny and maybe in the low-to-mid 60's. T-shirt r*nning weather in February. Nice.
The anal joint Black Sheep/Bear Creek hash started at Southwest Hospital and Medical Center, near where Cascade and Fairburn crash into each other. The title of the hospital suggests what quadrant of Atlanta that's in. We pulled in to one of the entrances and were greeted by a group of wild turkeys hanging out near one of the entrances. And they weren't too interested in fleeing at the sight of us. Maybe 10 females surrounded one very happy male, who was sticking out his chest in a display of power, pride and dominance.
20 seconds later, we pulled up to see the hares in the exact same stance. Oh crap. Hash history tells us that Squid Dick and Urine Development are capable of running Darksides, and do so willingly. Not only that, Squid had just volunteered to hare Friday's SoCo hash at the last minute. Did he have something to prove? What kind of torture were we in for? We would soon find out.
On Out. We scampered to the west end of the complex and due south on the other side of a long metal fence, which was keeping us from scaring anyone on the other side. Another little strip of shiggy brought us to Plainville Drive, where we jumped into the woods and hit an oil pipeline.
The second check was the beast. It was where the pipeline crossed an access road at Utoy Creek. First was a YBF to the south, then nothing. Sober, not hung over and still full of energy, I decided to take one for the team and venture east to look for marks. I was a full 3/10 of a mile away, at the top of a ridge on the access road when I heard a whistle to the north, inside the treeline. I looked back toward the check and it was obvious no one but me heard the whistle. I was tempted to jump into the woods and make a beeline toward the sound, but my conscience got the best of me. I ran back to the check, went backwards on trail just a little ways on the pipeline, and hopped into the woods there. East again. Skeptical people followed until the marks appeared. Well, they still followed after they saw marks, but they weren't skeptical anymore.
We crossed Fairburn Rd, some RR tracks and North Utoy Creek to another check. Continuing on forced us to follow TP up a very steep, rocky cliff. This was the first visual treat of the day, and there would be a few more before we were done.
Northward. To a spot where the evil hares decided to practically circle-jerk us, going under Benjamin Mays Rd, then crossing North Utoy Creek two more times, and back to Benjamin Mays Rd by trudging down the side of 285. We hit a crazy hill to get to the side of Mays High School, climbing a lung-busting 75 feet, then gradually back down another 100 feet to a power cut.
This is where things get a little hazy. Easements and some other random goodness brought us to this massive concrete graveyard. There was nothing as high as some of the mountains we've seen on previous trails, but the piles this time around were numerous and stretched for an impressive distance, with undergrowth all around. How freaking long had these things been here?
After two or three more creek crossings, we hit a spot were two sets of railroad tracks converged, and we squeezed between them to an access road, heading due north, next to and slightly below one set of tracks. A huge, ancient metal thing that looked like a giant yard-art cow greeted us as we returned to Utoy Creek. How high was it? 30 feet? It looked like something that maybe once pumped something from the d'erection of the tracks over toward the creek. Plug this in to Google Maps and you can see it from above:
N33 43.775 W84 30.955
But what the hell were those udder-looking things? And why am I asking so many questions? We crossed the creek to a long field of hamsterland to the end, right back to that tough second check, around a half mile from the start. Length of trail: one-half of a 10-mile Darkside. 10 miles divided by 2 hares = 5 miles. Yeah, that's pretty good Hash Math.
There was much drinking thanks to Ballerina, who drove down to the On-In to sell us more beer. Since Pussy Pilot blessed the hares, Bone Hole ran circle, and he had his hands full, trying to control about 50 sufficiently lubed hashers for a longish Trail Trial.
During our chance to opine, we learned one of the first-timers had hashed in Cairo, but had never experienced our type of shiggy before. Turns out desert running and forest running are just slightly different. Imagine that. He attempted to comment on the hamsterland, which he appeared to be fascinated with. He mentioned something about going through it for about 300 meters. Meters? Well, much was said about him trying to confuse us with his scary system of measurement, and he was instantly named 100 Peters. He then decided to continue talking about the hamsterland and how he had to bend over a lot, so he was instantly renamed Bent Over for 100 Peters. Someone suggested he better stop talking before he got more added to his name, because knowing his luck, he would have mentioned something even worse, like having a long, sharp briar scrape across his ass, and he would have been re-renamed Bending Over for 100 Peters Made My Ass Bloody or something equally horrific. And there's no good acronym for all that. Trust me.
Our hares did a great job, strategically connecting memorable pieces of shiggy so we could have plenty to gawk at during our journey to beer. Join us next time when Blue Ball Special and Boner Rooter team up again. These ladies came through last year, and we all expect the same splendid outcum this time around.
May the Hash Get a Piece
# posted by L&F @ 4:42 AM 
14 February 2009
103. The Vinings Poo Garden
Slow Old Bastards H3 - 25 January 09
Please humor this undeserving scribe so I may illustrate a point. Imagine yourself walking near your home. Maybe it’s a place you enjoy seeing while you’re out, or it could be the street you use to get back to the delicious beer impatiently waiting for you in the fridge. Either way, it’s a place you hold dear. Now add the following visual:
On the side of this road, maybe next to the sidewalk, you see a young man squatting down. His pants are down around his ankles, and by the look of his twitching legs, you can tell he’s straining quite a bit. He lifts his shirt up to a safe level, and a long, tell-tale log falls to the ground between his legs. A repugnant smell immediately strikes your nose. Once he’s done committing this morbid corn massacre in your area of solace, he stands up with a flourish of his limbs, adjusts his clothes and calmly walks off as if nothing happened. You can’t help but stare in amazement at his steaming man-movement. How could anyone dare do this in public? What an ass wipe.
Is that butt-nugget nastiness seared into your cranium? Good. Because you need the correct visual to fully comprehend how irritated some people get about dog owners who don’t pick up after their furry friends busting ass on public land. If you ever let Fido fire off his keester cruise missles while you’re walking and don’t bother picking them up, what’s the difference between you and the guy exploding his colon cannonballs near your home? Nothing. If you think it’s any different, maybe you’re justifying the difference by convincing yourself that you’re powerless to control your dog’s asstastic anus. While that’s true, you can still control the shittilicious situation: take a bomb bag with you. This craptacular concept is what makes the Vinings Poo Garden so amazing.
To get to this formidable fecal fantasy, go halfway up Mt. Wilkinson Blvd. and down Cumberland Club Dr. The street starts off safely enough… there’s a quaint gazebo on the right, as well as the newish condos which brought about the swift death of one of the best pieces of shiggy in the area. A dryish creek on your left cuts a steep channel between two business complexes, and draws you to that side of the street. As you continue your stroll, you feel like you just went back in time 20 years. The farthest business complex has that aging aura, and you can see where the street ends at an older gated apartment complex.
This is where you first notice the smell; one similar to standing in an overused Porta John without the nostril-saving odor-eliminating chemicals. It’s dizzying. You quickly look for the source and realize it isn’t a source, singular. Try sources, plural. Next to the sidewalk, on the pine straw-covered patch of ground next to the creek, is The Vinings Poo Garden.
It’s like Satan Claus was delivering rectal releases on his satanic sleigh, but his bowel bag exploded over Vinings and scattered doggie logs all over this tiny chunk of land. But there’s one telling difference between that imaginary scenario and the real one: as soon as you lay eyes on this brutally brown wasteland, you are struck by how LONG people have been letting their pooches drop last night’s dinner here. Some of the stool chunks are white and nearly fossilized. Between these Jurassic jewels and the much-nastier new ones, there is every single age of doggie dropping you can imagine. You can actually doo an archaeological experiment here. The craziest part is that the people who are NOT picking all these digestive-tract divots are the ones who live nearby. Some of them even have to walk right by these stench-laden lawn sausages every day on the way back to their apartments. Did it start as a joke? Are these putrid puppy pickles now a piece of community pride? These are the questions that invade your brain as you’re looking at this vast field of feces.
I would have never thought to draw attention to this mass of mess if it hadn’t been for me haring an SOB live and carrying chalk. I passed by the Garden and was hit by that now-familiar fuming fragrance that fights with your olfactory sanity, and realized I had plenty of sidewalk to create a sort of septic scenic view. I was maybe 30 seconds from the On-In, but I saw Hired Snatch walking around the corner. He excitedly yelled something and started running toward me. “WELCOME TO THE VININGS POO GARDEN” I swiftly but clearly wrote in pastel chalk right next to all that toxic hell candy, then sprinted around the corner to the end. And that’s how the hash was introduced to Atlanta’s shrine of shit.
As long as these rover rockets remain, dogs will be tempted to unleash their loads. So I guess the only think I can say is…
To be colontinued.
Please humor this undeserving scribe so I may illustrate a point. Imagine yourself walking near your home. Maybe it’s a place you enjoy seeing while you’re out, or it could be the street you use to get back to the delicious beer impatiently waiting for you in the fridge. Either way, it’s a place you hold dear. Now add the following visual:
On the side of this road, maybe next to the sidewalk, you see a young man squatting down. His pants are down around his ankles, and by the look of his twitching legs, you can tell he’s straining quite a bit. He lifts his shirt up to a safe level, and a long, tell-tale log falls to the ground between his legs. A repugnant smell immediately strikes your nose. Once he’s done committing this morbid corn massacre in your area of solace, he stands up with a flourish of his limbs, adjusts his clothes and calmly walks off as if nothing happened. You can’t help but stare in amazement at his steaming man-movement. How could anyone dare do this in public? What an ass wipe.
Is that butt-nugget nastiness seared into your cranium? Good. Because you need the correct visual to fully comprehend how irritated some people get about dog owners who don’t pick up after their furry friends busting ass on public land. If you ever let Fido fire off his keester cruise missles while you’re walking and don’t bother picking them up, what’s the difference between you and the guy exploding his colon cannonballs near your home? Nothing. If you think it’s any different, maybe you’re justifying the difference by convincing yourself that you’re powerless to control your dog’s asstastic anus. While that’s true, you can still control the shittilicious situation: take a bomb bag with you. This craptacular concept is what makes the Vinings Poo Garden so amazing.
To get to this formidable fecal fantasy, go halfway up Mt. Wilkinson Blvd. and down Cumberland Club Dr. The street starts off safely enough… there’s a quaint gazebo on the right, as well as the newish condos which brought about the swift death of one of the best pieces of shiggy in the area. A dryish creek on your left cuts a steep channel between two business complexes, and draws you to that side of the street. As you continue your stroll, you feel like you just went back in time 20 years. The farthest business complex has that aging aura, and you can see where the street ends at an older gated apartment complex.
This is where you first notice the smell; one similar to standing in an overused Porta John without the nostril-saving odor-eliminating chemicals. It’s dizzying. You quickly look for the source and realize it isn’t a source, singular. Try sources, plural. Next to the sidewalk, on the pine straw-covered patch of ground next to the creek, is The Vinings Poo Garden.
It’s like Satan Claus was delivering rectal releases on his satanic sleigh, but his bowel bag exploded over Vinings and scattered doggie logs all over this tiny chunk of land. But there’s one telling difference between that imaginary scenario and the real one: as soon as you lay eyes on this brutally brown wasteland, you are struck by how LONG people have been letting their pooches drop last night’s dinner here. Some of the stool chunks are white and nearly fossilized. Between these Jurassic jewels and the much-nastier new ones, there is every single age of doggie dropping you can imagine. You can actually doo an archaeological experiment here. The craziest part is that the people who are NOT picking all these digestive-tract divots are the ones who live nearby. Some of them even have to walk right by these stench-laden lawn sausages every day on the way back to their apartments. Did it start as a joke? Are these putrid puppy pickles now a piece of community pride? These are the questions that invade your brain as you’re looking at this vast field of feces.
I would have never thought to draw attention to this mass of mess if it hadn’t been for me haring an SOB live and carrying chalk. I passed by the Garden and was hit by that now-familiar fuming fragrance that fights with your olfactory sanity, and realized I had plenty of sidewalk to create a sort of septic scenic view. I was maybe 30 seconds from the On-In, but I saw Hired Snatch walking around the corner. He excitedly yelled something and started running toward me. “WELCOME TO THE VININGS POO GARDEN” I swiftly but clearly wrote in pastel chalk right next to all that toxic hell candy, then sprinted around the corner to the end. And that’s how the hash was introduced to Atlanta’s shrine of shit.
As long as these rover rockets remain, dogs will be tempted to unleash their loads. So I guess the only think I can say is…
To be colontinued.
# posted by L&F @ 11:24 AM
03 February 2009
102. Roasted Shit
Black Sheep H3 - 1 Febeerary 09
There was once a bird
No bigger than a turd
And he made his home in a hooooole
He paid his cash
And ran the hash
And watched the Super Booowl
Emphasis on “turd.” More on that later.
2 Crabs and Blue Ball Special stepped up to hare our pre-Bowl madness. The start was a mile east of I-85 off Jonesboro Road in Union City/Fairburn at some abandoned shop on Goodson Connector Road. Funny it’s called Goodson Connector, since it actually doesn’t connect with Goodson Road; there is shiggy in the way. Mmmm… shiggy.
On Out.
We immediately hit a large patch of forest behind the building and circled around one of the shopping centers sort-of connected to Shannon Mall. This is where the smell first appeared, but I couldn’t quite place it. It seemed to this half-mind that it was a mixture of roasted chicken and shit. Maybe it was the sewer easement we were on.
Off the easement, we hit a fire road and bordered a creek, heading south toward I-85. There were no sewer caps in sight, but the smell remained… the disturbing smell of roasted shit. The undergrowth was plentiful here, and some of us were getting bloody. Colonel was not having a good day so far. He was either getting pulled down by Basil, or he’d uncharacteristically trip over a log or hidden briar, or he’d lose his cap. Every few minutes, I’d hear him swearing.
Our shoes were first moistened when we leapt into the creek and trotted under the highway. The further we went, the shorter the tunnel got, and the deeper the frigid water got. Halfway through, my feet started hurting, and by the time we got to the other side, I was shrieking like a girly-man, trying to get Bwana and Super Suck to hurry so I could hop up to muddy land. It’s always that first minute or two in wintry water that’s the most painful. Then the numbness sets in. And we would need that numbness for later.
This is where the undergrowth vanished and the lowland began, as the creek became a wide expanse of swamp. Some of it was stagnant muck; other areas looked like a moving floor of water. I fell behind the pack at the longest stretch of swampy fire road I’ve ever seen. Back-to-back areas of visual eye candy appeared, and I slowed down out of sheer awe of the scenery.
A man-made lake was right next to trail, which looked like a 2-foot high beaver dam. Water trickled out of some thin spots and added to the mud downstream. Just ahe*d was a beautiful patch of old-growth forest and the second-to-last check. I spent maybe 10 minutes half-searching for trail and half-looking around at the landscape. This was some sort of plateau. A drop-off to the east led to more dense forest. The drop-off to the southeast led to a long swamp. And a sharp change in d’erection to the south led to a slight rise in elevation. It was here I realized I must be the last of the runners. Except for Wine Ho, who started late and appeared off in the distance, immediately finding trail to the south.
That check solved, we hit the last of the mud at a power cut and hit the last check at Lester Road. Wine Ho disappeared farther down the power cut and didn’t hear my whistle when I finally found true trail through more forest in the other direction.
Blobs of flour and some TP criss-crossed developing housing developments, rising in elevation to a Scenic View (trash at the end of an empty cul-de-sac) and went across Peters Road to what was supposed to be the On In, just west of Green Valley Lake. I was still by myself, and I got there just in time to see all the bimbos ready to pull away. The Po-Po had snared everyone. The cop was still there, his hands on his belt o’ toys that he’d use on us if anyone got crazy. Off we motored, back to the start. The walkers found Wine Ho, and Oops/Deposit Slit got them all back to the start, not too long after the runners arrived.
Circle was at the side of the building. Bone Hole was partially successful in taming the boisterous pack. At trail trial, the hares got “one boob up” from RMB, instead of the typical Black Sheep two, because of the cop. 2 Crabs arose from the ice to expose an amazingly crisp ass print. Also, Boner Rooter got her mug back, downing a full beer, helping her keep her buzz for the 27th straight hour.
Let’s not forget the smell. Turns out we were right next to a Purina Pet Food Plant. Once I found out, the roasted shit suddenly starting smelling like dry dog food. The reason the smell disappeared halfway through trail was because we were no longer upwind.
The On-After was an energetic Super Bowl party, with host Bone Hole and hostess Blue Ball Special offering a fine spread of food.
Thanks to all for a great trail and a great day. Prepare, all you Sheepers, for our next adventure on Febeerary 15th when we once again join forces with BCH3.
May the Hash Get a Piece
There was once a bird
No bigger than a turd
And he made his home in a hooooole
He paid his cash
And ran the hash
And watched the Super Booowl
Emphasis on “turd.” More on that later.
2 Crabs and Blue Ball Special stepped up to hare our pre-Bowl madness. The start was a mile east of I-85 off Jonesboro Road in Union City/Fairburn at some abandoned shop on Goodson Connector Road. Funny it’s called Goodson Connector, since it actually doesn’t connect with Goodson Road; there is shiggy in the way. Mmmm… shiggy.
On Out.
We immediately hit a large patch of forest behind the building and circled around one of the shopping centers sort-of connected to Shannon Mall. This is where the smell first appeared, but I couldn’t quite place it. It seemed to this half-mind that it was a mixture of roasted chicken and shit. Maybe it was the sewer easement we were on.
Off the easement, we hit a fire road and bordered a creek, heading south toward I-85. There were no sewer caps in sight, but the smell remained… the disturbing smell of roasted shit. The undergrowth was plentiful here, and some of us were getting bloody. Colonel was not having a good day so far. He was either getting pulled down by Basil, or he’d uncharacteristically trip over a log or hidden briar, or he’d lose his cap. Every few minutes, I’d hear him swearing.
Our shoes were first moistened when we leapt into the creek and trotted under the highway. The further we went, the shorter the tunnel got, and the deeper the frigid water got. Halfway through, my feet started hurting, and by the time we got to the other side, I was shrieking like a girly-man, trying to get Bwana and Super Suck to hurry so I could hop up to muddy land. It’s always that first minute or two in wintry water that’s the most painful. Then the numbness sets in. And we would need that numbness for later.
This is where the undergrowth vanished and the lowland began, as the creek became a wide expanse of swamp. Some of it was stagnant muck; other areas looked like a moving floor of water. I fell behind the pack at the longest stretch of swampy fire road I’ve ever seen. Back-to-back areas of visual eye candy appeared, and I slowed down out of sheer awe of the scenery.
A man-made lake was right next to trail, which looked like a 2-foot high beaver dam. Water trickled out of some thin spots and added to the mud downstream. Just ahe*d was a beautiful patch of old-growth forest and the second-to-last check. I spent maybe 10 minutes half-searching for trail and half-looking around at the landscape. This was some sort of plateau. A drop-off to the east led to more dense forest. The drop-off to the southeast led to a long swamp. And a sharp change in d’erection to the south led to a slight rise in elevation. It was here I realized I must be the last of the runners. Except for Wine Ho, who started late and appeared off in the distance, immediately finding trail to the south.
That check solved, we hit the last of the mud at a power cut and hit the last check at Lester Road. Wine Ho disappeared farther down the power cut and didn’t hear my whistle when I finally found true trail through more forest in the other direction.
Blobs of flour and some TP criss-crossed developing housing developments, rising in elevation to a Scenic View (trash at the end of an empty cul-de-sac) and went across Peters Road to what was supposed to be the On In, just west of Green Valley Lake. I was still by myself, and I got there just in time to see all the bimbos ready to pull away. The Po-Po had snared everyone. The cop was still there, his hands on his belt o’ toys that he’d use on us if anyone got crazy. Off we motored, back to the start. The walkers found Wine Ho, and Oops/Deposit Slit got them all back to the start, not too long after the runners arrived.
Circle was at the side of the building. Bone Hole was partially successful in taming the boisterous pack. At trail trial, the hares got “one boob up” from RMB, instead of the typical Black Sheep two, because of the cop. 2 Crabs arose from the ice to expose an amazingly crisp ass print. Also, Boner Rooter got her mug back, downing a full beer, helping her keep her buzz for the 27th straight hour.
Let’s not forget the smell. Turns out we were right next to a Purina Pet Food Plant. Once I found out, the roasted shit suddenly starting smelling like dry dog food. The reason the smell disappeared halfway through trail was because we were no longer upwind.
The On-After was an energetic Super Bowl party, with host Bone Hole and hostess Blue Ball Special offering a fine spread of food.
Thanks to all for a great trail and a great day. Prepare, all you Sheepers, for our next adventure on Febeerary 15th when we once again join forces with BCH3.
May the Hash Get a Piece
# posted by L&F @ 11:13 PM
02 February 2009
101. Slow Old Blacksheeper
Slow Old Bastards H3 - 25 January 09
Here's What I Learned at SOB #419
--If you hare with a shedding grass hula skirt on, hounds will collect the shreds and put them in circle.
--Dr. Crotch Rot is a real person, not just an (in)famous legend.
--Surly can do a decent Malaysian Down-Down
--If you bust out with a 3-year-old's birthday cake before circle, all the kids will follow you around like you're the Pied Piper of Food.
--If you don't show up to an SOB for more than a year, you WILL be drinking in circle.
--If you cum to an SOB with your Trash bib, Darkside shirt and Black Sheep pants, you WILL be drinking in circle.
--If you hare an SOB live, some hounds will look at you funny.
--If your name is Hired Snatch and you're chasing a hare with a hula skirt and grass hat, drivers will look at you funny.
--If you hare the week after recovering from bronchitis, even haring SOB can kick your ass.
--Even a sub-3-mile trail with no shiggy can kick some SOB'ers asses.
--If you bring a gallon of shooters to the hash, the hounds will have no problem making them disappear.
--If you bring a remote-controlled plane to the hash, the hounds will have no problem making it disappear in a tree.
--If you bring a remote-controlled plane to the hash, dogs will go berserk.
--If you bring a screaming, flying stuffed monkey to the hash, toddlers and adult children will go berserk.
--The newest attraction in Atlanta: The Vinings Poo Garden.
--If a male hound sees a shiny object, even if it's in the middle of The Vinings Poo Garden, he will pick it up and sniff it. Mmmm... shiny objects.
Things You Might Get Scolded For at a Family-Friendly Hash:
--Showing your ass
--Grabbing boobs... even through clothes
--Singing the unaltered lyrics to Happy Birthday Fuck You
--Talking about body parts that a bathing suit normally covers
--Indulging in self-gratification
--Frolicking in The Vinings Poo Garden
--Farting and pretending that you love it
--Trying to eat birthday cake by sniffing it up your nose
--Experimenting with golden showers
--Eating flour
May the Hash Get a G-Rated Piece
Here's What I Learned at SOB #419
--If you hare with a shedding grass hula skirt on, hounds will collect the shreds and put them in circle.
--Dr. Crotch Rot is a real person, not just an (in)famous legend.
--Surly can do a decent Malaysian Down-Down
--If you bust out with a 3-year-old's birthday cake before circle, all the kids will follow you around like you're the Pied Piper of Food.
--If you don't show up to an SOB for more than a year, you WILL be drinking in circle.
--If you cum to an SOB with your Trash bib, Darkside shirt and Black Sheep pants, you WILL be drinking in circle.
--If you hare an SOB live, some hounds will look at you funny.
--If your name is Hired Snatch and you're chasing a hare with a hula skirt and grass hat, drivers will look at you funny.
--If you hare the week after recovering from bronchitis, even haring SOB can kick your ass.
--Even a sub-3-mile trail with no shiggy can kick some SOB'ers asses.
--If you bring a gallon of shooters to the hash, the hounds will have no problem making them disappear.
--If you bring a remote-controlled plane to the hash, the hounds will have no problem making it disappear in a tree.
--If you bring a remote-controlled plane to the hash, dogs will go berserk.
--If you bring a screaming, flying stuffed monkey to the hash, toddlers and adult children will go berserk.
--The newest attraction in Atlanta: The Vinings Poo Garden.
--If a male hound sees a shiny object, even if it's in the middle of The Vinings Poo Garden, he will pick it up and sniff it. Mmmm... shiny objects.
Things You Might Get Scolded For at a Family-Friendly Hash:
--Showing your ass
--Grabbing boobs... even through clothes
--Singing the unaltered lyrics to Happy Birthday Fuck You
--Talking about body parts that a bathing suit normally covers
--Indulging in self-gratification
--Frolicking in The Vinings Poo Garden
--Farting and pretending that you love it
--Trying to eat birthday cake by sniffing it up your nose
--Experimenting with golden showers
--Eating flour
May the Hash Get a G-Rated Piece
# posted by L&F @ 11:03 PM
