Trashes from Hashes

105. A Test Trail

2011-09-19T17:49:00.002-05:00

Savannah H3 - 17 Septembeer 11

No shit. There I was. Hungover and about ready to puke.

Location: Food Lion in Port Wentworth, outside Savannah, GA. Time: 1:45p. I had just placed the beer stop and had walked up to the pack, gathered in the parking lot. Way too many brain cells were firing, and way too many people were (understandably) asking way too many questions at once. I was minutes away from sprinting away as a live hare, out of town and as unprepared as I've ever been for a trail. If I wanted to be timely, I'd have 15 minutes to pull this all together.

This Savannah H3 trail was a test-run for one of next month's America's Interhash trails, which would be Hog Mountain H3-themed on Saturday... Bear Creek H3-themed on Sunday. Oops and Hugh Heifer had dropped me off four hours earlier, heading off to scout their own AIH Black Sheep trail, intending to drive back to the Food Lion to r*n this one. And son of a bitch, they were among the people waiting for my arrival. Impressive.

In four hours, I had managed to partially rehydrate, get food, find a decent beer stop and scout everything except the last 2 miles of what I understood was a pretty straight-forward strip of woods. Armed at my disposal was a smart phone with a Google Map file that Niplets had sent out. He was among the hares who had scouted the week before, and thankfully, he had drawn out a shockingly accurate estimate of where they had been. I'm telling you... if he didn't use GPS tracks to create those lines over the satellite map, he's a Trail Surgeon.

At the back of the Food Lion is a gigantic open field, just waiting for 100 AIH'ers next month. From that field, you can see an access road. And from that access road, if you look carefully through the woods, you can see cars blowing by on I-95. Any hare would be orgasmic to see such a thing. This access road is what has tied together all of our scouting trips to this point. Last week, Niplets, 4-Inch Hole and Butt Bob had decided to add a partial circle jerk that started at the access road and ended near the Interstate. Brilliant.

What I had done was scout and prelay that circle jerk, unrolling TP while constantly looking at my phone to confirm my d'erection. Now here's the thing: I didn't have a backup map source, so I had to keep my phone sealed in a Ziploc in case I tripped and fell in the muck. Every so often, I'd stop, shoulder the TP, unzip the Ziploc and check the phone. This went on the whole way. I got as far as I could, laid the beer stop, and faced the hounds.

No shit. So there I was, about ready to puke, answering questions in the Food Lion parking lot. Yay, the Gatorade was kicking in and I was feeling better. Bimbo... good to go. Infamous co-hare Lady Gag Gag... ready to sprint. I had even taken care of the virgins that Robin Red Breast had brought along, by giving them a bail-out point from the beer stop, which was mere yards from the access road. Savannahhh mismanagement Red Velvet Vagina and Tequila Tony helped me fill in the blanks as I stumbled through an out-of-town Chalk Talk, and then it was time. On Out, bitches.

Since we started in front of the Food Lion, Lady Gag Gag and I trotted to the left of the building and threw a check, then threw another check at the back, and then threw a third check at the start of the access road where the circle jerk started. At every check, we knew the Savannahhh hounds would demand a titty or two to be released by a harriette, so we giggled (in a very adult way) as we laid all the extra flour. Gag Gag and I then left the hounds to the circle jerk, as we short-cutted to the beer stop and the unlaid portion.

As for the hounds, the circle-jerk started with a dip into some innocent-looking woods. But that quickly morphed into some demanding mud. Turns out, about half of this trail is in an area that floods during rain. Right after a rain, it's much deeper with water and maybe a gator or two. No rain just leads to shoe-sucking mud. Yeah, it was so challenging, I was actually laughing as I was prelaying it. Seriously... imagine some bald asshole, alone in the woods, TP and Ziploc clutched in his right hand, left arm waving around for leverage, body wiggling hard enough to pull a leg out of the muck. Step once more and repeat. Once through the mud, there's a palmetto forest, woods, a clear-cut area, a little more mud, a lot more woods, hamsterland and more woods. All of a sudden, there's a clearing and a power cut. After all those challenges, a little r*nning under the power lines feels perfect.

The power cut doesn't really end. It just changes to a set of gigantic pipes running through the swamp. They're anchored by occasional cement blocks down at the bottom. These pipes are so large, you can easily walk on them... your feet maybe six feet above the swamp. Water birds of all sorts fly away at the sound and sight of you. “Striking” might be a word worthy of the visual as you are walking across this wide clearing, especially when you see “BS” on both of the pipes. Perfect spot for a beer stop.

Looking down at the mud, safely placed on the center concrete blocks, was a garbage bag for the hounds. Inside... beer, water and enough ice to keep things cold. Cell phones came out and pictures were taken of everyone on top of the pipes, hanging out, drinking and chilling. It was a highlight of the trail for a number of hashers. They told me later that a beer stop here next month would be cool, so we figured out how it could work: 1. Have a hare waiting. 2. Have BEvERages waiting along the pipes, on several of the concrete blocks. 3. Have the hare move hounds along the pipes so humans wouldn't get backed up. 4. Drink and continue on trail.

Stepping off the pipes leads to a muddy trek toward I-95, which turns into a rocky way to cross underneath the interstate. Then if the hares bushwack a little of the briars, there is a way to cross under the access road on the other side. Then there's a little more muck, a little jaunt on train tracks and another batch of mud on the other side.

This was an interesting piece of trail that your humble hare would like to focus on. This additional piece of shoe-sucking mud leads to a slightly drier mud, full of cypress knees. The problem with this area was that it's full of high grasses, and stepping with confidence leads to a lot of imbalance issues, as your feet and legs hit multiple invisible cypress knees. At one point, I fell backward in a scene right out of The Matrix, with arms flailing and my ass stopping just centimeters over one exceptionally high cypress knee. With no way to pull myself up, I had to quickly twist and fall into the muck. This is exactly why you religiously bag your cell phone... without that critical piece of technology, a clusterfuck would have ensued.

Clusterfuck-free, Gag Gag and I led the hounds eastward through woods, then beelined north to the end: a large, open field next to a massive, abandoned warehouse. All these woods are pretty easy, and you occasionally run into old, overgrown access roads, running north and south. If you follow any of them, you end up hitting the warehouse. What we found was that by changing up our north/south/east direction, we could vary the trail a bit and keep things from getting boring.

On In was in the open field, just to the east of the assfault at the back of the warehouse. Cars can easily drive onto this area. As for busses or supply vans, they can stop on the assfault, and the bags/coolers of beer are easily moved a short distance to circle.

Speaking of circle, TT and RV did a bang-up job as co-RA's, which shouldn't be surprising if you know them. After an hour-plus of accusasions, violations and songs, when you finally hear “May the hash go in piece,” you are instantly in a happy place that makes you glad you showed up and witnessed a truly entertaining event.

AIH LOGISTICS:

First Hare: Gets to trail on Bus #1, shouting demands and insults. (Remember, the other bus sucks.) Runs entire trail with 5 lbs of flour and 6 rolls of Scott 1000-count TP, relaying trail as necessary to ensure no gaps. Runs with cell phone. RA for circle.

Second Hare: Also has cell phone. Gets to trail on Bus #2, shouting demands and insults. (Remember, the other bus sucks.) Leaves with first hare, but runs up access road from Food Lion, d'erectly to beer stop, waiting for first hare. Carries at least 5 lbs of flour and 3 rolls of Scott 1000-count TP. When the hounds start arriving, first hare leaves to continue confirming trail integrity. Second hare waits for Sweep, then runs trail or does whatever is needed. For bear creek, second hare can sacrifice themselves for a snare, so a hound has to drink malt liquor. Helps with circle, pouring beer and shutting down private parties.

Third Hare: Gets to trail on bus of choosing. Sweeps with cell phone. All cell phones should be sealed in Ziplocs if forward motion is in progress. Helps with circle, pouring beer and shutting down private parties.

Possible other people include a First Aid person and a Utility Van person. I would suggest the First Aid person follows the Second Hare, which could put them within 20 minutes (if r*nning) of any injured wanker, thanks to the circle jerk. Utility Van person could be dropped off at the end to watch bags, if the van driver has to leave. Utility Van person can help with beer pouring.

Beer stop: At least for Bear Creek, we will be doing the beer stop at the pipes, thanks to suggestions before the Savannahhh circle. BUT there will be limited beer, since we want more for the end. We will be making 2 gallons of shooters. Water will also be available. OK, OK, maybe some beer, too.

Beer pouring during circle: I would suggest that hounds keep a full vessel, drinking whatever amount they want for a down-down, which is in line with a lot of hashes around the country. This can be announced on the busses if needed. RA can demand additional down-downs in additional vessels as needed for extra-wanking wankers.

Rain/excess swamp issues: determined the week-of. Decisions to be made Friday, Saturday, Sunday.

TRAIL PARTS, used to tell first-aid person where they're needed:
One: Food Lion area
Two: Muck after access road
Three: Area where fence is seen to the left
Four: Woods where civilization/houses are seen in the distance
Five: Palmettos between houses and clearing
Six: Clearing
Seven: Power cut
Eight: Pipes
Nine: Area between pipes and I-95
Ten: Area between I-95 and train tracks
Eleven: Mud between train tracks and old north/south access roads
Twelve: North/south access roads
Thirteen: Northbound toward end
Fourteen: Out of woods to end

My the Hash Get a Piece

104. Squid Urine

2009-02-18T04:42:00.000-05:00

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

103. The Vinings Poo Garden

2009-02-14T11:24:00.002-05:00

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.

102. Roasted Shit

2009-02-03T23:13:00.004-05:00

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

101. Slow Old Blacksheeper

2009-02-02T23:03:00.002-05:00

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

100. Meh! Damn Kids, Get Off My Lawn

2009-01-17T12:11:00.007-05:00

Since I try to keep negativity out of these shitty hash trashes, most of the stupidity d'erectly below has previously gone unsaid. So for #100, here’s a self-serving, arrogant and condescending look at some of the more unpleasant crap that's been swirling around in my half-mind. This worthless garbage is not worth reading and should be ignored by everyone.

On Complaining and Whining
The good part about hashing is that we can all be ourselves and say what we want. But does that give people the right to be assholes? After you say something negative at a hash, ask yourself this question: “Did my blathering help make the world a better place or just piss someone off?” Every last thought doesn’t have to come spilling out of your mouth. You can be a hasher and still show some restraint. Treat others like you want to be treated. It’s not that difficult.
Irony #1: Beer makes some people complain more. And we lose more Beermeisters to complaining than anything else. I think this is called Biting the Hand that Feeds You.
Irony #2: By complaining about complainers, I myself have become a complainer.

On Other Hashes
You’re frustrated because Hash A doesn’t do what Hash B does, and Hash C just decided to stop doing X, Y and Z. Change is tough. I get it. Quick response: If this stuff really annoys you, you’re not drinking enough. More accurate response: Every hash is different. And just because you think your hash is better, doesn’t mean other groups think so. In fact, somebody probably started a new hash because they hated yours so much. So unless you’re in Mismanagement, take what you can get, or start your own kennel. Good luck. It’s a lot of work.

On Haring
I’m stunned by the number of people who say I’m too anal about the trails I hare. My first haring was a 10-mile Darkside. I scouted for days, went over everything in my brain countless times, ran the trail backwards and forwards. Then on the actual day, I made one mistake and fucked the pack. That’s all it takes. One lousy mistake. This has taught me one important thing: If you can avoid a potential problem, take time to do it. There will be plenty of mistakes that still crop up that are out of your control.
Still want to tell me I’m anal? Sure, go ahead and scout your trail using only Google’s satellite view. Do an all-street trail and prelay it from your car. Blow off the water stop in the middle of your 7-mile summertime death march. But please don’t ignore all the complaints you get at the end of your shitty trail and then criticize me for the way I do things. It makes you look like an immense shithead.
By the way, one of the best things you can do while laying trail is to look behind you every once in a while, to make sure you’re laying enough marks. If you can’t see your last marks looking backward, the pack won’t see your marks as they’re running forward. Then every mark turns into a check.

On Garmin
A GPS? Great for scouting.
The main thing you need to know before you pony up the cash: A GPS is nothing more than an expensive toy. Like any other product with a metric fuckton of features, be ready for one of those features to fail right after the warranty expires. A Garmin repair will run into the triple digits; so sometimes it makes more sense to spend a little more and upgrade.
Garmin products are fantastic, but the web support is atrocious and very few people at retail stores will be able to answer your questions. And when you try to learn anything from the internet, you’ll run into more MISinformation than anything factual.
If you only have $300 to spend, and the GPS unit alone is $299, don’t bother. That’s like buying a DVD player and not having enough money to buy the movies. You need extras like the screen protector, leather case, handlebar mount, or even the $100 street DVD.
Yes, I’m a power-user, but even if you’re not, expect to be frustrated by the crazy amount of time it takes to set everything up. You have to be creative and patient while troubleshooting. Never use Garmin’s toll-free tech support number. Use their local one and you’ll get through a lot faster.
The crappy DVD unlock codes aren’t due to Garmin’s corporate greed. A handful of cartography companies supply the U.S. street maps to everyone, and the company Garmin uses makes the rules regarding usage restrictions. That said, don’t go out and blindly buy extra copies of a map DVD for your extra GPS units. Different DVDs have different restrictions. My street DVD granted two unlock codes for two separate units, and my Topo DVD had no restrictions at all. The huge joke here is that the restrictions aren’t spelled out on the packaging, or online. More work for you.

On the “Blog” Called “The Adventures of Diddy’s Mug”
I realize it’s annoying when you’re moving down the page while following the story, but then have to keep moving back UP the page to get to the next post. The person who was going to build my actual website backed out. Try to wipe away your tears of frustration and move on. I realize there are very few other places out there where you can see human males sticking their dicks into drinking vessels, but I’m sure with 154,738,519,370 porn sites out there, you can find something equally as strange but more organized to gawk at.

On Blogs
This used to be a free website where I posted hash trashes. But apparently I’m not a writer anymore. I’m a “blogger.” Well, maybe I don’t want to be lumped in with a bunch of people who breathlessly run to their computers to share that they love toast, and then repost this fascinating revelation so they can add the new smiley emoticon they just got off the Uber-Official Smiley Emoticon Forum. I’m not lovingly crafting an intimate public diary here, folks. You know I shave my taint, but that’s about it.
Is “smiley emoticon” redundant?

On Poetry
Speaking of intimate public writing, a lot of poetry is personal. It has meaning for you, but it might not have meaning for anyone else. So don’t get upset if you share your randomly structured innermost thoughts with people and they get confused or feign appreciation. If you want to share something that’s meaningful to everyone, flash your genitalia.

On Being a Hasher
There are people who were born to be among us. Some of them find hashing, some of them never do. Then there are hashers who have been among us a very long time, who still don’t do a very good job of it. The calendar doesn’t make you a good hasher. You have to “get it” and embrace the hash mentality. Real hashers don’t lay white powder in front of a police station and then get defensive when they’re called out for it. Real hashers doesn’t say “Well, I was hashing before dirt was created” and expect to get a blow job. And real hashers don’t post nude photos of other hashers online. If you need to use your knowledge of this underground group to feel superior to your non-hasher friends, then you’re not a true hasher. You’re pathetic. Maybe even an immense shithead.

On Drama
Here’s how drama works in the hash: Booze gets consumed and a good time is had by all. Then more booze is consumed and people hook up. Then even more booze is consumed and people start getting obnoxious and jealous and bulletproof. What you end up with is broken property, broken promises and (violins, please) broken hearts. Oh, and cross-pollination. Even when sober, many people don’t handle drama well, and the longer the same people are together in a hash, the longer the soap opera stretches on. If you’re traveling, you might not pick up on the drama right away. But as you return to your favorite out-of-town hash more often, you might even become a player in this little psychological disaster. My sophomoric opinion: there’s no way to stop the drama. All you can do is handle it the best way you know how.

On Communication
Time and time again, I’ve realized that the Holy Grail of Relationships is communication. That includes dealing with friends and that drama shit; not just significant others. And when you think you’ve communicated too much, you’ll still realize later on that you haven’t communicated enough.

On Apologizing
It’s difficult, but an apology goes a long way. In most cases, admitting you’re wrong actually makes you look smarter than if you had kept your mouth shut. I’ll translate that in case it didn’t register: Apologizing = you’re an adult. Not apologizing = you’re a two-year-old who just shit his pants and got caught playing with his boogers with one hand, while stealing cookies out of the secret jar with the other hand. And all he can do is run away and cry, trying to hide in a corner, tears flowing and nose running. Hey, more snot to play with.

On Traditions
I know your hash has traditions, but please try to go with the flow. The most hated hasher I’ve ever run across lives thousands of miles from me. He’s an old-timer who has clung to the concept of blowing an extremely loud whistle at each and every mark, and the look of concentration and determination in his eyes is a mix of disturbing and fascinating. R*nning next to him on trail is a near-unfathomable level of annoying. EVERYONE hates this guy. Maybe if he took off his blinders and took cues from others around him, or paid attention to how he was being treated, he’d understand that the hash is bigger than his stubbornness, and he should give up his dream of forcing everyone to conform to the little nirvana he’s created inside his withered little brain. If he woke up and smelled the flowers, maybe he’d notice the two butterflies fucking on one of the petals.
Moral: watching butterfly porn is more enjoyable than your incessant, ear-splitting tradition.

On Government
I know people who love to complain about how things are run. Maybe there’s a New York law banning a certain type of artery-clogging fat, or there’s a San Francisco initiative banning outdoor smoking. Maybe the country allows illegal immigrants to cross our borders, or has burned through trillions of dollars on a war. It’s good to be aware that these things are happening, so you can have a perspective on where you live, but being bitter is going to do you no good. It’s sort of like the old-timer with the annoying whistle who doesn’t realize the hash has grown beyond his influence. Look at the country as a giant hamster wheel with 305 million of us on it. With or without you, the wheel is going to keep moving. You’re just wasting energy being annoyed at things you can’t control. It’s like building a billion-dollar energy-generating wind turbine and then not plugging it into the power grid. Want to make a real difference? Vote. Write to a senator. Start a website to educate people. Or if you want to truly be effective, start focusing on some positive aspects of your life and build on those instead. This way, when I talk to you, you’ll have something interesting to say, and I won’t feel like gouging my eyes out with a spork.

On America
You have to drive across the country to fully understand how large it is. Flying won’t do the trick. Put it this way: The U.S. is almost the same size as Europe. Our pals over in Great Britain live in a country smaller than Oregon. If it takes you 15 minutes to walk a mile, and you could walk 8 hours a day, it would take you 3 1/2 months to walk from one corner of America to the other.
And like I mentioned earlier, there are currently about 305 million people living here. One way to think about that: Hold a dollar in your hand. It’s about 1 gram. Now multiply that by 305 million, and suddenly you’ve exceeded the maximum weight that 8 tractor trailers can haul.
Line up 305 million people where each person only gets a 2-foot space to squeeze in to, and the line would wrap around the equator 4 1/2 times. To get everyone lined up from Los Angeles to New York, you’d have to have your line, and 40 identical lines next to you, all the way across the country. With numbers this big, even the perspective is difficult to grasp.

On Truckers
Truckers understand the size of America. With that understanding comes the realization that the huge metropolis where you live is still pretty insignificant. So when they come driving through, they hate us for cutting them off as much as we hate them for clogging our roads. To many people who drive long distances, a busy city is a relative speed bump; nothing more than a fly that won’t stop bothering you for an hour. You might think of your stretch of interstate as your own personal roadway, but in reality, you’re only borrowing the space between a few exits. Interstate 10 isn’t just a way to get from west Jacksonville, Florida to downtown… it’s a 2,500-mile beast that cuts through forests, over rivers and across a giant desert all the way to Santa Monica, California. And without truckers, there would be very little for us to buy at those convenient things called “stores.” Trucks get our shit from the train stations, docks, warehouses and fields. And some of them even deliver shit right to our doorstep.

On Babies
I have a humble request. When I zone out over a shiny object, please refrain from making fun of me because I describe it was “the coolest thing ever” That way, I won’t have to call you out for saying “Oooohhhh, (s)he’s the cutest baby I’ve ever seen.” Your baby hyperbole is tiring. Practically every single pooping machine is cute when they’re not crying. The words “baby” and “cute” are practically synonyms.
And this is why I’ll be the last person to flock around your child and start cooing. Babies: Seen ‘em. Congratulations on your bundle of joy, and I’ll be there for you when you need a Bad Uncle so you can have a few minutes of quiet bliss; just don’t expect me to talk baby talk. Because I’m not going to be responsible for your rug rat’s developmental problems.

On Furry Animals
Do you kill insects? You wish the rats in your basement would die a horrible death? If you answered “yes” to either of those, I have a third question for you… How would you feel if your neighbor made it a habit of shooting and killing squirrels or stray cats?
If that murderous scenario makes you cringe, you might be valuing life based on cuteness. A squirrel is a rat with a furry tail and a penchant for precious eating habits. Both rodents have a heartbeat and feel pain.
No, I’m not a member of PETA. I just hate squirrels. And furry cuteness.

On TV
You go through withdrawals for a couple weeks if you cancel your cable/dish account. But I’m telling you, turning off the television is the second-best decision I’ve ever made, right behind finding the hash.

On News
Even if you don’t watch the news, I’m assuming you still talk to people, so you’ve probably gathered that most news is negative. Local news leads you to believe that people are getting shot and killed faster than we can breed them into existence. National news leads you to believe that every female teacher is out for sex with her male students. That’s because the news doesn’t have time to give you the necessary perspective. They have an hour to tell you what’s going on, and the grab-bag of stories comes from this gigantic country of ours.
In 2008, a toddler named Caylee Anthony grabbed the nation’s attention when the media found out it took her mother a month to report her missing. And that was just the beginning of the real-life soap opera that gradually unfolded. It didn’t take long for the news networks to realize that they got a ratings spike every time they reported on it. Notice I didn’t say that the media force-fed us the daily Caylee updates. No matter what you believe, the news is a push-pull business, and the proof is ratings. Happy news doesn’t keep a network afloat.
Try to fill an hour with happy news. To boil it down, you’d have two choices: you can show pictures of bunnies and kittens, or show people overcoming adversity. To highlight the doctor fighting cancer, you still have to talk about cancer. To focus on the soldier who learned to walk again after his crippling injury, you still have to talk about the injury and the war, to prove how brave he is. This all goes back to what makes a story an actual story, and you can learn it in any creative-writing class: Conflict. Without conflict, there is no story, and conflict is not always flowers, sunshine and copulating butterflies.

On Laws and Lawsuits
One big piece of the American hamster wheel is the legal system. We’re flooded with news of stupid lawsuits and soundbites of blustering lawmakers grandstanding on Capitol Hill. There’s one thing to keep in mind: when you see a story about an insane lawsuit or arrest, you’re not always witnessing an example of a system that’s broken; you could be witnessing a system at work.
A great example of this is high school girls getting naked and sending cell-phone pictures of themselves to teenage boys. Some of these teenagers are getting arrested and charged with having or distributing child porn. Many people would find it insane that the system would take a law meant to protect kids from old perverts and use it to bust hormonal kids getting photos of their same-age girlfriends. This isn’t child porn, it’s peer porn. But two factors are at work here: 1) Technology is always one step ahead of the law and 2) teenagers are dealing with uncharted territory when it comes to that technology. Teenagers a generation ago wouldn’t have collected their naked pictures, printed 1,000 copies of a magazine and distributed them to everyone at school. But now, kids have the power to do the same thing with a couple clicks of a cell phone. The boyfriend sends the pic to his friends, his friends send it along, and all of a sudden, peer porn gets into the hands of that old pervert. Tada. Child porn. A bunch of kids get convicted, and one fights the charge. He wins and sets precedent for everyone else. So then lawmakers are forced to rewrite a law or create a new one to stem this new way of distributing naked photos of young girls. Is the system to blame because some fuckstick couldn’t keep the naked picture of his girlfriend to himself? Thanks, asshole. You ruined it for the rest of us.

On Studies and Trends
Here are two things I won’t defend news on. If two similar events happen anywhere, it’s not a “coincidence,” it’s “an alarming trend.” Two people get busted for pot at a Jimmy Buffett concert and suddenly pot smoking is an “alarming new trend.”
Also, every study is treated as gospel. If a couple of researchers worked with a couple of rats and found that they walked through a maze faster after sipping an extremely concentrated form of blueberry extract, by the time it gets to the anchor’s mouth, Blueberries Make You Smarter. Nevermind that a human would have to eat 600 pounds of blueberries to get the same result.
This is also why Chocolate is Good for You. What those chocolate studies really said was Hey, Something in Chocolate isn’t Incredibly Bad for You and You Can Get the Same Results By Eating a Lettuce Leaf. But that’s not sexy. I’m not saying it’s always the fault of news. When you have a tiny study, and it’s released to a medical journal, it’s still not fit for human consumption. Some place like the Associated Press distills it down and throws a catchy lead on it, then the people in news get it, easily misinterpret it themselves, and by the time it’s down to the necessary 30 seconds, all the caveats are thrown out the window. I’m talking about acknowledgement that the study was very small, or that the questionable study was only released in hopes other, actually accurate studies would follow.

Myths, Fakes and Scares
Every shithead on the planet now has access to a camera, Photoshop, a webpage and e-mail. ANYONE can lie. Did you get a forwarded e-mail in your inbox about a five-legged donkey with no anus? Actually, that one was true, but consider the rest of your forwards false until you’ve seen it somewhere reputable or at least checked snopes.com.
I’ve started lumping these fakes into the same category as scares. It all boils down to an amazing lack of common sense and a wild overabundance of gullibility.
Is there a miracle way to make gobs of money from home? Unlikely. Poke around on the internet for a few minutes and you can find tons of articles on money-from-home scams. It’s frightening. Want money? Just spend less than you earn. Sorry lottery players, there is no easy way.
So is there an easy way to lose weight while eating cookies? Everyone knows the answer is “no,” but so many people still try because everyone’s looking for an easy way out. And all the diet books out there are playing into that desire. Embrace a high-protein diet? Sure. Because eating fruit, vegetables and whole grains seriously sucks compared to gulping down steak, eggs and cheese. Should you have known that pumping your body full of protein is bad for your kidneys? Not necessarily. No one signs up for every single major in college. But the real weight solution is always floating out there: Eat less, exercise more.
The trick is to take life a step further and question things that don't seem to make sense on the surface. Here’s a classic health scare: you will wither away to nothing if you don’t drink 8 glasses of water a day. Problems: 1) the term “glass” is vague, 2) everyone weighs different amounts and 3) everyone exercises at different levels. Here’s a more accurate health suggestion: “the average human needs 150 micrograms of iodine a day.” A little poking around on the internet reveals that some random dipshit created the 8-glass rule as a guideline and it spread unchecked.
How about red wine? OK, fine, not everything in it is BAD for you. Yes, there are little things swimming around in red wine that contain health benefits. But it's ALCOHOL. And alcohol is a poison. And those little things are also found in fruits and vegetables. Drink wine if you want, but don't live in denial. I'm not a buzzkill because I call alcohol a poison. Hey, I drink it. It's just a medical fact.
Believe nothing. Question everything.
One night in high school, I had all I could take with the arguments over what was a shot: 1 ounces, 1 1/4 ounces or 1 1/2 ounces. Quick math gave me the concrete answer: 1 1/2 ounces is a shot of 80-proof liquor. And a little more math led to me to find out that a 12-ounce beer equals a full shot IF the beer has 5% alcohol. And that led me to blow up the one-drink-is-four-ounces-of-wine myth, which is one of biggest liquor myths in existence. Wine is different proofs, so sometimes, one drink is less than four ounces, sometimes it's five ounces. Why does this matter? Because some people base their drinking and driving on that myth, as well as another myth that states everyone can burn off one drink per hour. Have fun with that DUI.
Do you think that keychain breathalyzer will help you? Nope. Throw it out. Seriously.

On Traveling Overseas
Europe. South America. Asia. I get it. History that we American’s can’t even imagine. Different, fascinating cultures. Our pathetic 200-something-year-old buildings pale in comparison to the Great Pyramids and the Coliseum. How can you even say you’ve SEEN art until you’ve experienced The Louvre? And who wouldn’t want to eat fermented cabbage in the Kimchi Motherland?
Me.
I’m sorry, but it’s not something I’ve had the money to think about yet. You know, that whole Spend Within Your Means thing? I just don’t feel like blowing that much money and spending that much time in airports and on planes so I can say I caught a cold while at a London pub, nestled between a Starbucks and a McDonalds, where I spent 12 bucks on a pint of some English beer that I can get here at Prince of Wales within stumbling distance of my house.
Oddly, this sarcastic logic isn’t enough for some people. So I let them know that some of my reasoning for not being more interested in traveling abroad is the negative stories they themselves bring back with them. And then I bring up the fact that I’ve never gotten bored traveling in my own country, and even though I’ve seen so much here, there’s still so much more to experience. I mention how big our country is, and point out how few suicide bombers have set off explosives here. And all these disappointed people do is shake their heads and say “you just don’t get it.”
So for some reason, this has become the one topic I can’t have a differing opinion on. There is only one answer I must accept: I have to love travel and be ashamed of myself for not joining the club. After all the times I’ve looked the other way when you’ve thrown up on your shoes, filled your brain with inaccurate facts and proven your complete inability to hold up your end of a intellectual conversation, I’m still not allowed a pass on this one. OK, I’ll accept that. And I won’t even make fun of you when you can’t remember what the capital of Wyoming is.

Finally...

On Old People
I’m actually hearing people MY OWN AGE complaining about “kids these days.” These durn whippersnappers, straight out of college, demanding things from their bosses and taking afternoons off. Please, for the love of whatever Holy Person you worship… take a deep breath and read this:
Times Change. People Adapt. Things Aren’t Always Getting Worse. They’re Just Getting Different.
The people out of college right now are looking at the rest of us saying “Hey fucknuts… just because YOUR generations were too stupid to ban together and get workers’ rights, don’t think we’re a bunch of slackers.”
That generation way back there created TV, and now these same geezers are complaining about kids watching too much of it. These crotchety windbags also think the world is coming to an end because people currently don’t get married when they’re 18. And “Oh, Sweet Mother of God, this generation nowadays is killing itself off with meth and crime.” Well, I have news for you grandpa, your generation had Hitler, who killed millions of Jews. (Don’t forget the millions killed in Vietnam.) You got back from World War II and beat grandma if she didn’t serve dinner hot enough. Your generation had separate bathrooms and drinking fountains for certain people because they had darker skin. Oh, and before I forget, the only reason you got married early was because you were expected to, and I guess I’m just a little hesitant to jump into holy blissful matrimony right out of high school when I notice that your generation’s divorce rate is 50 percent.
People are getting all blustery now because of gay marriage. And guess what will happen in 50 years when I’m all old and whiny? All the “damn kids” around me are going to say “Hey, Mr. L&F, is it true that a long time ago, gay people weren’t even allowed to get married? You were a bunch of idiots.” And then I’ll turn to these little snotty bastards and say “Meh, take off your jet pack and walk to school like I had to. You know, I had to type on a fucking keyboard in school. All you lazy fuckers have to do now is talk to your hologram notebook.”
One last thing. This new century isn’t Sodom and Gomorrah because kids have access to porn. Kids have access to EVERYTHING. They’re being inundated with information and technology, and they’re learning how to deal with it, just like their parents and the government are learning how to control it. But Grandpa can’t realize all this because he’s too busy changing his colostomy bag and pining for the days of the rotary phone.

Oh yeah, I feel better.
On On to 101.

99. How to Make a Liquor Luge

2009-01-16T10:44:00.010-05:00

2011 Update:
Thanks to all you drunks for making this page the #1 return on Google for "Liquor Luge." Now get your friends wasted.

What is a Liquor Luge?
It’s a slanted block of ice with curved channels carved across the top. The higher end is the drop-off point for your booze and the other end where you stick your pie hole. You’ll hear Liquor Luges called other things like Ice Luges, Luge Shots, Booze Luges, Shot Slides, etc.

Buying an Ice Block
Find an ice manufacturer that sells blocks versus just cubes for restaurants. Try to get one that’s at least two feet long and rectangular as opposed to square, since you’ll need more travel distance than thickness.

Buying a Pre-Made Ice Luge
These are pre-made, triangular and expensive as hell. I wouldn’t suggest this route, since part of the coolness is people watching you create your own. No kidding... I've seen people turn into rock stars because they set up and carved their own luges. Save your money for the liquor.

Buying a Plastic Luge Mold
You can usually get these for $25 or less. The cool part is that you can take the block out, flip the mold over and put the ice block on top. That's all you do and you’re ready to go. Unfortunately, these molds are too small for my taste, and having this smallish block on top of a plastic stand makes the whole thing look like a child’s party toy. I have too much pride to use these.

Making a Homemade Block
You’ll need a freezer. Chest freezers work best. As for standard fridge/freezers, the top/bottom freezers work better than side-by-side because you have the correct dimensions to work with. Get some sort of plastic storage bin that fits. If your bin is too tall for your freezer, you can always cut away the top part of the bin, since your block doesn’t need to be too thick. Only freeze 1 or 2 inches of water at a time. Once that water freezes, add more. Remember: water weighs 8 pounds per gallon. Your final block will be heavy, so be careful getting it out once it’s done. If you’re using a chest freezer, consider using straps to lift it out. Too much trouble? Remember: you'll be a rock star.

Transporting Your Block
If you’re not going to be using your ice block right away, you’ll need a big cooler to store it in. If you’re picking up your block at an ice maker, make sure the cooler is big enough before you leave.

Setting Up the Luge
If you’re setting up the luge inside your house, line the floor with some plastic sheeting because there will definitely be some meltage. Take the block and put it on some sort of table. If you’re at a campsite, a wooden picnic table works well. If you don’t plan on carving an angle out of your ice block (this takes a while and requires a thicker block to start with), prop up the end of the block where you're going to be pouring. You can use a brick or something else that won't roll around. The change in elevation doesn't have to be drastic. For the end where people will be drinking, it's good to have the block near the edge of the table. You might have to find some way to keep the block from sliding off the table and falling to the ground. Example: If you're using a picnic table, you can shove a stick between the wooden slats of the table and butt the block up against the stick. You could also creatively use bungee cords, ratcheting strips, vice grips, etc. Now you’re ready to cut.

Your Knife
If you’re only cutting channels, you can use a hunting knife or a strong pocket knife. My favorite knife? The Gerber EVO, which weighs less than 3 ounces and has a blade around 3 1/2 inches long. It’s half-serrated and is almost big enough to look like a cross between a pocket knife and a hunting knife. It’s also coated with titanium nitride for corrosion resistance. Note: Gerber's not paying me for the shameless plug.

Cutting the Channels
I'm always paranoid about the very tip of the knife breaking off, so I normally wear sunglasses or non-nerdy biker goggles while cutting. If you want only one channel, make it snake down the block, but make sure the curves are rather gentle or you'll end up having to carve them super-deep. You'll get the hang of it. If you want multiple channels, carve them a little straighter. I wouldn't carve more than two. Put your mouth over the bottom of a channel for a dry-run and remember the spot where your bottom lip was located. Take your knife and carve out a space for your bottom lip at that exact spot. It helps a lot. With a test-person ready to drink at the bottom of the block, pour a shot slowly at first to make sure the liquid runs smoothly all the way down the channel. Recarve questionable spots.

Decoration
If you're making the luge in your freezer, you can add some small pieces of stuff between the layers. If you’re using the luge at night, put some sort of light underneath the block. You'll have room for the light where the brick or other item props up the pouring end of the block. For a really cool effect, use one of those multi-colored LED lights that cycle through different colors automatically.

Drinking
Pouring into an ice channel is the same as pouring into a shot glass. So if your bottle has a pouring spout on it, you’ll have less spillage.
If you bought your block from an ice manufacturer, you might notice that after luging for a while, the liquid will find random vertical holes and run straight down to the table instead of down the channel. Carry a semi-unripe banana with you and use the banana flesh to plug the holes. We've found that works better than any non-food item.
Drinking cream-based shots can leave tiny chunks along the channels, so you might want to wipe them out if you move on to another type of booze.

98. The Mini Stone Mountain

2008-10-29T21:48:00.001-05:00

Black Sheep H3 - 12 Octobeer 08

Sunday afternoon. Time to hash. We jumped into our motorized horse and sped off. Or tried to. We hit every light on the way to I-20, and then hit the departing church crowds on the way to the start, which was at an elementary school south of Lithonia. We pulled up at 1:58. And my cute little hashwear wasn’t even clinging to me yet.

I threw on briar-repelling clothes and forcefully misted myself with deet-laden bug spray just in time to see PP send off the hares with a Cum In Dubitante… and Poonshine and Wild Irish Hose scampered away. The canines of the pack were absolutely beside themselves at the thought of a chase, and there were some human hounds that were pretty pumped too: the weather was spectacular, and the turnout was impressive.

I hadn’t checked a map and had no idea what was around. On-Out. We followed the first clumps of flour out of the parking lot and crossed Klondike Road to a huge, clear-cut area and a check. We looked around and knew we were screwed. Roads in every direction, a creek and two strips of hamsterland forest to look through. 360 degrees of possibilites. We finally heard repeated whistles on the other side of the creek and fought our way through a briary mess to follow the sounds. The first blobs of flour we ran into were actually on South Goddard. Did we just do all that nasty briar-fighting for nothing?

There was more shiggy across the street, and I didn't know it at the time, but we were crossing into Arabia Mountain State Park. Visually orgasmic terrain greeted us as we wound our way up the rock moutain ridges all the way to the top. Most humans in the pack were walking because of the steep rise in elevation. The view at the top was spectacular. We made our way back down and dove under the canopy and hit South Goddard Road again... realizing we had been circle-jerked. 7/10 of a mile of road rage followed, and a patch of forest in Klondike Park.

Check. Most of the hounds milled about waiting, while a few of the more daring ventured out. Boner and I went west on Browns Mill and found flour way down the street. Broken Bit and I pulled away and ran into Urine Development who had boxed and snared. There was another 8/10 of a mile of road rage here and the three of us stayed FRB for a while as we half-sprinted up the hills of a power cut and across the stomach-deep waters of the South River. At some point we crossed into the remnants of the Southerness Golf Club.

There were easements scattered around, and this is where I finally crapped out. A few hares blew by me and I trotted across another power cut or some overgrown former clearing. Trail disappeared here and I followed Little Easy's helpful shouts way off in the distance to some more flour at an old golf cart path. A hare arrow led us up this huge, grassy Hill of Death to the On-In at a sheltered clubhouse-type thing with pieces of Alexander’s Lake within view through the trees. We were just east of Panola Mountain State Park. Real trail: 5.9 miles. GPS: 7.05 miles.

We hung out. We drank. We circled up. Wild Irish Hose knew the drill, and took the random criticism quietly, like an obedient Black Sheep hare should. Poonshine, on the other hand, made sure he was heard constantly, and set the record for being the loudest hare on the ice in recent memory. Another one for the record books: from what I heard, this was actually the first Black Sheep circle ever to be busted up early by the cops. Not bad for doing almost 500 of these things. Apparently we were still on park property here, between Arabia and Panola parks, and alcohol isn’t allowed, even by a group as responsible as ourselves. And we had more beers in view than there are commas in this paragraph. So we had to leave. Now. We quickly packed up with the park cop standing there waiting with his arms crossed. Like clowns at a circus, we managed to squeeze into all the available cars and got back to the start, where the drinking continued. From park property to school property. Nice. Some Sheepers left, some drank even more and left, and some went off to various on-afters.

Recap of the recap: Trail was long and there was road rage, but looking back, those were easily overlooked considering the massive amounts of different kinds of shiggy we saw. Think of it this way… there are a gazillion people in metro Atlanta, and so many of them will never see anything as cool as the Mini Stone Mountain. And for us, it was just another great day of hashing.

May the Hash Get a Piece

97. The Happy Heretics 100

2008-10-29T21:43:00.002-05:00

Happy Heretics H3 - 19 Septembeer 08 to 21 Septembeer 08

20 Things I Learned at H5's 100th Weekend:

20. Cypress knees look like butt plugs.
19. If you take a shit in circle and your name is Muddy, you won't do
one down-down. You'll do all of them.
18. The best place to get your car stuck in the mud is next to a
tractor.
17. If you bring a sex swing to camp, it will be used.
16. If you want to see what effect Ron Jeremy has on waitresses, go to
a bar with Shappens.
15. Don't just bring Bloody Mary fixins to camp... bring Big Al to
make them for you.
14. After you see a gabamazillion pair of lovebugs, you get the idea:
They're horny.
13. If you're motivated enough to use your big, purple strap-on at
camp, someone will bend over for you.
12. Cocktail Sauce, Valencia Hot Sauce or Champagne can make
everything taste better.
11. Trashers rock at beer pong. And judging beer pong.
10. If you steal a guy's pink shoes while he's having sex, your car
will eventually disappear.
9. The farther you drive for beer, the better the beer tastes when
you get there.
8. Skeeters as big as birds aren't a Charleston myth. They're a
Charleston fact of life.
7. Hunters don't like Harriettes who flash their 9-year-old offspring.
6. Busting out a pussy pump for a naked demo is the best way to gain
control of circle.
5. A hot shower on Sunday to wash off all the deet is almost as good
as sex.
4. Ingredients for morning entertainment: Duct tape, Slappy and a ton
of beer.
3. If you want hashers to bitch about your historic Centennial trail,
ask shiggy-loving Black Sheepers to hare.
2. A beer pong serve… a shooting star hash shot… anything is better
off a booby.
1. Shit and Jackoff can put on a mean event. And Jackoff's bordering
on sexy when he cracks the whip.

Thanks to RMB for contributing to this list.
May the Hash Get a Piece

96. Much Mud, No Briars

2008-09-01T08:24:00.003-05:00

Black Sheep H3 - 31 August 08

Roadwork through downtown on a Labor Day weekend? What the hell? We heeded the dire warnings about driving on the connector and motored accordingly. There weren’t many out-of-state plates going south; most of the Hurricane Gustav evacuees were going north. And yeah, there were a lot of them, which we saw with our own eyes on our way back home.

Meh. I’m getting aHEAD of myself. We arrived at CrabbyLand to watch an ever-growing group gather under an almost-hot sun and a smattering of Gustav clouds. The out-of-town travelers of the Second Anal Hobo Hash helped us break the 50-hasher barrier, although a few of them decided getting dirty and sweaty was not as interesting as consuming adult beverages at the lake. If my memory serves me correctly, we had hashers from Charlotte, Savannah, Augusta, Macon, Tampa, Orlando and Daytona Beach. Welcome to Black Sheep. Now prepare for mud. On-Out.

2 Crabs hired Little Easy to help with the haring duties, and they trotted off at around 2:15. Our goal: to Catch the Crabs for the 7th straight year. Most of the pack got through the hares’ evil circle jerk before 2:45.

If you’ve been to Hedon/CrabbyLand enough times, you know the drill: you’ll get forest, creeks and swamps and never see pavement. And since we knew this was an A-A trail, we were hoping for a double dose of swamp. And that’s exactly what we were gifted with. We got to the first swamp by slogging across a chest-deep creek that morphed into black muck. The second swamp was even worse than the first, and I was up past my knees in mud at a couple points. This wasn’t water-and-mud… it was mud. Shoe-sucking and desperately-trying-to-take-your-next-step mud.

If you look at the area on a map, the trail seemed bigger than that because of the lung-busting hills, the large number of creeks we crossed, and mostly because we ran a majority of the trail under a canopy that had very little undergrowth. That meant our field of view was always large and unemCUMbered by branches, briars and other annoying vines.

On-In. I got back to the lake with my top-half soaked with sweat and my bottom-half coated in mud. We were soon munching on BBQ’d pork, homemade cole slaw and bourbon baked beans. The wind was picking up as Gustav moved inland, although we didn’t expect much rain if the storm continued on its current path toward New Orleans.

The large pack had Bwana constantly shushing people as he attempted to keep order during Trail Trial. Most of the hounds gave the trail a thumbs up, while some joked about there not being enough shiggy. One or two commented on the decrease in mud from previous years, and 2 Crabs suggested they take their Atlanta drought complaints straight to that uncaring bitch Mother Nature. Quite a few of the out-of-towners got to experience the joy of sitting on a block of ice. Hey guys, thanks for cumming.

Overall, a great r*n in good summer weather. Join us in two weeks when we shift our focus north to another annual Black Sheep tradition: the Lake Hartwell Campout. Get your registrations in, you wankers.

May the Hash Get a Piece

95. The Antagonist

2008-08-13T18:15:00.002-05:00

“Hey, L&F, are you ready to get to work?”
“Yep.”
“OK, here’s the problem. We have circle in an hour and we don’t have any more fresh ice. I need you to collect all the coolers and get all the ice water out of them. We can chill the down-down beer with that.”

Any good story needs an antagonist. And the antagonist this time around is beer. Not warm down-down beer. Ice-cold beer that’s already been consumed by many fine hashers at a long campout weekend.

It’s late Saturday afternoon and people are quite drunk, and have been drunk for quite some time. So what’s wrong with that? Well, at a campout, there are people who need to stay sober to make sure things run smoothly. And during most campouts, the huge amount of beer inside some people and the extreme lack of beer inside the organizers can bring out an even worse antagonist: DRAMA.

Let’s watch how this mess plays out, picking up where the organizer delegated the beer duties. I’m on the case, and things are happening. But all of a sudden, a group of people full of our antagonist enter the fray:

“Hey, L&F, do you need help?”
“Nah, I’m cool.”
“Well, we can help you move those coolers.”
“Don’t sweat it. I’m OK.”
“No, you’ll just mess up your back. Come on.”

I don’t have a problem delegating. But sometimes, especially when I’m lacking any traces of our antagonist, I’m better-served doing things myself. Why? Let’s keep going:

“OK, here’s what I need. We need to move all the coolers over there near the food and the kegs. The goal is to NOT spill any ice or ice water. I desperately need all the ice and all the water.”
“Why?”
“Because we need to chill the down-down beer.”
“When is circle?”
“Maybe in an hour.”
“An hour? Jesus, I’m starving. When’s dinner?”
“I don’t remember. They look like they’re on time though, so look at a schedule.”
“Where are they?”
“In your giveaway bag.”
“My giveaway bag is in my tent. Didn’t you guys hang any around camp?”

Note that the questions have started. And in case you haven’t noticed before, questions breed more questions. It’s like a spreading virus.

“Yes, we posted some. But they got torn down last night because people felt the urge to stick them up their asses and light them for naked fire jumping.”
“Hey, L&F… is there beer in that cooler?”
“Yeah, hang on though. Let us get them over here.”
“Aren’t we having circle soon?”

The virus has spread.

“Yes. Soon. OK guys, thanks. I’ll take over from here.”
“What are you going to do now? We’ll help.”
“No, don’t worry about it. I’ll bang this out in a couple minutes.”
“What, you don’t think we’re GOOD ENOUGH to touch beer? Elitist!”

The virus also morphs as it spreads. Add ridicule to the questions.

“L&F is a beer snob. Hey, L&F, do you hold your pinkie up when you lift a bottle to your elitist mouth?”
“Guys, you can go now. Thank you. You’ve been marvelous.”
“No, we’ll help. What do you need?”

More morphing. Add my favorite part: You’re Doing All the Work Wrong Syndrome.

“There are three empty coolers somewhere in this pile. I need all the water in one, all the soda in another, and all the beer in the last one.”
“Why can’t we just leave everything in the coolers they’re in now?”
“Because I need the ice and the ice water out of each one.”
“Well, then let’s just dump the water out into the empty coolers.”
“No, I need the water and the trapped ice. And you’ll spill some. Please.”
“Here L&F, watch how easy this is.”

Morph. Add problems. And the realization that I would have been done 5 minutes ago if I had done this myself.

“Stop! You’re spilling the water. Why doesn’t everyone just grab a beer and go play with sharp objects?”
“L&F, don’t be that way. I still don’t think we need to separate the water and soda from the beer. Just leave a mix in each cooler.”
“Whatever. Let’s just get done.”
“Here, I’m done with my cooler.”
“No! Don’t dump the water out! I need it all!”
“Why?”

Now I’ve caught the virus. I’m frustrated and getting angry. Frustrated and angry would be the final piece before DRAMA starts. I try to get done while watching things unravel. People keep sitting on the coolers and I have to kick them off every time I need one. People keep unstacking the empty coolers I’ve stacked up because they’re looking for beer. Someone’s washing their muddy hands in the only ice water I’ve been able to collect so far. One of the hashers who has been coming up behind me and dry-humping me all day has now returned… grinding on me and screaming something about dirty ass-sex. I get hit with a water balloon. DRAMA in 3… 2… 1…

“Hey! Just walk away. Thank you very much for your help.”
“What? What did we do? Jesus Christ.”
“Just leave. Please. Walk over there and I’ll finish.”
“Why do you have to get this worked up? It’s just beer. Damn.”
“I’m not worked up. I just need to get this done. I’m doing what I’m told.”
“What are you doing?”
“Please guys. Stop.”
“Come on, drink a beer and have some fun. What’s wrong with you? Hey, what’s wrong with L&F? Is there beer in that cooler? Grab one. When’s circle?”
“OK, out! Leave! Everyone!”

This is the part that I dread. Having to loudly crack the whip. It happens when I get pushed to my personal limit, and I know that all the conflict-resolution tricks I’ve learned at my job won’t help. To make matters worse, I look really mean when I’m angry, and despite my lack of height, I’ve been known to make people slightly uncomfortable on the rare times I get pissed. Again, I’m blaming beer. And there’s always that one special person who has consumed more of our antagonist than anyone else. This person does NOT like being told what to do, and is far from being disturbed by my sudden frightening demeanor. In fact, they become a little patronizing and condescending. Here’s how it unfolds:

“L&F. Just calm down.”
“I was calm. Now everyone has to go.”
“What the hell is wrong with you? Why can’t we stand here?”
“I’m taking no more questions. I don’t understand why this is so difficult for everyone. The longer you feel the need to pester me, the longer it will take to get circle started.”
“Pestering? We were HELPING you!”

I can do nothing but turn around and ignore everyone and hope they stay back. But now I get to hear the comments amongst themselves, because they feel the need to talk within earshot.

“We were fucking HELPING and he yells at us? What the fuck?”
“Just come on. He’s just in a crappy mood for some reason.”
“Asshole.”
“Why does he volunteer for this if he can’t handle it?”
“Just leave him alone. He’ll be OK.”
“A monkey can do that job.”
“Now he’s got all the beer.”

The group finally shuffles out of ear shot and some of them look like they’re moping. One of the hashers feels guilty and comes back to apologize.

“Hey man, sorry about that. I know you’re just trying to do your job.”
“Don’t worry about it. It happens.”
“Here, let’s pour the ice water into a new cooler that doesn’t have all that dirt in it. We can use this one.”

I’m done talking, so I just do what he suggests. The organizer walks up and notices that the new cooler we just poured the water in has no drain cap, and the only ice water at camp is now pouring all over the ground.

“L&F. Holy shit, you’re losing all the water. I’m glad to see you can handle your one single job of the evening.”

I start laughing. Because there’s nothing else I can do. I laugh because I’m sober. I laugh because of the stupidity of it all. And I laugh because I can’t even tell you how many times I’ve seen this exact same scenario play out. It’s priceless. So why do I bother helping? I grab some of our antagonist and remember why: the exact same reason everyone else does. We do it for the beer. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: Alcohol: The Cause and Solution to All of Life’s Problems.

May the Hash Get a Piece

94. But We're Screaming Inside

2008-07-22T20:15:00.002-05:00

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

93. The Naked Man

2008-07-19T18:46:00.002-05:00

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

92. Slogfest

2008-07-15T17:20:00.004-05:00

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

91. Where's the TP?

2008-07-15T17:04:00.003-05:00

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

90. The Hedon Shooting Star Hash

2008-06-13T16:07:00.001-05:00

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.

89. Death March

2008-06-12T22:12:00.004-05:00

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.

88. The Hired Pit Bull

2008-05-15T09:10:00.008-05:00

Happy Heretics H3 - 02 April 08 to 06 April 08

THE CALL

Boop. Boop boop boop. Boop.
Ring.
Shit Happens: Yeeeessss?
Amkneesia: Hey, Shit. Problem. I can’t make it to the Cooper River Bridge Run this year. You’ll need to find a replacement.
Shit: Well, if I’m going to find a replacement, I want the Ultimate Helper. Someone normally calm enough to blow off drama but hyper enough to turn it on when pushed.
Amkneesia: Sounds like you need a Hired Pit Bull. Can you find anyone?
Shit: Yeah. I know who we need.

Boop. Boop boop. Boop boop.
Ring.
L&F: Talk to me.
Shit: Hey, fuckhead. You’re needed.
L&F: Woof.

-----

THE DRIVE

All the evil fuckers who make mountains of money off crude oil and gasoline forced me to keep Thor home this time. $110 was more than I was willing to shell out for road-trip fuel. So I bribed Read My Boobs to get the time off. For her time and her hybrid, she would also get to help us set up Chez Shit and police the grounds. But I learned during our intense negotiations that I would have to sweeten the deal. I’m certain you’re shocked at that one. OK, I’d pay for gas, I’d play tour guide and she’d get invited to the super-cool super-secret Wednesday extravaganza. Bring non-hash clothes, please.

We were approaching the final hour of our drive from Atlanta to Charleston when our forward motion was suddenly not forward anymore. A truck got twisted around and spewed its contents all over I-26. (Yes, I said spewed.) Suddenly we were on some frightening detour, that for 20 torturous minutes, took us farther away from beer. I found out later that I was subconsciously pointing to where we should be heading with the same look that little kids give when you pull them away from the cereal aisle. “But… But… I want…” RMB succeeded in calming me down by noting that we had enough booze in the car to kill an army of people several times over.

-----

THE SUPER-COOL CRUISE

We pulled into the driveway at 4p a little fried. But the perfect weather energized us as soon as we got out of the car. Cooling cloud cover, low humidity and the faint smell of pluff mud drew us to the back yard, and a huge surprise: Shit no longer had the Last Dock on the Right. There was now a dock farther down Shem Creek. But our devious plots of stealthy destruction were derailed by our brains demanding some sort of numbing beverages.

And we were very lucky to be numbed, because what we saw an hour later was too much of a shock to take sober. Shit arrived, dressed in a gorgeous suit that he had worn to court that day. This marked the first time I had ever seen the distinguished gentleman in pretty clothes, and I think I gasped. He was going to keep what he had on because we had to go.
“When are we leaving?” I asked.
“10 minutes, not hash time. Ship leaves with our without us.”

No time to exchange pleasantries, but there was just enough time to exchange gifts. RMB and I gave Shit some additions to the Beer Can Room: Budweiser cans so old, they don't even have pull tabs. Can opener only. The cool part is that they were never opened, so you actually get to witness the freakish design. As for me... I'm holding in my hand, right at this very moment... a joke-bid t-shirt for Interhash 2010. For Baghdad. On the back it says "It'll be a fucking blast." Not too many of those made, as you can probably imagine. (I wore it on the pub crawl.)

If you read last year’s opulent opus, you know there was a moment on Friday afternoon when the Peach Fuzz arrived and time slowed down for their Grand Entrance. It was our turn for slow motion this year. Cue the music. Shit, RMB and I walked into the ship and outdid EVERYONE. Him with his suit, me with my slick-looking shirt and Italian slacks, and RMB… well, she pretty much stopped guys cold everywhere she went with this thin little dress that clung to her in a way that made all the guys stare in all the right places. You have to love guys who are trying to talk to women as they’re staring full-on at heaving fun-bags. While mumbling. That’s some entertainment, you party people.

What’s the cruise for? Every year, the race committee invites the sponsors to a dinner cruise on the Wednesday before the race. The ship has three levels of free food, open bars everywhere, and no tipping, all while cruising around the Charleston penis. I mean, penisula. I mean, peninsula. Just look at a map. Charleston is a dick, OK?

The beer was better this year, and the food was about the same ridiculous high quality, although this year they added a huge hunk of melt-in-your-mouth tuna to the carving station. If you’re imagining something that doesn’t suck, you would be imagining correctly. The shrimp are so big, popping them in your mouth feels like you’re giving head to a shark. The sauces are incredible. And look over there. That’s an unlimited supply of sushi.

Wait, what’s that horrific sound? No way. It’s the crazy, yammering woman from the starting line last year, emceeing the sponsor awards ceremony. And they were piping her obnoxious, grating voice to every level of the ship. Have you heard Hillary Clinton when she starts yelling? Imagine a cringe-factor that’s 5 times worse. Luckily, this insane yammerer had just started to drone on as we were getting back to the dock, so the three of us made a quick departure.

Bar hopping. Hot tubbing. Bed. We were sleeping across from Shit’s room, in Little Shit’s old room. The ceiling is blue with clouds painted on it. When you turn the lights off, stars glow back at you, and there’s even some glowing stars spinning on the fan blades. Very cool. Day one, a success.

-----

THE MENTAL BLUR

Everything from Thursday morning to late Friday afternoon is a little foggy. There was a lot going on, and I think it all blended together and got lost amid all the other crazy mental images from the weekend. Maybe I can fish around for some detail:
--Sleeping in.
--Expo, to get free stuff at the place where the tens of thousands of r*nners pick up their numbers.
--Fort Moultrie and hanging out on the beach.
--Sullivan’s Island, Isle of Palms and more beach.
--Checking out the gorgeous architecture downtown at the Battery.
--Shopping. Market Street. King Street.
--Getting the lowdown on my Pit-Bull marching orders for the next 48 hours.
--Cleaning up some of the house to get ready for hashers. That includes the beer coolers and the covered deck.
--A little yard work.
--Helping set up the hot shower outside.
--Coning off the driveway.
--Tags, tags and more tags, on and off for two days.
--Prepping some shooters.

We saw a metric fuck-ton of Charleston, and for the first time, I drove enough to become familiar with the area. That day and a half definitely rocked.

We had keys this year, meaning Shit gave a certain number of drunks a key to his house. No one else was allowed in. This is to cut down on theft and general mayhem. Yes, I said theft. Because as you know, there’s always one normally trustworthy person in the crowd who can turn into a thief if they have enough booze. Very sad, but very true. Everyone with a key was to help keep everyone else out. To drive the point home, everyone who got a key also got yelled at. Me, RMB, Spud, Queenie, Pixel, Geno, Blows the Candles… everyone. And hearing it multiple times might have been my favorite part of the entire trip. You have to imagine a look of anger and lots of pointing:

“Keep. The. Doors. LOCKED! If you see anyone in here that shouldn’t be here, kick them out. If you let them stay, I’m kicking them out, and YOU out. And if Slappy gets in here, every single person is getting kicked out. EVERYBODY! You can sleep in your fucking cars!”

We got back to the house for good about 6p Friday, finished tags, helped get coolers and other crap ready for the morning and brought streams of food out to the masses. I was too wired to chill out once that was over, so I made pitchers of Banana Cream Pie shooters and walked them around. Made with real bananas. But our host apparently doesn’t like bananas, so he swatted me with a rolled up newspaper and said I was in the dog house. Key Lime Pie next year, or he’s throwing me in the creek. I think I’ll bring the KLP. Pluff mud is nasty.

Since there are now pictures floating around the internet showing a certain t-shirt, I’ll bring up one final thing about Friday night. RMB and I were in the house getting red dresses ready for the morning when Shit, Blows the Candles and Queenie walked out of Shit’s room wearing the exact same white, long-sleeved shirts. And they were surprising to say the least. Because they had my name on it. Specifically, the large black type on the front said:
“I HATE L&F BECAUSE HE WON’T SHARE.” And these three shirts would come out again for the pub crawl the next day, giving the three of them great stories to tell the inquiring public. And did I hear this right? He had orders for 20 of the shirts? 20?

Sorry guys, just not much into threesomes.

-----

CANINE TEETH

I’m the dog they call Pit
I’m the Bull that throws fits
To protect and to serve the hash-master named Shit
So don’t fuck with me kid
Or it’s gonna be YOU that gets bit.

(The fellas, they get jealous
Of my tight, spiked collar and wicked acapellas.)

I won’t get into most of my Pit Bull details from the weekend. That’s the un-fun part. Let’s just say there was some barking.

-----

THE RED DRESS RUN

“Fuck fuck fuck.” Those are the only words that escaped my mouth as I forced myself out of bed and clawed my way to the kitchen. First one up. Fuckity fuckity fuck fuck fuck. 5:45 a.m. is way too early to think about anything hash-related that requires leaving camp. But the masses needed a Coffee Bitch.

6:45 a.m. Shit was trying to get the help out the door and get downtown. The bridge was closing in 15 minutes. There was screaming and chaos. I was not involved though; I was going to take care of any walkers at the start. He had just given me extra post-r*ce wrist bands for beer, maps to his house for people who needed them, and a race packet for someone I hadn’t even met yet. Thumb & 1/2 was nowhere to be found and was obviously not going to grab a cooler in time for the first beer stop. The Peach Fuzzers were leaving for the second beer stop. Quick math helped me realize they would now be the first and only beer stop. Yes, Thumb would be punished later.

7:05a. The pack from Shit’s began the quick journey to the start. Maybe a dozen of us. We were pretty.

7:45a. We finally hit the hash meeting spot at Starbucks, just shy of the official start. We ran into the rest of the pack, some of them relieved they found me before we took off. Wristbands = beer.

7:55a. On out, fuckers. Time goes by quick on this thing. There’s so much to see. Thousands and thousands of people, the view from the bridge, the occasional non-red-dress person dressed up in something interesting. We talked smack to the giant Chik-fil-a cow wondering around and we obviously struck a bovine nerve; it started using me as a punching bag. There were some crazy people on top of the bridge towers, more than a tenth of a mile up. Elevators or Stairs? Answer: elevators.

?:??a. Beer stop. And the first of many BEvERages to be consumed throughout the day. The Fuzzers had set up right off the bridge, and it was a perfect place to check everyone out. And to be noticed. When we weren’t getting enough attention, we would simply show random body parts and get the crowd going. I was wearing this really short spring dress, and lifting it up to show the tiny red spandex man-panties was not much of an effort. The purse I bought last year proved its worth again, because it seems to match any color of red I can find. I even found a flower-print bandana that almost exactly matched the dress. Spots of white on the bandana and the dress went with my white r*nning shoes. Are you getting the picture here? Coordination. Inspiration. Jubilation.

Beer:30a. We were munching on hot dogs and hamburgers and a bunch of other stuff at the Charleston Running Club’s area at the end, when we realized something disturbing: There was no beer. I tried to remember if Shit had mentioned this earlier, but as you know, Pit Bulls don’t have the impressive memory of most humans. So we plopped down in the shade and attempted to get our brains working. Some hashers decided to walk to Big John’s, but the rest of us knew this was a bad idea for two reasons: It required energy to get there, and it would be more difficult getting back to Camp. This is why we were sitting. So we could concentrate on the task at hand: Liquid Acquisition. I heard someone mention a bar across the street from the park. Knights of Columbus. Then it clicked. Shit had said something the other day about beer being there, but I had assumed he was talking about the pub crawl. Nope. After a short sprint, you can sing it with me: “Free… Beer for All the Haaaashers…”

What’s the definition of surreal? Who the fuck knows. Maybe “something that makes your brain spin around.” If that’s it, then we saw something surreal: We looked across the huge hall that leads back to Calhoun street and saw a large-ish group of people with this phrase emblazoned on the front of their shirts: “A Drinking Team with a Running Problem.” Um, huh? Someone from our Drinking CLUB with a Running Problem finally approached them and found out some guy hashed overseas somewhere and came back to start something similar. I don’t think he knew there were hashers in Charleston. Well, they all know now.

I have to give it up for whoever organizes the transportation for this damn r*ce. Best. Ever. There were cops and neon-vested grunts everywhere. They herded us all into a line and shoved us into buses for a ride back to Mount Pleasant. So easy a drunk could do it. A mile and a half later, we were back to beer.

1p. Nap.

4p. Just as predicted, the roof over our heads was jeopardized. A slightly intoxicated Slappy tried to get into the house, even though Shit gave him a heads up about the rule. Someone had left the side door open and he was about ready to go in, when I happened to walk by.
"Hey, L&F... I need to go on the internet and find out what this pill is. Can I come in really quick? Just really quick."
Since I love Slappy to death, I have him a gentle "Oh, I'll go on the internet for you" versus a "Holy crap, dude, there's no fucking way I'm letting you in there."
Crisis averted.

-----

THE DRAMA

This was my third year as Taxi Bitch for the Pub Crawl. Here’s the way it’s supposed to work: Shit leaves for downtown early to set up. I re-confirm pickup with the cabbies to make sure there are enough vans lined up to get all of the Chez Shit Campers to the start. I do the normal countdown shout-outs around camp, round everyone up and we all pay the cabbies and leave. That’s the way it’s SUPPOSED to work.

Even though I had called this company two previous times over the past two days, and even though I’m pretty good at handling problems, I was not prepared for this dispatcher. I wouldn’t even describe him as the generic “______ from Hell.” He was quite simply a living, breathing penis tip. Our first contact of the day was at 4:45p, when he said there would be three vans at 5:30. I figured they were giant vans because I’ve dealt with 15-seaters before. We had 45 people. All good. But starting at 5:30, I lived the Longest Hour in Human Existence. It was everything I could do to keep from screaming at this penis tip for continually lying to me about their arrival time, about how many vans he had coming, etc. These fuckers have radios and GPS’s in their cars. They know EXACTLY what the ETA is. I was calling every cabbie I had numbers for, and got the same answers from everyone: “No, I can’t help you” and “Yeah, that dispatcher is a dick.” At 6:10, when I found out each of the three vans would only holds 8 people (EIGHT???), I stopped breathing fire long enough to call Shit. He sent someone with his van. Then one taxi/van came. Everyone else drove. Here’s the comment from the taxi driver who actually showed up: “I just contract through that company. You should have just called me directly. I would have been right over.” I immediately had the intense mental imagery of me jumping across the van and strangling him. And while I was imagining choking him, I was imagining pounding his cranium against the door and yelling, “Don’t… you… think… I… would… have… called… if… I… had… your… number… Fuck Nut?!?!” But he was an ex-marine who was much bigger than me and probably would have pounded me into a pulp without even having to take his seat belt off.

-----

THE PUB CRAWL

I was deliriously angry, mostly because dealing with this kind of bullshit is currently what my job in Corporate America is all about, and I hadn’t been on vacation long enough to release the bitterness. My Achilles Heel: stupid, lazy people. But just like at work, there are times like this where I have to shake off the rage. I had been on the phone to Shit so he was timing it perfectly. We squeeled on to George St. to see him r*nning the other way with flour. We flew into a parking spot, I jumped out of the car and immediately barked one clear, very loud order that got almost everyone out of their coma: “All right you fuckers, circle uuuuuuuuup! I’m fucking THIRSTY!”

Let’s get something clear: sobriety is fine. I have no problem with it, and a large portion of my life is spent embracing it. But at this moment, sobriety sucked ass. My brain was spinning and I couldn’t focus. But I somehow remembered to go around and get everyone to shout their names and where they had cum from. There is close to three times as many people who do the Pub Crawl than cum from Shit’s house, and the increase in people rocks. As always, shout-outs for big turnouts go to Upstate H3 from Greenville, SC; Rumson H3 from Jersey; Charlotte H3, and Peach Fuzz from Augusta, GA. And of course, the local Happy Heretics H3. I put my head down for a few seconds to collect myself… an eternity when you’re in the middle of circle… then shouted “warm up!” and launched into the official Pub Crawl Warm Up Song with zero warning. And everyone jumped in without hesitation. Sweet. Thank you to everyone from last year who offered improvements to the song. Melody: Father Abraham. The chorus and the start of each verse:

Poor… Shit… Happens
Had Seven Wives
Seven Wives Had Shi-it Happens
First They Made Him Cum
Then They Made Him Cry
When They Took Him For His Money

With a greedy, grabbing left hand
With a right middle finger
With a vicious left foot to the gut
With a right knee to the crotch
And a wagging tongue to the bunghole.

By the way, it’s up to you to figure out how many wives Shit’s actually had. On-Out.

One bar, then another, then another. Food. Then another bar, then another, then another. Then a last one. It is a dizzying number of bars to cram into an evening. But we did it. In fact, we made up all that lost time at the start within the first couple bars. We didn’t even feel rushed. And luckily, no rain. Perfect weather, perfect company. And since we had collected some quality cab numbers, the trip back was drama-free.

RMB and I gave several people a ride back, one being Barefoot and Stupid, who had just been honored with a quality renaming at one of the bars. It appears that at some time in the past year, she had been busted for some sort of nudity at a public pool during a hash on-after and continued to eat while the cops were figuring out what to do with her. One of the cops said “Ma’am, put down the corn.” Then, in a more authoritative voice, “Ma’am, STEP AWAY FROM THE CORN.” If that doesn’t deserve a renaming, what does? Infamy, I tell you.

-----

THE COPS

The po-po. Not that I should be surprised to see them, but I was surprised. Shit didn’t have any neighbors home on either side of him, and we hadn’t been in circle that long. Ten minutes, maybe? It was somewhere between midnight and 1a. My back was to the grass strip where you get from the driveway to the back yard. Erm, I mean, where the COPS get from the driveway to the back yard. And I was wearing shorts, thank G. Because not too long before, RMB and I had just streaked past this same area.

Screw it, let me just start from the beginning. We had just gotten back from the Pub Crawl and I was sober. Dead. Fucking. Sober. What better way to catch up than hang out for a few minutes in the hot tub? But there seemed to be two other wankers with the same idea. These extremely horny individuals shall remain nameless, but I can tell you that they apparently had more than enough to drink on the pub crawl and were in no mood to share the water. So as RMB and I got in, they started making all sorts of entertaining moaning noises. And when we ignored them, the drunk-female portion of that equation drifted over and attempted to have her way with Boobs, asking some sort of question that generated a polite negative answer. So back she went, to her drunk-male portion of the equation, to make even more noise than before. Now don’t get me wrong, I’ve been in hot tubs where a lot more crazy shit than that was going on. A LOT more. But there was never this blatant attempt to either get attention or have us leave. OK, we’ll leave. But wait, we forgot our towels. So we’ll just streak.

We sprinted past the enclosed deck, down the steps, past the fire, to the strip of grass and into the side door. Past hasher after hasher, in a scene that would be quite common at a campout. But remember that little story about Step Away from the Corn? Apparently, the po-po would have frowned at clothes-less perps since there are other houses close by, and the lawyers of the group agreed: naked is bad.

A large portion of us were surprised we were getting a circle, not only because it was late, but because it so rarely happens after the pub crawl. So there we were, belting out hash song after hash song, recapping the day of Rule 6’s and random feats of Super Human Retard Strength, when I look behind me and there are two of Mount Pleasant’s finest. And one of them uttered a phrase that I’ve heard way too many times: “We heard you xxx blocks away.” Oh Jesus, here we go. They proceeded to take Shit somewhere private, and as I watched the three of them disappear into the darkness, I realized something amazing: Shit had a sarong on. In fact, there wasn’t a naked person anywhere. Unbelievable luck. Turns out a friendly neighbor across the street was having a late-night mean streak and was the one to call the cops. Shit wiggled his way out of this thorny legal problem and let everyone know that for the rest of the night, Q didn’t stand for Double Q lounge, it stood for Quiet.

Hey, is that rum? Don’t mind if I do. I didn’t try to catch up, but I was proud of my progress.

Things happened, and then other stuff happened, and then all of a sudden there were maybe 10 of us naked in the hot tub, whispering limericks and insults. FACT: trying to whisper limericks is actually funnier than screaming them. Someone snorted beer out their nose. Someone did a silent spit take.

A reviewer of porn films named Louie
Critiqued the release “Hung Kung Spooey.”
He noted with scorn
That porn isn’t porn
Unless everyone ends up gooey.

Ay, ay ay ay…
Give me five more beers your still ugly.
So sing me another verse that’s worse the other verse
And waltz me around by my willie.

I was almost too tired to move. RMB and I went to the Cloud Room and were carving a path to the air mattress when Shit appeared. We started talking about what went down all weekend, and got so far into it that we all gave up on the whole vertical-standing thing and sat down on the carpet. After a long weekend like this one, it’s nice to go back-and-forth for a while about what worked and what didn’t. Especially when so much of it worked. I took out the bottle of Crown Royal I had been saving and passed it around. And around. It was about this time that Shit reached over and handed me a box. Inside was a gorgeous Kenneth Cole watch, with a champagne face, a copper-gold dial and a silver band. On the back was an engraving of the bridge and the words Cooper River Bridge Run. For a job well done.

First Blows the Candles appeared, then Queenie, then Step Away from the Corn. Looks like everything was winding down. So we all just sat there and bullshitted for a while. I’ll always consider myself lucky that this is how so many last-nights-at-road-trips end. I wonder if the people who invented campfires and camping chairs had super-chill hangouts in mind when they got their patents.

Is there a patent on campfires?

-----

THE FINALE

I might have set the alarm. It may have gone off. Or I may have crawled out of bed because the sun was shining into the Cloud Room and I heard someone breaking down a tent at the side of the house. Maybe I wanted to see what was going on. Or maybe I just had to take a leak. Who knows.

The first thing I remember was being out on the deck, looking at the hot tub. It was only about a third-full of water. And the remaining water didn’t look good. I pushed the power button and nothing happened. Actually, it looked like a party happened.

There was only one tent outside, but a lot of… um… stuff. Everywhere. Abandoned clothes, trash, food… I looked at everything for more than a minute before my brain processed the fact that I should probably start cleaning up. Pixel stumbled out of the house and he looked worse that I felt. Everyone else who was at the house was still asleep. Sunday’s always rough.

I remember pounding down a couple bottles of Gatorade, but I don’t remember finding any caffeine. There must have been some though, because by the time we hit Shem Creek Bar and Grill, I was ready to go. I ran to Al’s back bar just before the restaurant opened and grabbed three bar seats, setting up our perches for the next couple hours. Hashers flooded in and The World’s Best Bloody Marys were flying.

This is one of the best bar hangouts you can imagine, surrounded by booze and oysters inside, sun and water outside. The quickly moving staff is tempered by the slowly moving drunks. The full replay of the r*ce was on one of the TVs, no red dresses in sight. Hmmm. But we did get to see the two UH3 hashers who finished in the top 50. NFHN Tim got 40th place with 33:55 and Little Prick got 44th place with 34:03. Much cheering was heard in the bar, and we sang and drank in their honor. And then we drank some more in their honor. Congrats.

(More drinking in their honor.)

I was caught off guard for maybe the fifth time during weekend when we were downing Oyster Shooters and I was asked to say a toast. I suck at remembering them, so Shit had to take over once again. And woah, the Oyster Shooters are worth a toast. Oysters, cocktail sauce, horseradish, Tabasco and beer.

The big brunch was making me so tired I wanted to pass out, so we went back to Shit’s for a quick nap. I passed by the Beer Can Room and noticed one of the strangest human odors I’ve ever experienced. It was a combination of things so random that I stood there sniffing in complete fascination, at least until the need for sleep was too overwhelming.

It took us an hour to pack up and get everything into the car. Half of the problem was that there was stuff scattered everywhere in the Cloud Room. Everywhere. I don’t think we put a single thing back into a single bag all weekend. The other half of the problem was that we had so much stuff. Food, snacks, a cooler full of booze and mixers, clothes, sleeping stuff, red dress stuff. To get to an event hooked up with everything, I guess you have to take… everything. Worth it.

The obligatory shot to celebrate the official end of a successful event came at 9p at RMB’s house. And it was here that I finally redeemed myself by remembering my favorite toast:

HERE’S TO ALCOHOL… THE CAUSE AND SOLUTION TO ALL OF LIFE’S PROBLEMS.

May the Hash Get a Piece

87. Chili, an Oinker and a Really Tall Mountain

2008-05-15T09:06:00.002-05:00

Black Sheep H3 - 11 April 08 to 13 April 08

FRIDAY
Did you know barnacles can have penises up to eight times their body length? We're talking the biggest in the animal kindom, relative to their size. Yup, that's as intellectual as we would get this weekend. Sounds like a hash campout to me.

Drive time to camp: 2 hours. You don’t really feel like you’ve left Atlanta until you drive through all the sprawl and hit the first stoplight on U.S. 23. By that time, you’re about halfway through the trip. After another hour driving north, you finally feel like you’re somewhere else. Black Sheep’s first “somewhere else” for the year is helping Black Rock Mountain State Park say goodbye to winter.

Pushing the campout to the second weekend in April gave us slightly warmer weather and some hints of green that we normally don’t see in late March. The extremely bumpy dirt road down to Camp Tsatu-gi was our last obstacle to the beer. And it turns out that Beer:30 was exactly at 5:30. Time to start cooking.

I entered the annual chili cookoff foolishly thinking I might win with a thematic spin on a very traditional and well-received chili recipe. Buffalo Chili contains marinated buffalo steak, Buffalo Trace bourbon and
Búfalo Picante Classica. The giant cast iron skillet fit perfectly on the propane turkey fryer base, and starting from scratch, the chili was cooked down perfectly in less than an hour. But how can you win when you find yourself up against someone who fiendishly puts chocolate in their chili?

Read My Boobs had a convincing win over her rivals with a very dark and very hot recipe-less tomato-less chili. I remember a few of the ingredients she rattled off as she was relishing her victory: mole, dark chocolate and freshly ground roasted chiles. Evil.

There was only time for a quick cleanup before we had to get ready for the Shooting Star Hash. The donors gathered in the main cabin to tweak shots before the main event.
Here are the donors : shooters : descriptions…
Pump’tkin : Key Lime Pie : Yeah, it tastes like the pie.
Hot Pocket : Cosmojito : A creative combination of a cosmopolitan and a mojito.
Yoron Weed : Becherovka: A full bottle of the real herbal liqueur from the Czech Republic.
Deposit Slit: Witches Blood : Vodka, Grand Marnier, orange juice, cranberry juice and spices.
L&F/RMB : Mountain Mango : Blended mango, coconut vodka, lime juice and ginger ale.
Davey Crochet : Chocolate Butterballs : Buttershots, Kahlua and a creamy chocolate liqueur.

As for the trail, rain kept us under a creatively-hung and very large tarp not too far from the main campfire. And there were zero complaints about the lack of energy we had to exert. It was a fantastic batch of shooters and a good time was had by all. But it seems like some of the good times went away by the next morning, knowing about the number of hangover complaints. Well, we did see a few happy campers drinking from big cups full of shooter goodness, so maybe shooters shouldn’t turn into gulpable delights.

Around a dozen of us stayed in cabins a mile up the mountain, and the frivolity continued there from 10:30p to 4:30a. Your humble scribe didn’t make it past 1a. Ear plugs kept me from even hearing the wild storm that blew through, which pushed our bedroom door wide open. I guess G wanted inside to sample some of our delicious BEvERages.

SATURDAY
We missed breakfast. Imagine that. But we did stumble to camp in time to snatch up the last remnants of lunch. I munched on my apple as I examined the apple up the pig's ass. Oh, I haven't mentioned the pig yet.

Actually it was more like The Pig. Bwana had made a metal frame and the group got a thick metal bar through the entire pig's carcass... from the back, all the way out the mouth. A few metal ties later, and the pig was a few feet above ground, apple in ass, ready for some heat.

Amazingly enough, I actually learned something at camp: you can cook a pig without putting any heat UNDER the pig. Niplets had a secondary fire near our soon-to-be dinner, and was shoveling red-hot coals at the base of two stacks of cinderblocks on each side of the pig. The heat travels up the bricks and creates an open-air oven.

Whistles signaled the real, official, non-shooter, non-easy trail. Bwana and Dribbles scampered downhill, and I swear to you, until the end when we hit the access road back to Camp Tsatu-gi, that was the only downhill we had. And remember: everything I write is 100% factual. Lungs busted as the hounds climbed. And climbed. Climbing, dodging tree limbs above, avoiding tree trunks on the sides and stepping over fallen trees below. The views were gorgeous and the weather was perfect. There we were, r*nning off our hangovers at the highest state park in Georgia, wearing only shorts and t-shirts. Sweet.

It seems like we had stopped climbing for a while when we reached a rhododendron forest, complete with water and mud at our feet. The squishing stopped at a small stream that kicked off our final climb: a slow, painful march up the most vertical of mountain faces. The scenery here was something I had never seen before at Black Rock: A huge field of shorter, thicker, wider trees that blocked out any bit of sun and gave us plenty of branches to move around. Now on the access road, we saw a chalk mark commemorating a moment of hash history from our first year at Black Rock, and further down the hill, the glorious BN.

Here’s what’s good about Black Rock circles: There’s no rush. People have nowhere to go because we are already there. Stories were told. Butts, tongues and boobs hit the ice. And we named the newest member of the flock, who will from now on and forever more be called Centipenis. He even had a name necklace within minutes of circle ending.

This might be a good time to mention the kegs. Good beer of different varieties, all weekend. The keg that was tapped Saturday afternoon was this tasty IPA that we couldn’t seem to kill until after dinner. And since I’m on tangents, maybe I should mention the impressive work various campers did on cutting and gathering firewood. There seems to be a never-ending supply of fallen trees around camp and a chainsaw makes quick work of the bigger pieces. OK, one more tangent: the camp cabin now has a fridge and a ramp on the back side. Things are looking up.

A wheelbarrel full of snacks came out as Niplets worked out the kinks of his newest cooking method. A few of us grabbed the carving knives just before dark and our porker was soon trimmed and put next to Gentri’s chicken.

Fed and happy hashers retired to the fire. I passed out in the main cabin on a sofa next to the wood stove. At some point I was able to snap out of it for the drive up to the cabin. And let me tell you… that drive is so much easier at night when you can’t see the crazy drop-offs.

SUNDAY
I was the first one up in our cabin, determined to make breakfast. Not to mention getting to the shower before the air in the bathroom gets as polluted as a sewer line. The nine of us were soon up and cleaning, putting a shine on counters that were once covered in dirty dishes, snacks, booze and bloody mary fixings. We said goodbye to the mountain of towels and followed our noses to Sani’s hot breakfast. A group of us shifted right to the cleanup at the main cabin, while others grabbed a bag or two of trash to drive out of camp to the bear-proof bins. Drinks for the morning included Bloody Marys and various bottled brews.

Some extra credit put a new spin on the Sunday afternoon drive back home. RMB and I did the Ada-hi Falls Trail, which is halfway down the mountain. It’s a quick hike down to the falls, and a slower crawl back up. And in case you freaks drove by it but didn’t stop… yes, Goats on the Roof actually has real goats on their roof. It’s a touristy gift shop with expensive stuff inside and a ground-to-roof goat ramp outside. The goats like it on the roof because that’s how they get fed. And in case you noticed Jaemor Farms but didn’t stop at that either, here’s what you missed: Fresh produce, double-yolk eggs, scuppernong cider, boiled peanuts (in the south, pronounced ‘bald nuuuts’) and more canned jams, jellies and pickled stuff than you’ve probably ever seen before in one place.

I feel bad that I can't remember (or didn’t notice) everyone who helped throughout the weekend. It was a total team effort and a drama-free good time. Join us in 2009 for the next installment.

May the Hash get a Piece.

86. Like a Virgin... Hare

2008-03-15T11:22:00.001-05:00

Black Sheep H3 - 2 March 08

I stepped out of the car and it hit me; this strange feeling that I rarely experience. I know I haven’t hashed in a while. Maybe it was the excitement of the impending chase. Maybe it was the positive auras of so many snare-thirsty hounds milling about all around me. It was this intense inner awareness. What the hell was it? Some sort of intense mental clarity?

Oh. Sobriety.

Well, shit. We can’t have that now, can we? At least I was able to move past this silly intellectual garbage rather early. One sniff of my hash shoes helped rid my mind of any creepy tranquility. How can dry, crusty shoes smell this bad? I took a huge mouthful of water from my Camelback and took aim, sending a fine spray of water across both shoes to soften them up. With my feet now properly installed, I only had one more challenge: Fight the urge to lay down on my tailgate and take a nap in the warm sun.

Apathy.

Bwana pulling up with the beer helped knock out any remaining bits of laziness. Our hares were the apt female team of Blue Ball Special and Boner Rooter. Miss Rooter had this anxious, pensive stance, as if her virgin Black Sheep lay was causing a little stress. I’ve seen it. I’ve felt it. Many Black Sheepers deal with it right before a trail.

Fear.

We were up 400 off Holcomb Bridge Road and Market Blvd, unbothered by non-hashers in the abandoned parking lot of a Home Depot. We circled up and let the hares go with a promise of doubling our wait time to 10 minutes. While we stood there, we heard rumors that Bone Hole may have just returned from adding a little Foreplay to trail. Bimbos were schooled, dry bags were situated, and then the moment arrived.

On Out.

We dashed west; a beeline toward 400. This was where we met up with the FRB’s, returning from Bone Hole’s massive countback that actually went all the way through a tunnel. So a lot of us put in an entire mile by the time we crossed over 400 on Holcomb Bridge Road. The next mile was a mix of shiggy, assfault and easements as we made our way north, squeezing through the urban maze. After we started HEADing east, we got to the edge of a park and saw a BN, tempting us with the promise of mid-trail brew.

Shenanigans.

From what we learned later, some evil hounds got hold of flour and laid a false mark to get us all excited. But our liquid frustrations were soon forgotten, because at 2.3 miles, our forward motion was slowed by the singular reason many of us showed up in the first place. Swamp. Finally, all the running and the shiggy and the water and the mud all combined to give us what we were craving:

Orgasm.

Our journey back to the east side of 400 was a rocky one, perilously creeping along the huge rocks and slippery dirt, high above the creek below. We hit another swamp and then a power cut, where we looked directly south and spotted a hill. A runner, a biker and a car all disappeared down the other side. But trail went east, into a swamp.

Circle Jerk.

We took the swamp, since your loyal scribe always feels the need to experience any opportunity to get The Boys wet. And yes, the boys were vigorously dampened here. We pulled ourselves out of the swamp to a greenway-type road and the sight of civilians apparently amused at our route. We soiled their pretty road with the dirty water draining from our stanky clothes and gradually made our way to the hill, which led to a greenway parking lot. You’ve gotta love being a grimy hasher, running near annoying joggers who love the sight of themselves while they’re out once a year, swaggering along in their expensive tech duds.

Worthless.

Imagine an oval clock. The dead Home Depot where we started would be 6:30. The end was at 3:00, about a mile from the start, at the parking lot and open area near something under construction off Old Alabama Road. A school, I think. Who gives a shit. I finally had beer. One of the last people who came in was a familiar HNFN gentleman whose nerd name unfortunately escapes me at the moment. Well, he nearly passed out when he came in and had to be resuscitated before circle. I don’t know why that didn’t factor in to his naming, but his hockey shirt and some story about his past made up for it.

Two Minutes for Cross Dressing.

Maybe this is just me, but all the Black Sheep circles I’ve been to over the past year or two have been really entertaining. Lots of quick comments that still don’t disrupt circle and extra-credit frivolity that continually keeps you interested. Wild accusations, Black Sheep panties, licking of the ice, and etcetera. Sweet, sweet etcetera. And let’s not forget two hariettes sitting on the ice with long, black boots on. Why? We learned this when the hares’ song came, sung to the tune of Madonna’s Like a Virgin. Just a sample:

I got cramps
I got damp
I got stuck
In a fucking swamp
And I wish I was
Yeah I wiii-ii-ii--iished I was
A Black Sheep tramp

I was a virgin… HARE
Laying for the very first time
I was a viii-ii-iirgin hare
And I liked it
Snared from behind

Nice. OK, freaks, Two Crabs is doing the honors tomorrow. In the Austell area, with a promise of birthday-boy chicanery. Motor to Legion’s Park and look for hashers pretending to stretch.

May the Hash Get a Piece

85. Introducing the King

2008-03-15T11:20:00.002-05:00

Black Sheep H3 - 6 Jan 08

So there I was. Sober. And looking straight at Elvis Presley, standing in a suburban parking lot. I wouldn't really describe him as the Fat Elvis, but he had the Fat-Elvis clothes on; those white sequiny duds that made him look like the Pillsbury Dough Boy had fallen in a vat of shiny cake decorations.

All of a sudden, we were called to circle to send off the hare, and Elvis started stripping. "Oh God, my eyes," I thought as I got ready to shield myself. But Elvis had hashing clothes on underneath. Huh? Finally, The King removed his glasses and I realized it was only TLS, fooling us all again for the third or fourth year in a row.

You mean I was the only one fooled? Wow, I have to lay off the Mescal.

So there we were, now all on the same page. The hungry pack, counting down the five minutes until we could all chase after Tastes Like Shit on his annual Elvis Birthday Hash. TLS shares a birthday around the same time as The King, which (I'm guessing) is how this yearly debacle began.

Maybe I should mention that we started at Union Hill Park off Winward Parkway, east of 400. Northern shiggy. Someone was actually keeping the right time, which the more spry members of the group thought was worthless, since they said they would instantly snare anyway. Hmmm. Bwana was anxiously taking about swampland to the east. But 400 and some tunnels were to the west. On Out.

Flour had us immediately diving into the forest, heading west. Half the pack was obviously hung over and started following a front-runner who wasn't following flour. Oops. Soon everyone was back on track, only to find a CB at the edge of a parking lot which pretty much had us backtracking right past the start. We were now sprinting west across McGinnis Ferry Rd.

North now, paralleling civilization, which never seemed that far away. But it was slow-going, with deadfall, briars and a bunch of those orange flood barriers. The pack deftly trudged over a series of dry swamps here. Several of us took a wrong turn in a thick patch of forest, and spent a painful amount of time trying to get back to the last mark. True trail took us around a swamp that still had plenty of water in it.

The pace picked up considerably when we turned east again, with a lot of easement and fireroad r*nning. One of the memorable features here was a walk over a very low dam-type concrete wall-thing in a creek. It kept us dry, but only from the calves up. From the ankles down, we were submerged in freezing water that had a lot of hounds screaming. I recall crossing a couple creeks too. We sprinted over or under McFarland Rd, Shiloh Rd, and Old Alpharetta Rd, then paralleled a creek. It was here, near the water fighting undergrowth, that your humble scribe started hearing something about a snare from the front of the pack. Apparently I had caught up with the FRB’s. At mile 4 we hit road, and I quickly caught up with the hare. Energized by the warm weather, a few of us actually beat the hare to the end, thanks to the assfault and the sight of the famous Oops/Deposit Slit truck.

Cums on the Ceiling was our On-In host and once in her back yard, we were greeted to beer, orange food and plenty of space to mingle about. Elvis decorations were plentiful, including posters, a fake Elvis parking sign and a string of tiny paper records circling the umbrella on the deck.

Trail trial was mostly positive, with the only complaints being the mile of road rage at the end, and the insane amount of hair we were forced to see on TLS’s ass. Regarding trail, I had no complaint, knowing that I finally got my shoes wet after 5 straight dry hashes.

There was much licking of the ice this time around, as various people lifted their chilled buttocks off the block. I'd have to say the best story during circle was from Hot Pocket. She detailed her run-in with an Association Bitch, who was whining about people having fun in her general vicinity. HoPo said she was just looking for her cat, but the AssBit countered with, “What about those other 40 people who just passed by?” HoPo described her response with a shrugging gesture, and then made another gesture as she explained what she said when she was back with the pack: She dropped her shorts to expose her cheeks and yelled, “Hey guys, I found my pussy!” I believe she deserves some sort of down-down for that one next time we see her.

Speaking of next time, we have another annual birthday event planned. Little Easy and Gasshole are teaming up once again for our punishment pleasure. See you on the 20th.

May the Hash Get a Piece

84. Road Whoring: The Plane

2007-10-25T23:57:00.001-05:00

Hey wanker, our flight leaves at 11. So I’ll pick you up at the ass-crack of dawn. Also known as 7. Why so early? We’re flying out of the world’s busiest airport. And you tend to suck at this traveling thing. Be ready.

Flying out of Atlanta’s Hartsfield International can be a production. The event before the event. The best thing to do is use this super-cool equation: Departure Time - Bullshit Time = When We Leave for the Airport.
Bullshit Time is the time spent dealing with bullshit before we get in the air. I won’t explain it all now. You’ll see later.

OK, it’s 7am. You’re not packed, you haven’t eaten and you can’t find your passport. You know what that’s called? Bullshit Time. We’re only going to L.A. so the passport can stay missing. Get your shit together. Tard.

There are three ways to get our happy asses to the airport. Cabbing it is a money drain. Driving means $12 a day for parking. Or we can pay less for off-site parking with a shuttle ride. The train means driving to a MARTA station, parking and spending a minumum of a half-hour trapped in a stinky rail car. We’ll drive.

8a EST. Not bad. We already have food, coffee and we even made time to pause and gawk at the squished raccoon in the middle of the road. Here’s some Kahlua and Frangelico for your coffee. You can’t drink all day unless you start in the morning. Did I mention Atlanta has some of the worst traffic in the country? Here’s more Kahlua.

9a EST. Check out all those off-site parking lots we’re passing near the airport. They’re building even more.

9:10a EST. This is the closest parking spot. Two feet and a heartbeat to the terminal. Huh? You mean that guy over there stroking-out on the ground down Row S? Don’t mind him. He’s always writhing there.

9:20a EST. Did I mention it’s quicker not to check a bag? This is wait #1. Hanging out in line at the Delta ticket counter. Notice how many confused people there are here. It’s normal.

9:45a EST. Hartsfield has north and south terminals. Delta’s got most of the South Terminal. Now that we’ve checked in, we’re going to meet up with the cattle from the North Terminal to get ID’d with our boarding passes. This is wait #2. You haven’t flown since 9/11? Oh shit, you’re in for a treat. Grab a plastic Ziploc bag over there. Put all your liquids and gels in it. You’ll have to get rid of that toothpaste. It’s more than three ounces. Yeah, I know this drama can be dumb. Just be glad you happened to bring little bottles of booze. Wait, you can’t fill the bag that full. Give me a couple bottles and I’ll put them in my own bag.

9:55a EST. Wait #3. The security checkpoint. Notice there are two main entrances. Each of them splits into a ton of conveyor belts and x-ray machines. Pick the left entrance. It’s quicker. Then keep left. As we get closer, odds are 2-1 we’ll see someone get testy.
Here’s what you do:
Grab a grey tub. Put your shoes in it, and the Ziploc bag. Yes, you have to take off your shoes. Just do it. Get another tub for your jacket. That’s correct. No jacket-wearing fucks get past security. Anything on you that’s metal can go in the tub, too. Woah, woah. Hold on to your boarding pass. No, keep it with you when you walk through the metal detector. Phone? In the bin. Holy crap, are you going to be that melting-down testy-traveler person? Do you have a metal belt buckle? In the bin. Yeah, I’m sure they’d enjoy it if you went through naked. But make sure you scream, “I’ve got a bomb in my ass!” It’s more entertaining that way.

10:15a EST. Did you like getting the wand treatment? It’s your fault for refusing to take your ring off. Stop it. Why are you getting pissy? You need to drink more. Try the Crown Royal. Tasty. But chug it. We’ve got to go. Wait #3 is the train to the concourse. We’re going to Concourse D. Fourth stop.

10:30a EST. Gate D-2. Walk faster. We’re all the way at the end.

10:35a EST. Right on time. If we had hit any more delays they would have shut the door on us. Flight time is four hours, but it’s usually 4 1/2-to-5 hours from gate to gate.

12:58p PST. Welcome to LAX.

1:20p PST. Did I mention it’s quicker not to check a bag? Baggage claim is this way.

1:35p PST. Let’s walk outside and find a shuttle so we can get our rental car.

1:55p PST. The grey Ford Focus. Get in. Off to the hotel. Traffic won’t get too bad yet.

2:20p PST. A hotel right on the beach. Check-in shouldn’t be too painful.

2:31p PST. Here’s your room key.

2:34p PST. Clock it. It’s 5:34p Eastern Time. 10 hours 34 minutes. Over 10 hours from your house to the hotel. Ha. I win.

OK, you owe me the $315 for the round-trip plane ticket, $38 for the rental car and $155 for the hotel. Why you wanted to make this bet and do a dry-run for next month’s event is beyond me. But at least this way you also don’t owe me the $69 for my rego.

Well, we’ve got 10 hours before we have to fly back. Were are you taking me out to eat? Any four-star restaurant will do.

83. Easements, Paths and French People-Pleasers

2007-07-21T07:42:00.000-05:00

Black Sheep H3 - 8 July 2007

What do you get when you cross the Black Sheep Hash with Bastille Day? The ANnuAL Baastard Day, and a flood of French jokes. Surrender your time for a moment to find out what happens when a group of Sheepers gather in Lithonia with white flags waving.

Here’s what happens: we wonder where the hares are. I think it was around 1:50p as we were milling around the parking lot of the Southeast Athletic Complex when someone asked “Hey, where are the hares?” At once, everyone raised up both their hands and shouted, “I GIVE UP! I don’t know!”

Ok, no more awful French jokes.

Foreign Lesion and BWanA were apparently stuck in traffic. They finally took leave of the pack at 2:10. Two minutes later we smelled blood: We actually saw the hares dive into the forest on the other side of the baseball fields.

2 Crabs, our own speedy human bloodhound, sprinted for the snare. But Surly Temple and Burnt Rubber had boxed just right and beat him to it. I think we had been out less than 10 minutes.

We gave the hares five more minutes and continued along some more easements, which gradually pushed us south toward a tunnel we all knew was cumming. To get there, we crossed numerous creeks, either by jumping over them or going across pipes.

This early on, I already realized I would spend the rest of the day as I normally spend every Black Sheep Sunday: constantly passing Cheaper on trail, and constantly watching him get right back ahead of me. At this point, it has become a running joke. Pun intended.

We hit the tunnel under I-20, and from what I can remember, it was dry from the drought. About 500 feet later we hit a new r*nning surface: old golf cart path. Apparently we were in an area that once housed a golf course, but is now full of apartments. I’d have to say, this area was quite fascinating.

We kept going south to a wide creek that allowed us to get our feet fully wet. The hornets loved us. EpiPen anyone?

West now to a long easement, then a largish patch of forest and an apartment complex. A dirt path led us to a parking lot on the east side of Farington Park. Travel time: somewhere around an hour, maybe 3 1/2 miles.

Random facts:
--Some of the harriettes oogled the incredibly fit guys playing soccer on the field next to the On-In. But these gentlemen didn’t drink beer after the game, so we were unsure of their coolness factor.
--Two rare sightings today in the Black Sheep world: Little Sister and Choice of New Penetration, who joined Deposit Slit and made a beeline for the end. Hey, nice to have you. We’ll take your money too.
--The walkers weren’t too far behind the runners, and you can tell the walkers were rather pleased with that.

If you’re not too familiar with the Black Sheep Trail Trial, it is your chance to opine. Either thoughts about trail, or a story about what happened to you during the r*n. Hopefully it doesn’t start with “I got up this morning and it was hard.” Most all the people who had an opinion about the quality of trail were of the happy variety. In fact, the typical hashers who normally have post-swamp frowns were all smiles. The two detractors were GE (who came late and caught up to the rest of the pack in about 5 minues) and Wee Little Bit, who stared at both hares and said “This hash was a lot like a stage of the Tour de France that starts in England: Not genuine.” But that wasn’t even the zinger of the day. That award goes to Coffee Bean. But due to the fact that he was talking smack about another hasher that wasn’t there to defend himself/herself, I can’t repeat it here. Let’s just say that if you want to join in all the low-brow frivolity, get your ass to the trail.

Our fearless leader was tired from haring and had people choose their own songs. And again today, Hired Snatch came in DFL during circle. He was just in time to catch a mug of beer through the hash lottery.

There’s one more story left from the day. How about a post within a post? Here’s a cut and paste from what your humble scribe left on the Trash Board late that night.

A Trash Tale from ATL

So there I was. Drinking at Pine Lake’s 1050th circle yesterday.
A visitor was called up and said her name is Just Ann and that
she’s from Fayetteville, North Carolina. Being that I know a thing
or two about that fine city, I inquired immediately.

Turns out a gent named Beer Slut took his daughter Just Ann to a
couple Trash trails back in 1990 when she was nine years old. She
did some other hashes in her various temporary hometowns across
the cuntree, and she now hashes with the Pecan City H3 in Albany,
Georgia. But she still claims Fayetteville. Smart.

Anyway, after 11 hashes, she still had no name. Surly Temple was
standing there during my drunken interrogation and told her that if she
came to Black Sheep today she would get a name. Not only did she
show up, she represented well.

A certain Trasher wearing his cherished bib held witness to this
magnormous event. Just Ann’s companion Just Henry was there, and
was asked who made him cum. He announced that Just Ann made him
cum, and in fact, she made him cum a lot. So for now on and forever
more, Just Henry will be known as Sir Cumalot. Due to the whole royalty
theme, and the fact that our brains were sufficiently primed with the Hash
BEvERage of Choice, Just Ann will for now on and forever more be known
as Off With Your Dick. Shouts of approval were heard among the pack.

So now you know how a girl who became Trash by Relation finally got her
name after a 17-year wait.

FYYFF’s

If that doesn't warm your precious little heart, you're a soul-less cretin. Drink a couple shots of 90-proof bourbon to recharge your insides and read it again.

Now remember to be good little drinkers and join the flock tomorrow, July 22, when Tastes Like Chicken and perhaps a mystery co-hare give us a great reason to love alternate Sundays. (D’erections hopefully posted later today.)

May the Hash Get a Piece

82. The Choo Choo Hash

2007-07-21T07:39:00.000-05:00

Choo Choo H3 - 14 July 2007

So there I was. Drinking. When I realized that I hadn’t been to a new city to hash in more than a year. Go aHEAD and call me pathetic. In the ultimate coincidence, it was just as I was gasping at my pathetic-ness that I found out Pump’tKin was motoring up to Chattanooga for a little quality time with the ChooChooH3. Count me in.

Apparently, if you tell the drunks in Chattanooga that the hash is starting at the second Bi-Lo on Hwy 58, they know where that is: just north of Harrison Bay. This hash even had a title: The 4th Anal WASH. I don’t know what that means, but apparently some sort of shiggy is involved. Hares? Sticky Banana and Cooter Hog.

It was hot at the start, in a temperature sort of way. And lots of out-of-towners. In fact, there was more out-of-town hounds than in-town hounds (the locals drank for that later). SB dashed across the parking lot for his 10 minute HEAD-start, while the pack gyrated to “Father Abraham” and a certain Trasher hijacked circle just long enough to belt out “It’s Grandma.” On Out.

For those of you breathlessly following along with Google Maps, we hit Greenwood Road and a check had us searching up Banther and down Island Point with no luck. More Greenwood. Another check had the FRB’s running an extra mile trying to find trail, which ended up being down Snow Hill. The first beer stop was at a lot where the street crossed over water. More assfault here, and a sharp turn to a tiny gravel road off Savannah Hills Dr. Then the swimming began.

I had pushed really hard to this point, so the swimming was quite difficult. Some of us cramped in the water. Somehow, we all got across to a Penis Peninsula where SB’s parents live on the west side of the shaft. Beer stop #2. This was where I thought I was going to die of exhaustion, but guzzling a frosty Hash BEvERage of Choice woke me right up. More swimming and a little poison ivy brought us to Pierpoint and a Beer Stop on Coastal.

A mile of shiggy completed the circle jerk back to the house. Huge piles of deadfall were here, as well as a creek that turned into a warm, stinky, watery mire; either chest-deep or waist-deep, depending on your height. Just before we hit the actual lake, flour took us to Island Point Drive again, and the house. Length of true trail: 4 miles. Actual mileage: 6 miles.

Once everyone was in, circle commenced almost immediately. As was expected, we were “forced” to drink for any number of offenses. Your Humble Scribe consumed for crimes such as being a first-timer, being an out-of-towner, and being an extremely lazy swimmer. Hot dogs and other delights followed, as well as extra beer as a thank-you gift for the travelers. Plans for an on-after campout fizzled, so Pump’tkin and I ended up getting drunk with her wine-loving parental units. The homemade Licor 43 I brought for camp? We drank it at the house. Ha.

Thank you to every warm-blooded being that helped make it an entertaining day.

May the Hash Get a Piece

81. LongHotHillyHard

2007-06-18T18:12:00.000-05:00

Black Sheep H3 - 10 June 2007

Hello all you anxious alcoholics. I am your Black Sheep Hasherpa™. I bid you a very warm welcome. And by “very warm” I mean really fucking hot. So please fill your Camelbacks with ice water, or maybe delicious beer, and let’s get the hell on-out.

First thing you’ll notice are the blotches of flour we’re following this afternoon. If you didn’t see the two hashers sprinting away about five minutes ago, they are Colonel Clit and Snail Trail. It looks like they’re HEADing due west.

This parking lot we’re currently running through is for North Springs United Methodist Church, which is a few miles north of the perimeter at Roswell Road and Morgan Falls Road. See how most of the pack is taking the bait and following a couple close marks down Morgan Falls Place. Bwana and I are calling bullshit and are going the other way. Notice how we split up at Morgan Falls Road so we can cover more area. Yeah I agree, the huge amount of buzzing power lines right over the road is creepy.

Hear that whistle? Bwana found trail. And the pack has returned from their YBF or Count-Back and are following him up some strange-looking concrete stairs. There’s the canopy. So far, a creative way to get us away from the assfault.

Thick forest like this keeps the pack together because everyone’s going single-file through the undergrowth. Trying to get past everyone in this Hamsterland can actually slow you down. Another check. On-on. Looks like we’re taking the narrow trail along Bull Sluice Lake.

Yeah, it does seem like we’ve been on this path for a while. This view of the lake rocks. Just be thankful you didn’t go all the way up that crazy hill and find the YBF. By the way, the lake is 637 acres, and it helps buffer the water releases from Buford Dam a few dozen miles up the Chattahoochee. Why is that important? Lake Lanier is pretty big. In fact, it’s about 50 times larger than Bull Sluice. And flooding is bad. Sorry that your Faithful Tour Guide keeps coughing. It’s been so dry here and everything’s dusty.

That cheering you guys heard back there was because a casualty was successfully averted. The climb up from the lake was short, but very steep and uneven, and one of the hashers almost fell straight down. Luckily he grabbed a tree and probably saved himself from bowling over a few other drunks behind him.

This might be Morgan Falls Road again. And back under the power cut. We’re heading south now, in what would be one of the many strips of shiggy our hares will likely find in between non-shiggy things. For those of you who didn’t notice the sign we passed, it said Keep Out because of that massively gated power station. And the wailing siren you hear is because we set off the motion alarm. Is that a recorded voice-warning that’s going off with the alarm? We’re too far away to hear much now. Oh, who cares. It’s all worth it. Check out this forest we’re climbing down into.

No, I don’t think this is a finger lake of Bull Sluice. We’re too far south. Take a look at it quick. We’re HEADing back north again. And up a really tough hill. Hey, look, we’re at the far edge of the power station. That’s pretty much a Circle Jerk. You know, a piece of trail that can add mileage and scenery but will leave you almost right back to where you started. That guy who passed us? Barf Bag. He’s a never-ending fountain of puns. Note what he said when he saw the power station again. “Revolting.” And did you hear Boner Rooter groan after she heard it? I don’t have the brain power to torture people like that. But I can kill you with trivia. This power station is here because of the Morgan Falls Dam, holding back the lake over there somewhere. The Dam is about 1000 feet long and was built in 1904 as a way to power Atlanta’s streetcars. Now it powers about 4400 houses.

= = = = = = = = = =

Oops. This is about the place were your humble Hasherpa lost everyone. Or everyone lost me. There was a sharp turn off of the power cut that I missed. So I was by myself when I popped out of the shiggy to find a huge dusty parking lot. I was hurting so bad from the hills, and the sun was so bright that I just stood at the treeline and stared for a moment, adjusting myself to such a drastically different landscape. I ASSumed that the flowing water on the other side of the lot was the Chattahoochee. I jumped down to the dust and saw a flour arrow. Because of all the cars, I also ASSumed this would be the place for the beer stop. Jesus, the heat was insane.

I trotted to the far end of the lot, but no one looked familiar. And there were no hash bumper stickers on the cars. All of a sudden Burnt Rubber came out from behind an SUV and said something about a water crossing. Oh hell yeah. I think the people aHEAD of me at this point were 2 Crabs, Bwana, GE, Wine Ho and maybe three or four others. Butt Bob was the only person in sight in either d’erection and he was about halfway across the river. Well, One Ball was also in the water, but it was quickly obvious that he was the sole member of the Raft Retrieval Unit.

You gotta love jumping into water right downstream of a dam. It can be so amazingly cold. But I was definitely energized when I got to the other side.
The heat and the hills made this feel like a double trail, when in reality it was between 5 and 5 1/2 miles. Trail number two would have started right after the river with a lengthy jog along the wide easement created by one of the petroleum pipeline companies. There was a single path the whole way, so apparently cars never came through here. But people definitely did.

Trail suddenly cut north away from the easement and we were heading toward humanity. But before we saw any signs of life, we came upon a sign on some winding dirt road: “Welcome to the Middle of Nowhere.” Nice. There was a house or two every once in a while, but there was so much more forest to conquer. This included a few checks and some more painful hills, and then a small detour around a bunch of backyards. The last house in this row had a pool, and there were quite a few hashers that passed by and wished this was the ending.

Turns out the ending was in the same neighborhood on a street called Bayliss. And if I remember correctly, it’s owned by some non-hashers that the Clits know. Many stories were heard in circle about the adventures everyone had on trail. Because of the river crossing, Colonel Clit was temporarily renamed Commodore Clit. Too bad there was no wind-catching devices on the rafts, then Snail Trial could have been temporarily renamed Sail Trail.

Thanks to the hares for a fantastic trail and the backyard ending. Be sure to join us on June 24th, when an evil gent named Little Easy will serve up his classic version of torture in the tick-infested wilderness.

Swing Low. And May the Hash Get a Piece.

80. Q&A with the Trash

2007-06-03T22:34:00.000-05:00

Carolina Trash H3

What was your first experience with the Trash?
I went to my first campout in May of 2002, around 40 miles from my house at Hedon XXVII. That was where I kept hearing this buzz about Trashers and them being a cliquish and insane group of people who all camped together “over there.” They brought IV bags with them to help with the horrendous hangovers. I had only been hashing a few months, and everything about hashing was still new, so talk of the Trash didn’t interest me or worry me any more than anything else did. I remember assuming that if they were cliquish, there was no need for me to go “over there.” I was dealing with enough as it was. But if I had the mindset I do now, I would have gone over there and inserted myself in their equation, just to see what was going on. I’d be too curious not too.
The next experience was July ’03 at Trifuckta. That’s when the Key Lime Pie shot made its debut and we were introduced to two of the most infamous Trash incidents I can remember: The Near-Death-in-the-Trash-Bus Incident, and the Bottle-Rocket-in-the-Ass-Gone-Awry Incident. Sweet.

When was your first Trash trail?
Four months later. November ‘03. I had a better idea of what the Trash was about by then. Buck and Scaf said they were driving down from Virginia Interhash to do Trash Trail on Sunday. So I told them I would follow them down, try to crash somewhere in Fayettenam Sunday night and drive the rest of the way home Monday morning. For some reason, they called me halfway there and said they were bailing to go to Greensboro instead. So I was on my own. I was running late, so I got the bimbo’s number (that’s the day I officially met Whorenado) and got d’erections to the first beer stop. It was freaking cold as hell, and very few people knew who the fuck I was. The reception was a little less wonderful than the reception at my first-ever hash, but I wasn’t expecting a miracle here. My thought was, Hey, these are Trashers, I’m a nobody who loves traveling, if I’m worthy I can prove myself. The problem was that I was too hung over to do anything to interesting. It got a little better by circle when I started goofing off a little, and the pack was electrified by PP becoming the stunt-Dick Snail (scootch scootch). I don’t remember much; it was all a blur. I was called out as a visitor, and I was able to make a hash announcement that I was in need of crash space. CIMM came through with a sofa, and it was that little bit of hashpotality, combined with everything else that day, that made me want to come back.

OK wanker, then when was your first RUNNING of a Trash trail?
Shit. It still wasn’t when I physically drove from my house to ‘Nam to hash. The first running was January of 2004 in the middle of the G-Spot 100. To this day, the most epic day of hashing I’ve ever had. This was a trip on a plush touring bus, keg in back, where we did three trails in three cities, all in one day. Leaving from Greensboro, our first trail was in Raleigh with Sir Walters. Oh, and it was freezing and snow was on the ground. Our second trail was the Trash trail in Fayetteville, and our final trail was a Fatboy around the bar we ended at in Greensboro. This was also my first Trash trail with Red Breast, where I realized how entertaining she is drunk. It was soon afterward that a couple of the Trashers started calling us Mini Bumper and Bagless, after the last male/female travelers to religiously shuttle from Atlanta to ‘Nam. It was quite a compliment.
Oh, the trail. I don’t remember it. It was long and I was painfully tired and hungover. Before the On-Out, we were all chillin’ by the bus, the G-Spot hashers mixing it up with the Trash hashers, and it was seriously good. I can still remember the sight of the parking lot. We were on the west side of some grocery store, and there was a grassy slope on our end. (Was this the trail that they hung beer cans from trees with strings? The visual was just short of stunning.) I look back on that day now and realize traveling was still leaving me in a blur. There was still so much that I was soaking in. What a fucking great day.

Jesus, you’re impossible. When was your first actual trail that doesn’t have an asterisk by it?
March of ‘04. The start was at a World’s Gym. Yeah, I even remember the start, so bite me. We had traveled up for Moremen’s goodbye party. That was a classic weekend too. God, Saturday was a blast. As usual, Red Breast and I got there Friday night and that gave us plenty of time to warm up for a really early start Saturday. Highlight: a shitload of beer pong. This was the only day in my life I ever got multiple sporks. The volume of them was measured in Shitloads. I was on fire.
What house were we at, anyway? Maybe Spooge and Tonsil Tang’s. Because I remember Spooge freaking out late that night and firing his gun in the side yard, and Tonsil’s parents getting word of it and coming to drag her away. But these weren’t any ordinary parents. These were HARLEY parents, and they had just been to the house with all their biker friends a few hours earlier. They came back and her dad was on FIRE. And he was on fire with LEATHER on. Bad. Ass.
I don’t remember this trail either. Maybe I remember taking a dump in the really thick forest next to the parking lot before the On-Out. That would be about it. There was shiggy and lots and lots of virgins. I’m sure of that.

What was your most memorable trail?
The one where we started at Mendoza Park in Spring Lake in September of ‘04. Who hared that one? Spooge and SCAF I think. What an adventure. Two DEEP river crossings, and that was when When Harry Met Anus carried his baby across each one. Like any good Trasher-in-Training, the baby was on Cloud 9 while daddy did what he was supposed to do and not let his infant drown. I also remember a bum being rather entertained as we dove down this huge shiggified hill. We came to a screeching halt at the second beer stop. Apparently, the last part of trail was a swamp that was so intense with mosquitoes, it would be torture to send us through. No problem. Me and Yucca and someone else (can’t remember who) slathered ourselves with bug spray and dove in. But holy shit, this was the worst fucking horror I’ve ever experienced on trail. There were mosquitos EVERYWHERE. And they didn’t care about bug spray. I remember flailing around trying to swat them away, and feeling them smack across my arms. There was a spot in this hideous mess that my shoe came untied and I had to bend over to tie my laces. Mistake. I had to shut my eyes and hold my breath and pray I could finish tying it before I hyperventilated. The whole thing was such a damn rush. The funniest part is that the end of the swamp was about 10 yards shy of butting right up to Bragg Blvd. So one second I’m under the canopy thinking my brain’s going to explode, and the next, I’m in the sun crossing Bragg Blvd to the On-In at a park across the street. We named someone at circle, and sent him away naked, wrapped only in this really dirty sisal floor mat. Absolutely filthy and insanely scratchy-looking. Everyone was so fucking loud and obnoxious that day. I think I shot beer out of my nose twice; I just couldn’t. Stop. Laughing. I don’t remember what we named him, but we were really pushing for something to do with him having disgusting scratched-up junk.

What was your most memorable Trash moment?
Getting my wooden Trash mug with my name on it. I think I had traveled alone that weekend, and we were hanging out around the six-toed Trash-foot table on the patio at Fat Daddy’s. PP had gone home so he could get the mug and give it to me that night. There were enough people there where quite a few of them didn’t know me that well (usual because of turnover and because I’m a travel-Trasher) so I bewildered a few wankers when I did my down-down for it. I turned it into a whole production, including a quick and very loud announcement, a brief song and some sort of guttural bellow of a yell. PP just stood there shaking his head. I don’t know at what time everyone else thought I had finally became Trash, but getting the mug did it for me. I bought a gigantic carabiner that I was able to put the wooden handle in, and ever since, I either have that mug in my hand, or have it hooked to one of my belt loops. At campouts, I sleep with it. Yeah, I really don’t want to lose my mug. At NC/SC 2006, people came into my tent while I was passed out and dragged me outside, cot and all. Someone found my mug too, but luckily I found it in the dirt beside the tent the next morning. Odd. After years of drinking out of it, it’s pretty scratched up. But beer still tastes exceptional.

What was your most memorable event at a Trash beer stop?
Hole had laid trail right past a sex shop and put a beer stop right across the street. So some of us got to the beer stop with sex toys. The best was a rubber penis that was at least 18 inches long. We ran through an entire neighborhood waving that thing around, horrifying the women and children. Hey Honey, guess who lives in your town?
Oh wait. The first trail Red Breast and I laid for the Trash was an A-to-A loop from Pyrates in Spring Lake. At our third beer stop, Trashy ate his first used condom. I guess that trumps anything else.

What was your most memorable event in a Trash circle?
Hole’s trail again. We were passing around cheesy poofs in circle. Spooge was wearing an apron. Tang took the container, quietly went behind Spooge and started sticking cheese balls all the way down his butt crack. Then she pulled them all back out with her teeth and ate them. She never made a big deal over it, but enough people noticed to have it become a thing of lore. Bonus: Hole chilled down a watermelon and stuck a bottle of something in it. The cops came. Rock.

What was your most memorable circle?
Trash circle at the Interhash in Toronto. September ’05. I’m a die-hard Black Sheeper, and Bwana had what I knew was going to be a fantastic trail, but it was going to be really far away and it wasn’t going to be the Trash Trail. And oh my God, what a fucking trail we got. The hares were Buck, Shitty, Scabby, Night Train and New Shoes. It started off not-too-hopeful, with a mile-plus YBF on assfault. But there had been torrential rains right before we got there, and we kept getting lower in elevation. All of a sudden there was a shoe-sucking lake crossing, an excellent beer stop and then the mother lode: A slog through yards upon yards of mud. Mudfight? Yup. Desperately trying to stay upright while paralleling the muddy banks of a river? Yup. We cut left to this dirt trail and I looked up to notice the mudline, where you could see how high the floodwaters had been. They had reached over 10 feet high. People got into the circle absolutely coated in mud. Most of us cleaned up. But Hedgy let the muck dry and he wore it like a badge of honor. After that shiggilicious trail we were really pumped. And then we had a keg for circle, and two fantastic Trashers in the middle: Scabby and Buck. Even two bibbings. Watching them run circle for over and hour and not have it get boring was a total inspiration.

What was your most memorable haring in Fayetteville?
It was a trail Red Breast and I did with Keyless Entry. We saw an area we liked relatively close to the river, and got there a day early to scout. But we kept running into private property, and we were watching the day slip away. We finally gave up on that area and drove around to where we thought we might find a way into this gigantic patch of shiggy. Too many houses. But we found a lady in her front yard and I got out of the car to talk to her. She said there was an old guy who lived down the street who owned everything “all the way up to the water tower.” Well, that water tower was quite a ways away. So we drove over to his house to find him and his wife in their car, ready to leave. What luck. We asked him if we could borrow his property for a “cross-country run” and he said he didn’t care. He even gave us some pointers on the lay of the land. All we needed was one run-through and we were good. Not only were we good, we were stunned. That area from the water tower to his backyard had the best swamp I’ve ever been in. The perfect amount of water, very little odor and a very stable bottom. Us finding that bit of shiggy at the last minute was probably the luckiest I’ve ever gotten as a hare.

When did you get bibbed?
Trash Prom, December ‘05. It was actually the Prom a year earlier that people were prodding us with the fact that we could be bibbed. I was trying to reassure people that it was way too early, but they didn’t want to hear it. The day I got bibbed I had a jet-black banana hammock on, and I had sewn a Trash patch to it. Then I waterproofed it, so beer was sliding right off. But the waterproofing was no match for the rancid oil and rotting food. I still have the patch. It’s this nasty shade of brown and still stinks.

Trash is all about drama. Did you ever do anything to shake up the hash?
Pre-story: The Trash is notorious for its bib mixes. Red Breast and I made one that we fermented for a year. I got a little out-of-control with it and created a web site documenting the entire thing, including photos, counting down the days until Trash Prom ’06 when we would bring it as a bib mix donation. Some people claimed they weren’t even going to show up to Prom for fear they would get bibbed with it. After that, Trashy decided that the bibbings were going to be toned down.
The actual story: Right after some Trasher hit someone at NC/SC ’06, I added an addition to the Bib Mix website: pictures of me burning my bib. It was all staged, but it really pissed off some people. Understandably; if you know the importance of the bibs, you know burning your bib would be one of the few things a hasher could do and not be forgiven for. I was called a few choice names and had to post a quick retraction. I also explained why I did it: 1) Because I wanted to prove some lame point and 2) I hadn’t caused any drama yet as a bibbed Trasher and I was starting to feel guilty.

What is the craziest thing you’ve done? A.K.A. Have you represented the Trash well?
I don’t know if this counts: A couple years ago I started lighting my head on fire. Purell is almost pure rubbing alcohol and burns easily at room temperature. The problem is that it needs to be dark outside so everyone can see the blue flame. So I’d do it at night during campouts. I told myself I’d keep doing it until I had some sort of accident. It’s harder than it looks because you have to put enough on, but you also have to make sure you don’t use too much or it will roll down your face, like into your eyes. Then after you light it, you don’t have that long before your cranium starts stinging. So it’s one quick movement : slather on the Purell, light it quickly and wildly stamp out the flames with your hands. I’ve actually had people yell at me for doing it and call me a “fucking retard,” so it must be Acceptable Trash Behavior.
The accident? I was too drunk one night and put too much Purell on. So my hands were on fire and my head was on fire and some of the Purell ended up dripping down near one of my temples, and that was getting sort of warm too. I figured it was a sign I should stop. By the way, I never got burned doing it.

What would you like to say about the Trash in general, to people who’ve never hashed with them before?
I have a theory on why at least a few people say the Trash is cliquish. These are the hashers who show up to Fayetteville their first time and are way too excited to be there. It’s because they’ve met the Trash elsewhere and know a little bit about the reputation. But it’s like they’re star struck. They stand there with glazed eyes saying they’re going to start going to Trash trails, but not a whole lot of people can sustain that many miles in a car if they live out of town. (Like a 700-mile round trip from Atlanta.) I think this sort of excited delivery makes some Trashers think: “Well then, come here 3-5 times and then we’ll see how excited you are.”
Sure, that’s not always the case. And I can be way off-base here. But without a doubt, hashing in Fayetteville is different from seeing the travel-Trashers when they’re out of town. Hashing in Fayetteville grows on you, and you have to go quite a few times to have that happen. You have to “get it.” In other words, you have to understand that the Trash changes faster than any other hash in the region, and you have to be a good enough Trasher to roll with the changes. And by “good,” I don’t mean simply liking the bottle-rocket-in-the-ass Trash. I’m talking about the trails, the circles, the bars, the constant flood of new people, the mistakes and even the d.r.a.m.a. You can’t force yourself to like it. It just happens. If you have it in you, you’ll keep coming back. And even when you’re not in Fayetteville, you’ll represent well. I guess you could call it being A Trasher at Heart. In the grand scheme of things, I know hashing in general is a goof. But that doesn’t change the fact I consider it such an honor to wear a Trash bib. If I go back to ‘Nam today and don’t recognize anyone, I’ll still feel like a Trasher. And without even thinking about it, I’ll always act like one. To me, that just fucking rocks.

79. The First Hash

2007-04-15T10:11:00.000-05:00

Atlanta H4 - 19 January 2002

Holy crap, my life sucked.

Five years working the graveyard shift will do that to you. And for about eight years, everyone I knew continually moved out of Atlanta. So I started hanging out with people from work. Take a guess how that ended up.

Most of my co-workers were boring. We either ended up at a bar (I hate blowing an entire night at a bar) or at someone’s apartment bitching about work (I really hate talking about work).

The beginning of the end was when the last remaining person I could call my “friend” hosted a dinner party. I crammed a huge cooler with food and all the necessary cookware, went to her apartment and became the chef for the night. On the menu: Risotto, BBQ chicken and BBQ veggies. Listen to me bitches: Cooking all that from scratch takes time. And patience. And just a little skill. I was wielding a 16-inch cast iron skillet among other huge cheffing implements. And no one wanted to help. So I stood in the kitchen prepping while everyone else stayed in the living room hanging out, bitching about work. Occasionally someone would walk into the kitchen and stare at me like I was on fire. I was the curiosity of the evening. The entertainment; no different than if they rented out a two-headed female midget and had her growling through a cage in the corner of the room.

“Hey, who wants to poke at her with the bottle opener?”

People finally got hungry enough to volunteer to help, but it was only after I had almost everything done and they smelled the kick-ass skillet of risotto simmering on the stove above two burners. A week later, I took my friend out to lunch and told her I couldn’t do the work-group thing anymore. She never talked to me again.

I hate New Year’s Eve more than any other day of the year. Long story. While I was hiding inside the Drunken Scientist Lair on the last crappy night of 2001, I took a good look at what my pathetic life had become. I had always been working too much to find anything interesting to do, and I was so broke, my options were limited anyway. But that night, I decided I was going to do SOMETHING.

I shaved my head the next day. Beard trimmer, then Norelco. A day later, I got an earring. My new mentality: I don’t give a fuck what anyone thinks. Or what anyone says. I’m going to do whatever the fuck I want, and anyone who doesn’t like it can lick my ass.

Aim for the bunghole, please.

At that point, the only thing I really liked was running. So I went on the Atlanta Track Club’s website to find something to do. I was running up to 10 miles at a stretch, so I called the Ultra guy about their training runs. “Oh, we’re still winding down from our 50 mile Ultra, so we’re ONLY running 20 miles on Saturday.” Thanks, but no thanks. There was another entry for some single’s running group. Gee, I love advertising when I’m alone and unable to make relationships work. Why don’t I just get the word "shithead" tattooed across my cranium?

Then I remembered the thing that gives me more joy than anything else on the planet: Booze. Wasn’t there something that combined Running and Beer? I went through my papers from advertising school and dug up the one fake ad campaign they let us do. I did mine on “The 6-pack 10K,” where you drink a beer every mile. Even back then I was positive something like that existed, and I was obsessed with how to market it. Now I was obsessed with how to find it.

I found AH4’s website on January 5th. The hook: They said they didn’t give a shit whether new people showed up or not. Show up if you want. And if you show up, the trails are held rain or shine. OK, I would bite the bullet the next weekend.

The “rain or shine” sentence was probably the most important one on the website. At least for me. Because on January 12th it was pouring. All day long. Two guys named Little Easy and Big Bore were haring at Georgia Perimeter College. It was going to be a 50-mile round trip from my house.

(Flash forward a couple years. We were making 700-mile round trips to Fayetteville for Trash trails.)

I drove to GPC that afternoon to find empty parking lots. There was a scattered car here and there. But at the back of the farthest lot were a couple cars close together. I did a drive-by and noticed people sitting inside, so I parked and got out. I felt the rain hit my newly shaved melon and had one more reason to like being bald. I walked up to the closest car. Some guy rolled his window down and grimaced at the deluge and the cold wind. This wasn't what I was expecting from people I thought were close to adventure runners.

“Are you hashers?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m a virgin and don’t know what I’m doing.”

His name was Boner. He got out of the car with an umbrella. Soon, there were two umbrellas and five guys. Me, Boner, Pussy Pilot, Big Bore and Little Easy, amid the downpour and the runoff sliding downhill past our feet. I asked them why they even bothered with umbrellas if they were hashers and someone said it was because they still didn’t know if they should do trail. Because of the anxious virgin and the fact that they never missed a trail, even during the blizzard/Storm of the Century in 1993, they decided to go ahead.

There was no flour. No TP. We simply followed the two hares through flooded shiggy and mud. I was on mental overload, so even following everyone was a challenge. The three of us made a wrong turn at a sewer easement and we backtracked to the intersection to find one of the hares sitting down cross-legged in the soaking grass, waiting for us to return. Things got a little harder when my sweats finally soaked up as much water as they were going to hold and started weighing me down. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I was wearing sweats. Hush. I didn’t know that the fuck I was doing. I was even christened with a massive amount of mud when we climbed out of another easement by way of a small but slippery vertical hill to the street above.

The hares finally gave up and we took streets the rest of the way to the end. Drivers gawked at us. We wound our way to some park and approached a huge awning. I figured this was the end because the herd of dry people underneath saw us coming and started cheering. See, that’s what a virgin needs: Attention before he’s even introduced to the crowd. I was paraded around and met way more people than I would have expected at the end of one of these cold-weather things. Condo handed me a beer. Ouch and Tripod were sipping cider. I don’t remember everyone else. There were too many people with too many different names. Many were impressed that some Virgin would subject himself to these extreme elements their first time out. My response? Hey, I played in puddles as a kid. Here’s an excuse to keep doing it.

A semi-not-sober hasher suggested I change, and I turned around to see the four other guys tearing off their soaking clothes near their dry bags. I looked back at the crowd and noticed no one was gawking. No one gave even the remotest of shits. Fellow drunks, it was at this exact moment I was hooked on the hash. Beer. Running. Shiggy. No one giving a shit.

There must have been a circle. I don’t even remember. All I recall from that last part of the afternoon was people with cool names asking me if I’d be back. I looked down at the beer I was holding. “Uh, let’s see. . . either stay at home pulling my pud or do this again. Can I pull my pud on trail?” Much cheering and applause was heard, more beer was consumed, and a good time was had by all.

78. Cooper River Part Duh

2007-04-08T18:58:00.000-05:00

Happy Heretics H3 - 28 March 07 to 1 April 07

TUESDAY MORNING
BEEP. “Hey Shit, this is L&F. Just a reminder. I’ll be at Jackoff’s place Thursday afternoon to scout for NC/SC. I should be at your house by 6.”

TUESDAY NIGHT
BEEP. “Hey L&F. For some reason I thought you were coming tomorrow. Drop what you’re doing. We have something huge planned. Get here by 5.”

WEDNESDAY MORNING
I’m out the door.

WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON
You’ve seen hash trashes for a trail before. Maybe even ones for a three-day weekend. Ever see one that includes five full days? I haven’t either. This could get interesting.

Atlanta to Charleston: Five hours. The perfect excuse for sitting in a car that long: Just like last year, the pull of the Cooper River Bridge R*n, the Happy Heretic’s Pub Crawl and everything going on at Shit's house. Talk about being a Too-Long. This was the first hash I did since Trash Prom in early December. That's what a needy house can do to you.

I screeched into Shit’s driveway at 3p and immediately started pre-lubing for whatever we were doing that night. I didn’t ask. It’s more interesting to find out as you go.

WEDNESDAY NIGHT
I’ve got a dress shirt and slacks on. And dress socks. My shoes clacked when I walked. This is serious.

We burst into Big John’s and start guzzling beer while we wait for Amkneesia. This is not a dress-shirt-and-slacks bar, but I manage. This was the place where I found out what we were doing. And we were doing a dinner cruise. Let me say that again so it sinks in: A Dinner Cruise.

Coincidentally, we got on the boat at the same place were the water taxi dropped us off from the Bridge R*n last year. But can you call this thing a boat? When I think boat, I think of some tiny vessel that takes on water when the wakes are too big. This thing isn’t even a yacht. It’s more like a mini cruise ship. A triple-decker orgasm on water, staffed to the hilt. There were servers everywhere, walking around calling me Sir and shoving silver platters of Crab Cakes and Olive-Something Crackers in my face. Over on the other side of the mini cruise ship was a table covered in white linen. But in all honesty, you could barely see the white linen because the whole table was piled with iced-down bowls of human-baby-sized shrimp, wasabi oysters and caviar sushi. To your left, an open bar. To your right, an open bar. And this was just the first level. The second level had dinner, a dance floor and a big bar. Yup, free booze here too. Oh, the shrimp and grits were phenomenal. A band was setting up. The third level was open-air, and it was gorgeous out. I normally don’t drink wine, but the cabernet was amazing, so I sipped that while we floated around the Charleston peninsula. At some point I considered offering up one of my testicles for the recipe to the cocktail sauce. Instead, I had the doting bartender pour me two fingers of bourbon and I forgot about the whole thing.

It was dark-thirty when the cruise was over, but there was still time for some quality drinking practice. We went back to Big John’s and ran into some younger guy with five tons of hair and a quarter-ounce of sense. We didn’t realize how much of a drag he was until after we gave him an invite to the pub crawl. This guy was the stereotypical stoner dude, with that muttering mush-mouth vocabulary and the familiar grating hard-luck story about getting busted for dealing. He was so bummed about his five-year probation that he didn’t even want to answer my questions about home marijuana cultivation. But for the price of a beer, he talked for a half-hour. I’d have to call that a lot of entertainment for three bucks. Tool.

THURSDAY MORNING
I woke up in a daze. That probably isn’t surprising now, is it? I gradually created some sort of food for myself and drank enough espresso to get out the door.

Yeah, I said espresso. And no, I’m not a pussy. I drink the shit straight, no sugar, no cream. It’s like mainlining caffeine. If that’s what it takes to get me out the door, fine.

I got to Jackoff’s place at around 11. It was bordering on cold. There was some sort of kingly-looking male goat in a fenced-in area at the front of his property. Then I saw it. . . and by “it” I mean IT. . . the world famous lake. A thing of beauty, I tell you. Many people got drunk here. And one person got injured.

I’m not going to go into detail about that fateful day a hasher broke her arm at Jackoff’s last event and sued him. I’ve actually met her, and her story doesn’t come close to the other version of the story I’ve heard from Jack’s legal team. All I’m going to say is that when NC/SC ’07 rolls around, Jackoff will be making a glorious return as host, and he can tell people he won the lawsuit. From what I’ve heard, he and his lake have been missed. There are tree stumps littering the area around his house, because you apparently have to cut down some of your tall trees when your insurance company dumps you for being a lawsuit magnet.

I parked the car, calmed the dog down and changed. Bug spray, sun block, a call to people to tell them I’m heading out into the wilderness. That whole prep thing. Oh, did I mention Jackoff’s back yard is a National Forest? Yeah. Finding shiggy didn’t take much effort.

THURSDAY AFTERNOON
Jackoff gave me one urgent clue on the phone a few days earlier: how to get to his trail that links to the forest trails. Armed with that knowledge, I burst into a full-on trot and began my three-and-a-half hour adventure. Much interesting landscape was experienced by me and my passive writing. Hamsterland, muck, swamp, creeks and a couple things I will keep secret for those of you who are cumming and want to do the long trail. I’ll let you in on one interesting tidbit: the last three-quarters of a mile will NOT be repeated. I ran into the most horrific undergrowth. Briars were scattered around here, and some of the thorns were of the curved variety that dug into your skin with a vengeance. There was even some hyper-dense dead-bamboo forest that nearly drove me to insanity. I think it took me an hour to get through that entire last part. Way too long. So unfortunately, I didn’t get lucky this time around, and will have to rescout.

I got back to Shit’s place dirty, smelly, semi-bloody and rather sore. Uranus had shown up early and had already downed so many beers, catching up would have been impossible. We were leaving for downtown in an hour.

THURSDAY NIGHT
There’s a place downtown where racists pick up their numbers on Thursday and Friday. Gaillard Auditorium, apparently. But it looked like a convention center. Who the fuck knows. Attached to this public service is EXPO. No definite article needed. EXPO. Shit was scheduled to work the Charleston R*nning Club’s table at EXPO, and Uranus and I were scheduled to walk around looking for beer at EXPO. And yes, there was beer. In fact, for Uranus, there was much beer. Refills upon refills. All provided for free from the r*ce sponsors.

It was here at EXPO that Uranus bought a Stick. The Stick was some sort of thin, elongated contraption that you apparently roll over the parts of your body that need a pleasurable feeling. Probably because The Stick was more than $40, Uranus talked about it many times over the next several days, but never took it out of its protective plastic sleeve. At least not that I saw. So maybe he was leaving it a Virginal Stick until he got back to the Spousal Unit.

Tangent. Sorry. EXPO is a place where r*ce-related people set up tables and what-not to sell and give away their shit. And EXPO even gives out free plastic bags so you can put your free shit inside. It was here at EXPO I experienced the joy of my first moisture-wicking shirt, which is now my favorite shirt of all time, ever. I also ate a dinner’s worth of protein bars, including one from Snickers. Odd.

EXPO closed at 8, and the Kool Kids immediately went to dinner at Applebee’s, because some of the locals knew the big-boobied bartender that works there. And they know to sit at the bar, right where the bib-boobied bartender leans over to wash the bar glasses. Are you getting the picture?

Next was Parson Jack’s and we shut that bar down. The guy who owns it used to r*n a Hooters, and he has the ladies dressed in similar attire. Charleston’s own Show Me the Bitches works there, and we saw her before closing. This was the drunkest I was all weekend. Thanks, Jameson Irish Whiskey. I love you.

FRIDAY MORNING
I slept until 9:25. At 9:30, things instantly became much more high-paced than the relaxed chill-fest from the night before. Shit called with shopping instructions, but I was nowhere near ready to shop yet. Caffeine please. I growled and downed a pot of espresso. Uranus and I quickly jumped into Thor to do some highly important shopping for the weekend.

FRIDAY AFTERNOON
We got back just in time to witness Shit in his van, and Bone Abuser in his truck, roll into the driveway with what could only be described as an Assload of Provisions for the weekend. With the speed of sloths, Uranus and I moved into action to aid in the transference of huge volumes of foodstuffs. Some would stay at the house. Other stuffs would be for the BBQ at the end of the r*n the next day at the R*nning Club’s area. And I still haven’t mentioned the 5 kegs that accompanied all the food. Tools flew every which way as taps were assembled and the 77.5 gallons of beer were swiftly moved into place. This was also a perfect time to finish assembling the hot-water outdoor shower.

OK, here’s the problem: I used the down time between us finishing and people arriving to make a half gallon of Key Lime Pie shooters. I still had to make the homemade Licor 43, it being an essential ingredient and all. Much tasting required. And I still hadn’t eaten. The KLP ended up perfect, and I ended up perfectly toasted. No more trips to the store for this guy.

FRIDAY EVENING
I was rubbing a red sharpie across the mesh of my r*nning shoes when hashers started showing up. I was getting ready for tomorrow. A red dress requires red shoes. Duh. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw tents spring up like. . . um. . . whatever springs up like tents. And the no-see-ums were out in force.

Suddenly, I look up to see the Augusta hashers arrive. The Peach Fuzz people are some of the most entertaining hashers I’ve met, and there they were, making their way to the back yard. Looking at four famous travel hashers walking together is like spotting four celebrities moving in unison. You know those Hollywood moves where the stars are all walking together toward a common goal? The slow motion, the cool lighting, the drum-heavy music. That’s what it looked like when Pixel, Queenie, Spud and Dixie made their Grand Entrance. Papsmear was with them, put he would need to prove himself before getting lumped in with the hardcore four. Spud had on leather biker chaps. A couple guys witnessed it and their knees buckled.

Commence drinking.

FRIDAY NIGHT
I was helping and getting ready for the r*n until maybe 9. Time to turn off the brain. The pack from Rumson arrived, and one of them was barely able to stand within 2 hours. Nice.

Definition of a good party: You lose track of all the people you haven’t seen in a year and need to catch up with. People are drunk, and just the right number of them turn into the court jesters. The one-liners are coming so fast, you couldn’t write them all down if you tried. There’s three-man going on somewhere. Hashers are zipped inside a tent doing something mischievous. Someone flies by naked, and in the ultimate coincidence, finds a hot tub. Scattered guttural belches of varying degrees are heard. A bonfire starts. The no-seeums stop biting. And there’s absolutely no drama to be found anywhere.

SATURDAY MORNING
I finally got to bed around 3:30, so of course I was still drunk when I woke up 2 1/2 hours later. I think the alarm made me cry. I somehow pulled my ass off the inflatable mattress and got my pretty red clothes on. There were about 20 zombies from Shit’s house who left at 7 in the morning to get to the start on time. And if I remember correctly, only a couple were sans-red-dresses. But one of the local papers said there were 125 of us in red dresses. So make your own estimates.

There are thousands upon thousands of people who do the Cooper River Bridge R*n every year. It’s one of top 5 largest 10k’s in the nation, and among the top 50 largest road r*ces in the world. These people pay $25 or $30 to register, wake up ass-crack-of-dawn early Saturday morning, deal with a logistical nightmare to get to the start, and then cram themselves together so tightly that many of them can’t even r*n if they tried. In other words, they become STARVED for entertainment. And we gave it to them.

We had a beer stop at mile one. It was cloudy out, and the no-see-ums were biting worse than they normally do in the evening. But the only thing I didn’t have in my purse was bug spray. Go figure.

Sticky, Amber Altert and I decided to r*n when we got to the top of the bridge. The closest marker as 2 3/4. That’s when it got interesting. We pulled away from the people who were used to us by now, and started hearing rapid-fire comments as we swiftly cut and weaved through the crowd. Three guys in red dresses, zig-zagging, criss-crossing and going twice as fast as everyone else. How do I describe it? Striking. Bad-ass. I pulled back a few times and watched Sticky and AA work their magic, and all I could do was laugh. It looked fantastic.

I had to step up this year, but once a dude puts on a dress, what else is there? I could have put on a wig and makeup, but the wig would have made me sweat more, and the makeup would have r*n. So I simply accessorized.

THE OUTFIT
--A dress that looked like a jumper. Very open-chested to show off the man-hair. Color? Not bright like a prostitute-red, and not dark red like a maroon. A good official medium-shade red. My mom found out I was cross-dressing for the hash and made it for me. I told her I was straight, but her tone didn't sound like she believed me. I just think she was so relieved that I wasn’t a transgendered hasher who was aching for The Operation.
--A matching belt. The dress is fairly straight-sided, so putting it on accentuates the figure.
--A matching bandana. The dress, belt and bandana all have this really cool subtle pattern on them. I have no idea where my mom finds her fabric, but she constantly comes through. The bandana is freaking huge, and when I put it on, there’s plenty of leftover fabric that hangs down in the back. Almost pirate-esque. Yaaarrrr. Bonus coolness: there’s a sweat-band sewn in.
--$100 Brooks Dyad’s. Now red, with red laces and black highlights. I mention $100 because people back at the house told me I was a borderline retard for sharpie-ing them. Hey, but I’m all red now, aren’t I?
--Red cotton bootie socks.
--Black shades with black lenses, to match the black in the shoes and the very subtle black swoops in the dress fabric.
--My hash necklace with the small-letter beads.
--My cross-dressing necklace with the giant-letter beads. This necklace comes out of the closet (pun intended) any time I wear a dress or lingerie for the hash. It doesn’t say L&F. It says Ellen F. Get it? The first and last names are separated by a huge round bead that shows a stick-figure woman with a red dress on. Brilliantly perfectly gorgeous.
--One red purse. And let me tell you fuckers something: That was the best 11 bucks I ever spent. Every couple yards of the r*ce I’d hear something like this behind me, “He’s got a purse” “Look at the purse” “Oh, they’re in dresses and that one guy has a purse.” “Ha, check out the purse.”
--And the show-stopper. The micro panties. Ultra-tight spandex boy shorts that are just big enough to hide what needs to be hid to keep from getting arrested. Every time we passed girls/women and a group of them screamed in approval, I’d take the hand that wasn’t holding the purse and lift up my dress so the crowd could see the micro panties. Wanna loud reaction, anywhere you go? This move is highly suggested. About a mile into our r*n, Sticky said, “ I don’t even need to look back to see when you’re doing that. I can tell by the screams.” Mission accomplished.

We were all “bandits” without r*ce numbers, but we ran all the way through to the finish line for maximum attention. The end was at some park. Marion Square, I think. The Charleston R*nning Club’s area had burgers, hot dogs and H3’s BEvERage of choice. And after a couple beers, I was cooled off and about ready to pass out. I found other exhausted red-dressers and got back to the house.

SATURDAY AFTERNOON
Noon. I had a quick, hot outdoor shower and passed out. Most everyone else did the same. Some minus the shower.
3p. Guess who was up and drinking? The Peach Fuzz clan.
5p. I was in charge of transporting all of us to the start of the pub crawl. I started making confirmation calls and getting dressed.
530p. On Out. Only two people from Shit’s stayed behind.

SATURDAY EVENING
About 30 of us screeched to a halt at the start of the pub crawl to find a lot more thirsty freaks. About 75 actually. We were minutes from circle. I ran around quickly to get my marching orders and found out who the co-hares were. ASSistance seemed to be coming from the same stellar beings as last year: You Had Me At Excuse Me, Amkneesia and Bone Abuser. Shappens circled us up, shouted a few words, grabbed his bag (of chalk and paraphernalia) and was off.

My turn. I walked into the middle of the circle, surrounded by 100 people. 100. One hunnert. How fucking sweet is that. The Greenville people represented well again, as did Charlotte. There was also a whole pack of youngish people from Charlotte who had never hashed before, but read about the pub crawl in a local paper. More? Of course. First timers to Charleston. Old timers, like AT&T. She apparently hasn’t hashed in a decade. I pulled her into the middle of circle and made her do the warm up song with me. To the melody of Father Abraham and Father Birmingham, I guess I should call this one “Father Shit.”

Poor Shit Happens
Had seven wives
Seven wives had Shit Happens
First they made him cum
Then they made him cry
When they took him for his money

He’s only had four wives, but you get the picture. For those of you how don’t know the original songs, you scream out a body part and move it violently while you sing the verse again. Then you scream the first body part and a second body part and sing the verse yet again. You end up with at least five violently moving body parts. For this warm up, the body parts are:

With a left hand [stick out your hand like you’re getting money]
With a middle finger [use the right hand]
With a left knee to the crotch
With a big fat right toe
With a tongue to the bunghole

By the time you do all that, you’re definitely warmed up enough to drink. On Out you sober wankers. Thanks to the people who gave me ideas on improving the song. For those of you who said Shit would kick my ass later, I hung my cranium low the next day and admitted I did a song about him and was forgiven. Sweet.

SATURDAY NIGHT
Here’s the good part about this pub crawl: There are a shitload of people. If you are so inclined, you can people-hop all night and still not hit everyone. That’s pretty much what happened. Like last year, people started swaying, slurring and generally getting piss-drunk at the fourth bar. And we had at least six. Big John’s was either sixth or seventh. That was the ending, and that was where the bar food appeared. Wings, tater tots and some other stuff. The clock struck midnight, and all the people staying at Shit’s house were chauffeured back. Drunk and happy.

SUNDAY MORNING PART 1
We applauded ourselves for getting back alive, and awarded ourselves with more booze. There was also more food of the fried and barbequed variety. I heard rumors of assorted sex and general mayhem. Holy crap, the poor neighbors. I started drinking at 3. Vodka. I made it until I saw the sun started to come up, rolled out of the hot tub and took a nap.

SUNDAY MORNING PART 2
9:30. Some non-booze liquids were consumed, and I started packing up. I saw mimosas. Notice I said SAW and not DRANK. Not ready. The water in the hot tub had a strange milky tint to it. OK guys, what happened after I went to sleep? Actually, I didn’t want to know. I asked about the strange tint from last year’s water and it scarred me for life.

SUNDAY MORNING PART 3
11:30. Shem Creek Bar and Grill. The seats at the back bar were full, so some of us sat at the tables in the same area. Rehydrated, I now needed Hair of the Dog and some grease. But our server had a different idea. She greeted us late, got our non-booze drinks late, never punched in my Bloody Mary order, and barely knew the menu enough to punch in our food order. The comedy of errors continued until I gave up and paid for what I got. I’ve been to Shem Creek before. And I’ll go there again. Hopefully I get a bar seat though.

SUNDAY AFTERNOON
I fled from our retarded server and started the drive home.

SUNDAY EVENING
My streak of zero speeding tickets holds for yet another road trip. Barely. I had just reached the edge of the Atlanta suburbs and moved out of the fast lane, unconsciously resigning myself to impending traffic and settling down behind some old fart going 70 in a Continental. And what was right there at the side of the highway? Two freaking cops, lasers blazing. I see one pull out into traffic and line up behind me, preparing for the kill. A string of swear words were uttered by a very unhappy bald dude, when the cop suddenly veered into the fast lane and sped past me, in search of his real target: A white Lexus. Thor squeaks by the cops again.

My room looked like it exploded once I got everything unpacked. Screw it. I had my daily obligatory shot of delicious booze and went to bed. I think I finally got up Monday afternoon.

EXECUTIVE SUMMARY
Hell yeah bitches.

May the Hash Get a Piece

77. Hash Songs

2007-01-16T23:04:00.007-05:00

Hashing Hashing

by L&F, Black Sheep/TRASH
Melody - New York New York

The mud on your shoes
The strange names you use
I want to be a part of it
Hashing, hashing.
That’s poison ivy isn’t it
Hey! And that’s a tick
I know what I will do
I’ll grab a beer and hash with you.

Into the Shiggy

by L&F, Black Sheep/TRASH
Melody - Over the River and Through the Woods

Into the shiggy and through the swamp
To get to the beer we trudge
The hare hears the sounds
Of approaching hounds
Through the woods and skanky sludge

Into the briars and through the creek
There’s whistles drawing near
The hare was snared
But we don’t care
Because we all have beer

Mister Beerman

by L&F, Black Sheep/TRASH
Melody - Mr. Sandman

Mister Beerman
Give me a can
I need some nectar to hold in my hand
Heineken, Fosters
Coors Light or Bu-ud
I don’t give a shit
As long as there’s su-uds.

Mister Beerman
Give me a brew
Clear dark or amber
With a reddish hue
When it comes to booze I’m a fan
Mister Beerman give me a can

76. Welcome to the Black Sheep Hash

2006-11-27T00:48:00.000-05:00

Black Sheep H3 - 26 Novembeer 2006

Black Sheep. It’s called that for a reason. It’s the hash that winds up alienating itself from the rest of the hashing world through sheer difficulty. You don’t think so? We’ve had people go out and disappear. Others get to the end in tears. A few have even wound up in the hospital. I hared half of a 6-miler last month and almost checked myself in voluntarily. Think of BSH3 as the Southern Comfort Hash, but longer, and in the daylight so you can fuck with the pack more. You think I’m kidding? Go back to the BSH3 site and read some of the hash trashes. Or just read this one. The Black Sheep hash will humble you. Or leave you broken. You only like it if you’re a masochist. Here’s the story of 41 masochists (and a couple unsuspecting first-timers) who anxiously gathered on a warm day in late November.

Yes, I said warm. T-shirt weather, just five days from December. Approaching 70 degrees, and so fucking sunny that the clouds were actually scared to appear. Are you getting the visual? Good.

Now for the start. Food Depot, I-675, exit 2. If you lift your nose and sniff really, really hard, you can actually smell the swamp. You could see random hashers pointing in that direction, toward the other side of the Interstate, before we sent off the hares. Call it a spiritual pull, or even a physical pull, since it appeared we were all subconsciously drifting toward the east as we waited our five minutes. But hold on… the hares were going north. No. East. Head east, please. But we weren’t worried. We all knew it was coming. And when it did, we would be cumming too.

So north we went, merrily mumbling to ourselves about the impending shiggy fest. We were attempting to chase down Pussy Pilot and Bone Hole, who were laying their annual trail in the name of Saint Andrews. My phone was in my CamelBack and my GPS was strapped to my side. Why? Insurance. Because I know the power of the Sheep, and I learned my lesson long ago.

We were running on pavement for some unknown reason, and we soon figured out why. A YBF. So the FRB’s ran back to the rest of the pack, and in a large group effort, we found the next mark.

North again. This time we were paralleling the Interstate. It wasn’t too much later that we came upon our first quality check. There were four tunnels together heading east. (Yes grasshopper, head east.) Five of us gave it a shot, and came up empty. Nothing in the creek, or on either bank. Someone was halfway in the tunnel and turned around to yell that they had heard a whistle. So off we bolted. Due west.

Much of the shiggy here was of the easement and fire-road variety, with some horrific briars and a clear-cut development area thrown in for good measure. We finally crossed the interstate at Rex Road, near Adamson Middle School. Soon after, we popped out from under the canopy to a brilliantly placed check at the edge of a massive open area. Once near the middle, we surveyed our options in the warmth of the sun. To the east and over a barbed-wire fence was thick grass and a power cut. To the north was a housing development. To the west and south, close to were we came in, was more forest. We scattered for a tenth of a mile each way, and finally someone caught a mark. Due west.

This might have been the first creek. I can’t remember. It was good, and not as cold as I thought it would be. When we had to get out and run on land, we were hit with more briars. Some of us started bleeding. We got to a check and checked our cuts, then found trail over Double Bridge Road. There was more fast running here at the back of an industrial complex. This might have been where the really clean easement was, and it quickly got us to Ellenwood Road.

Somewhere between the YBF and Ellenwood Road we had two Scotch-stops. There might have been water. The Scotch was tasty. There was also an excellent area at a check where a creek ran right into a huge hill and split into several tunnels. We found trail in one of them and immediately went into water at least 2 1/2 feet deep. This water was freezing, and quite painful. Shrieks were heard and a good time was had by all. Oh, and there was one more interesting place somewhere along this part of trail: a place where we lost sight of one of our visitors from Boston. Amazon.Cum was making good time near the middle of the pack, and was last seen with her t-shirt off, running in her outerwear running bra (it’s probably called something else; sorry) and a pair of shorts. I only bring this up because she’s very tall, and especially with that many square-inches of skin showing, she’s not a person that is easily lost in a crowd. But from our later estimates, it was somewhere after the first Scotch stop that she disappeared.

I used Ellenwood Road as a place to stop the narrative for good reason: we had reached the Mother Lode. Right north of Ellenwood Road, between Grant Road and the railroad tracks was the awfulest of awful swamps. We got to the edge and thought it was going to be easy because there was no water to be seen; only dead trees and dry grass. Oh, fuck me running, we were wrong. Step. Grass. Step. Grass. Step. Thigh-deep in mud. Two feet of mud. And it continued. And continued. Every step was a crap-shoot. You either stepped on semi-solid grass and sank to your ankles, or dropped to a point where you were suddenly covered up to your thigh and could barely get your self back out. I heard screaming up ahead. People were spread out over the entire area, struggling to free themselves from the mire. It looked like a war zone in some of Hollywood’s best movies.

Boner Rooter was to my right, and was swearing. She wasn’t panicked, but she was definitely having problems. “Are you OK?” I asked her. “Yeah… actually maybe no… I just can’t… get… out…” She had a hold of something with her hands and very slowly and with much effort, extracted one of her legs. It was wild. I trudged ahead a few yards. To my left was Bobber from Jacksonville. He wasn’t moving at all. I thought he was cramping, and if you’ve never experienced it, intense cramping in a swamp can be horrifically stressful. He was clinging to something, partially bent over and immersed in mud. I couldn’t see anything below his knees. “Are you OK?” I asked him. “Yeah, I’m just resting.” Holy shit. I moved on. I found out later that Boner Rooter got stuck again, and asked the muscular Bobber for help. All he could do was be honest. He shook his head and admitted, “I can’t help you.” We were getting beaten, but we weren’t beat. The tree line appeared a while later and we were moving again.

It was somewhere around this area where we picked up toilet paper from Friday’s SoCo. I’m not really sure how it worked out, but no matter which trail you were on, you ended at the same place. So our ending had two BN’s and two ON-IN’s. Both trails had been very well marked. According to a couple people, the trails merged at some point, and that place was VERY well marked.

We all came in filthy. Even the Slack Sheep folk had found a nasty pile of mud somewhere. Boner Rooter was a few minutes behind me and it looked like she had just fallen down the side of a mountain. To her credit, she cleaned up really well. The Colonel had tell-tale marks where some briars had raked across his face. Pussy Pilot was close to looking like he got into a knife fight. Something had torn through both of my wrists, and they were on fire. The reward for our efforts? Two Crabs brought a fantastic side of pork, and there was beer and orange food everywhere. Sani opened a huge bottle of wine and poured some in a Diet Sprite can. Her stealthy consumption.

Amazon.Cum was a no-show at the end, and wasn’t at the start. So Pussy Pilot dropped off her companion, Nice Snatch, at the approximate point where she disappeared. Another search party would take off after circle. But it was during circle that the two of them finally showed up in his car. He found an open spot in circle and squeezed in, looking pretty good considering he had done some of trail twice. She, on the other hand, did not look so well. Actually, she looked like she was really cold, and about ready to cry or scream at someone. Gentri quickly handed her some Scotch in hopes of making her feel as happy as the rest of us; not only because we were celebrating another excellent hash, but because we were genuinely glad that we were all finally together. We never really got their story, because as soon as circle was over, they drove off. Someone had said the two of them had shown up at the SoCo a couple days ago and gave up on trail. They actually experienced some of what SoCo had to offer and turned around to go home. That’s fair. But the ironic part is that they came back for more… not just to another Atlanta hash, and not just to another Atlanta shiggy hash, but to another Atlanta shiggy hash in the exact same area.

Black Sheep can be hell. If you don't think so, you might have lost your perspective because you do this all the time. There are many hashes in the rest of the country that aren’t this tough. Also, I did this trail today after a month-and-a-half reprieve from hashing. As of late, I am constantly immersed in the corporate world. Some of these people don’t even like stepping on the grass in their own front yard. That pansy shit sucks, and makes us look like deviants. Sometimes I'm doing a rather difficult part of trail and think to myself, "My God, I'm doing something really memorable here." Some corporate people might even call a day like this a highlight of their life. The gawkers at work who see the cuts on my arms and neck either think I’m into some really rough stuff, or that my significant other beats the shit out of me. Either way, they think I’m doing something way out of the ordinary. And I am. Sane people don’t purposely dive into a swamp when they hear screams up ahead. We’re all insane.

It’s it great?

May the Hash Get a Really Kick-Ass Piece

75. The Trash Invades Atlanta

2006-10-25T17:49:00.000-05:00

Carolina Trash H3 - 7 Octobeer to 8 Octobeer 2006

SUNDAY AFTERNOON, A WEEK EARLIER
I was stanky, dirty and covered in dried flour when I found out the Trash Invasion to Atlanta was a go. At the time, I was driving back from a successful episode of the Black Sheep Hash, hared by me and fellow Trasher Red Breast. Our own mini-invasion, I guess you can say. We would be hosting our brethren from the Motherland in six more days. I rushed home and immediately jumped into action.

My fingers became blurs of lightning-fast efficiency as I called all the necessary players. Within a few minutes, it became clear all the bibbed Trashers from ATL would be playing a role. Bagless would be around to represent during the trail on Saturday afternoon, Red Breast would play host for an on-after, and Hole would insert himself into the equation at some point during the evening. Oh yeah. Me. Um… I wouldn’t be available until midnight, so I had to think about the day after.

I latched onto an interesting fact about Sunday. Not only was House of Boobs offering crash space, she was also haring the SOB trail. SOB stands for Slow Old Bastards, and they don’t like shiggy. Maybe I could create a turkey/eagle split and add some punishment, so the trail would more closely resemble what the guests of honor were used to.

TUESDAY EVENING
HOB called me from her car. She was driving around looking for a start and a beer stop for the trail. The end would be at her house. I was at the Drunken Scientist Lair, and I jumped at the chance to scout from home. All I had to do was get to Google Maps. I told her what streets and landmarks were close and she drove around the check them out. The satellite photos showed plenty of dirt roads and also lots of shiggy. So we picked a start and beer stop that helped us both out.

Here’s a side note about house-scouting. It rocks. You barely have to budge, you can do it naked, and drinking beer during the whole process is a whole lot easier. The best part is being able to describe to the person in the field where they are, and what they’re approaching. It turns the house-scouter into something resembling God, minus the halo and bright clothes.

THURSDAY AFTERNOON
I parked at HOB’s house and walked to the start. Trail would be wherever I walked from that point, and I ended up with a four-mile trail. Total scouting mileage for the day: 6 miles. Total scouting time: 3 hours.

SATURDAY 11:59 PM
I pulled up at HOB’s house to see Trashy and OG (since bibbed; congrats, bro) sharpie-ing two newer members of the Trash family. Passed out in OG’s SUV were Just Gabriela (since named Looking for Sperm in All the Wrong Places) and Only Shoots Blanks. When you realize they’re dating, you’ll realize why she got her name. Or is that take too much brain power? Sorry, tangent. Both of them weren’t going to wake up for anything. I watched in amazement as Trashy contorted himself into the back of the SUV, surrounded by splayed-out limbs, and successfully removed enough of his clothes to create some quality photos.

In addition to these four, American Midol flew down on her cousin’s (Landing Strip’s) buddy pass. They had done trail earlier in the day, but I wouldn’t see them until the SOB on-in.

SUNDAY, EARLY
The sharpie-ing was successful. Once that was over I had to catch up for a few minutes, and not just by cracking open the 100-proof black cherry vodka. I also needed to figure out how well the day was progressing for our visitors. It seems life wasn’t sucking too bad. So we moved on to a quick recap of life in the ‘Nam and then proceeded to drink ourselves silly. The last ones standing were Trashy and Hole, and by our craptacular math, we figured they finally passed out around 6:30 in the morning.

SUNDAY MORNING
I got up around 2 hours later and started piecing things together. A bottle of Jager was gone, apparently falling victim to a high-octane game of tippy cup. There was a line drawing of a dick on the flat-panel TV, luckily created with dry-erase marker. A camera (OG’s, I think) showed Hole/Trashy involved in same gayish-looking (but hash-acceptable) behavior, and from what I was told, there might have been ejaculate on the kitchen counter at some point. There were beer bottles scattered everywhere, making the house look more like a glass forest. There’s always a sense of pride in seeing that. But I couldn’t stand around gloating at the damage for too long. We had a trail to do.

HOB and OG gradually made their way to the start to prelay the SOB portion of trail, while I got d’erections together for the bimbos.

We gathered at 1:30 and I was off at 1:45. The only people brave enough to do the shiggy/eagle trail were, of course, the Trashers.

TRASH TRAIL, CUSTOM-MADE
The start was a park south of HOB’s house, and just south of the Little River. The beginning of trail consisted of two river crossings (the water was never more than thigh-deep) and some sewer easements. A south loop included a kick-ass all-uphill hiking trail, railroad tracks and a shiggified trip downward to the river for a third water crossing. Most of everything else to the beer stop was among a maze of dirt trails, but some were swampy or overgrown, and one piece featured a trek along a claustrophobic creek. The beer stop was where the forest met HOB’s development, at a cul-de-sac where there still wasn’t any houses yet.

From there, the SOB’ers took road to the end. But the eagle loop added some hamsterland, deer tracks, lots of deadfall and another quick trip along the tracks. There were three cool things to see toward the end, ranging from surreal to cum-in-your pants gorgeous. The first was the remnants of an old bridge that used to take an old road over a creek. The second was the creek itself, lined with rocks, which wound its way underneath a greenish canopy. Finally, after a painful climb up a steep hill to the development’s west side, the payoff: A view across a huge valley to Kennesaw Mountain and the surrounding area.

The on-in included food and (yeah, like we really needed anymore) beer. Dr. Doo Doo ran circle in the typical entertaining Dr. Doo Doo style. And to his credit, he even acknowledged the Trash in a special down-down, even though after a weekend in town, some people didn’t want to see the Trash acknowledged for anything. Those of us of the Trash variety raised our mugs just a little bit higher and sang just a little louder, to show the rest of the world we simply don’t give a shit.

Since I was something of a host, and not an Invader, I would like permission to dub the Invasion a success; from the constant acts of stupidity, to the volume of booze consumed, to the fact that all of the local Trash were able to take part. From my end, the afternoon of scouting was worth every second, laying the trail was a blast and I finally got to bathe myself in the aura of CTrH3 without having to leave ATL.

On-On to Prom and
May the Trash Get a Piece

74. The Oil Can Challenge

2006-10-24T19:47:00.000-05:00

Black Sheep H3 - 15 Septembeer to 17 Septembeer 2006

The highlight of this year’s Lake Hartwell campout was actually a multi-hour chunk. We were on trail and under the canopy when it started. First we were stepping on wet, grassy reeds. Then the reeds had a squishy sound from the water underneath them. Then the reeds were totally submerged. That’s when we heard the screaming from the hounds up ahead, and we knew this was going to get nasty. Right then, the canopy cleared out to a full-fledged swamp. The best (worst?) part was the deepest part, when water came up just over my navel. I looked down and saw my whistle and Camelback mouthpiece in the murky, brown mess. Luckily, the footing was OK, because if there would have been shoe-sucking mud under water this deep, we would have been swimming to get across.

I came in right after the FRB’s, and the bimbos were already prepared for the long ride back to camp. They had vehicles waiting for us, and when I came into view, they immediately motioned me toward the first car in line. As soon as my ass hit the seat, we were off. I think I was at the end about 30 seconds. Now that’s service. We got back to camp one carload at a time, most of us going right to the lake to jump in and wash off. This would be one of the rare times that circle came to us.

Bwana announced the Oil Can Challenge in circle, but I immediately dismissed it because I was already getting drunk. So it was just coincidence that I walked back to the house and saw everyone standing around the block of ice, cheering. Two uncomfortable hashers were just pulling their numb asses off the block, looking rather ill. Their times were both around a minute. As they were receiving their shirts, EverQueer walked toward the ice with a look of determination on his face. It was over as soon as it began. 14 seconds and all 25.4 ounces were gone. He actually spent more time puking it all up. He stood with his forearm on a tree, head on his forearm, hurling and dry heaving and giving everyone the finger as they taunted him. But he didn’t get too worked up over it. 14 seconds is 14 seconds, no matter how you look at it.

Two people didn’t make it in 90 seconds, but got shirts anyway. No one complained, since the obvious torture they went through was worth every second. Better still was the people who kept puking and consuming at the same time. They’d get around 5 ounces down and hurl it back up in a stream of white froth. One of the pukers was Surly… Surly Temple… King of the Wild Front Queers. He couldn’t even be bothered to lean over. He just stayed upright and let the puke shoot out of his mouth to the grass in front of his feet. Another few sips and another frothy stream. Boob Teaser, a beer-mile champion, got the non-puke award at 16 seconds.

The surprise of the day came from Hired Snatch. If he isn’t the oldest Sheeper, he sure looks it. He quietly sat down and popped the top, as the pack noticed his unsteady grip on the can. The clock began and that fucker drained every drop in 19 seconds flat. This from the guy who had a diabetic episode last year and almost died on trail. That’s one tough sum’bitch.

The peer pressure chorus got louder each time I turned down a round, until Gentry finally announced he would sponsor me. Well, hey, if someone was going to put their money where my mouth was, how could I refuse?

Oil cans are odd. They are stronger than normal cans, and the larger size gives them more weight. So it feels like you’re drinking from the pull-tab era of the ‘70’s. I pulled my swim trunks down and sat on the frozen block. Déjà vu set in as soon as I took my traditional test sip. Doing this is the same for me every time.

“GO!”
The cheering fades from my ears as my half-minded concentration kicks in. As usual, I get a few ounces down and have to pause briefly as my system comprehends what’s going on. It’s a strange feeling. I think at least some of it has to do with my stomach reluctantly starting to expand. This whole process doesn’t take long, and I start chugging. The last few ounces are always painful, but I know I have to get through it fast because my stomach tells me stuff’s coming back up. I tip the empty can over my cranium, jump off the nice and go to the edge of the circle. But I never puke. I can’t, even if I wanted to; fingers down my throat included. (Now you know why I can’t play tippy cup.) But I give everyone a few seconds of impressive audio with violent belching to get out all the carbonation.

There’s another Challenge in the can. Pun intended. The only thing left to do was to go get my Oil Can Shirt and wait for the buzz to kick in.

As with every year, thank you to Oops and Deposit Slit for opening up your house to us lushes.

May the Hash Get a Piece

73. Dear L&F

2006-10-23T17:00:00.000-05:00

Dear [L&F’s nerd name]:

We haven’t hung out in a while. I miss you. Expect a visit soon.

Love,
Coincidence

Being a quality road whore takes more than a lot of planning and an exceptionally strong liver. It takes luck, too. I made about three years before my luck ran out. More than 100 road trips. Looking back over that three year stretch, I am amazed I avoided all the personal drama that can keep a traveler home weekend after weekend. With my newly created down-time, I’ve found myself trying to figure out how the hell I did it.

Dear [L&F’s nerd name]:

As a big corporation that has been bought out by an even bigger corporation, I have decided that I am not Office-Space enough. The managers that run me need to be more annoying and your co-workers need to be closer to helmet-wearing retarded. I hear your reviews are accurate. That can’t happen. And what’s this crap about you not getting stuck in hours of meetings every week? You’ll also need to start working on a mind-numbing project that will consume your life for weeks, even though you will end up never getting credit for it. Oh, by the way… you can kiss your annual bonus goodbye.

As if I care,
Your Job

--Get Road-Hard
This isn’t so important if you’re driving a couple hours each way. But when you do 12-hour round trips, you can’t have your brain play tricks on you; you have to play tricks on your brain. If you’re too excited when you leave, you’ll get to the event already fried. That gets better with time, actually. If you’re the type of person that falls asleep in the car, you’ll have to learn how to stay awake. Keeping your mind occupied can work sometimes, while turning off most of your brain can work other times. I’ve written long hash songs in the car to kill time. I also have Sirius Satellite Radio, and I’ve found several channels can keep the pain away for quite a while. Or I zone out; shutting down every part of my brain except for the piece that is watching the road. For really long trips, like 9 hours each way, I try to stop every 100 miles. Overall, I can typically get to 5 hours before I start feeling like I don’t want to drive anymore. In other words, that last hour home from Fayetteville is really rough, especially at 1 on Sunday morning.

--Find a Good Road-Whore Co-Pilot
People get whiny. Or they talk too much. Or they don’t talk enough. You’d be amazed how few people make really good long-term car company. They need to be willing to drive once in a while, and keep up a conversation. Just adding those two things can really help a road trip go by faster. Also, when you have somebody else in the car, they are normally on different mood swings, so they can pick you up when you’re fading out. Good co-pilots will be willing to “hold it” if needed, or be cool with stopping if they don’t need to. Did I mention no whining?

Dear L&F:

Coincidence and I were talking the other day, and he told me you haven’t been involved in a car accident since 1994. He thinks it’s time I get some damage. You don’t need a perfect truck that bad. In fact, Coincidence says it’s just making you complacent. I’m thinking about shaking things up with some sort of traffic drama. Have you ever experienced the joy of getting T-Boned? Get ready for some fun.

Kisses,
Thor

--Never Stop on Weekdays
You’ll now leave work and get as much done as possible so you can free up another weekend. Unfortunately, Monday night’s close to a wash because you’re so damn tired. Thursday night you’ll be getting ready for the weekend because you’re probably leaving straight from work Friday. So that leaves you only Tuesday and Wednesday evenings to do everything you need to. That includes bills, shopping, laundry, home repairs and desperately trying to keep your house from looking like a toilet. I actually had to cancel my DirecTV account so I could avoid the temptation of wasting time in front of the tube.

--Learn to Not Care What Home Base Looks Like
Is your place immaculate? Does everything have a place? Go on six road trips in eight weeks and try to keep that up. You probably won’t, even if you keep yourself busy all week. Think of your new life as a temporary gift from the Hashing Gods, and that sooner or later, you’ll have enough forced down-time to catch up.

Dear [L&F’s nerd name]:

You’ve been gone so long. I look like hell and parts of me are falling apart. I need attention soon or I’m going to start rebelling.

Sincerely,
Your Condo

Dear [L&F’s nerd name]:

So I was talking to Thor and your Condo. They want a piece of me. A big piece.

Peace,
Your Bank Account

--Get Rid of Significant Others Who Don’t Like Hashing or Won’t Travel
If you have a girlfriend/boyfriend/wife/husband who doesn’t share in your love of The Cool Kids, how many free weekends do you think you’ll get before the shee-it hee-its the fan? Get good at breaking up. Or grab some divorce papers. Your personal life will be in shambles, but you’ll be to travel whenever you want.

Dear [L&F’s nerd name]:

Last time we talked on the phone, you had mentioned the shape of your condo, due to the fact that you’ve been on so many road trips. That actually hurt your Mom’s feelings, since she realized you’re away from home all the time but only see us briefly once a year. I think she would appreciate it if you used some of your vacation time and came to see us. I know you’re having fun, and it’s not like we have a foot in the grave, but she did squeeze you out, and you know how much emotion is tied to that Motherly Instinct thing.

Talk to you later,
Dad

--Know Your Limits
I don’t want to sound like your mommy, but hey, sooner or later, binging all the time will catch up with you. And not just because you’ll start getting burned out. There’s the drama linked to drinking yourself into a coma. It took me a full year to decide I needed to set a limit. That was a great year, by the way.

--Learn to Eat Well and Sleep Enough During the Week
Last mommy-type thing. I promise. You can’t have a good weekend if you’re sick. I’ve heard drinking makes people happy and happy people don’t get sick as often. (Is that why hashers are hardly ever sick?) Potential illnesses aside, how can you expect to get no sleep and eat like crap from Friday night all the way through to Sunday if you abused yourself during the week? If you’re worn down before the weekend even starts, life’s gunna suck out of town.

Hey L&F:

What’s with all this bullshit going on? And why aren’t you running anymore? At least go for a walk, you slug. Fuck this mess. I’m outta here.

Your Immune System

--Learn to Pack Fast
Sometimes you won’t have time to casually waltz around your room finding just the right t-shirts, panties and sarongs for your upcoming journey. After a while, you’ll get sick of hearing yourself say “Oh shit, where’s my mug?” or “Where did I put my tent?” I have all my tenting stuff in a bin, always ready to go. And I have extra bathroom crap in a kick-ass bag that allows me to see at a glance if I have everything. I throw my razor in the bag and I’m done.

Dear [L&F’s nerd name]:

The gang and I were talking and we decided that you’re too efficient. I think we need to make it so everything takes you twice as long as normal. Don’t be surprised if everyone you deal with is suddenly really stupid. And slowwwwwww.

Enjoy,
Time

--Embrace the Three-X Rule
Take the hours of your round trip and multiply it by 3. That’s how many hours you should be able to spend at the event. Any less and the drive back can get really annoying. 3x seems to be long enough to make the pain of the drive up disappear. Example: The drive from Atlanta to Fayettenam is a 12-hour round trip. That would mean we would need to stay up there for 36 hours. And trust me, leaving Friday evening instead of Saturday morning makes a huge difference because we get an extra night of partying.

--Don’t Forget the Locals
You won’t see people in town if you’re gone all the time. Don’t disappear too long. It’s really nice when you can go back to your local hash and not be called a new hasher, or an elitist.

Dear [L&F’s nerd name]:

It’s been so nice seeing you again. It looks like I’ll be around for a while longer. Hope you’re having fun.

Love,
Coincidence

72. Virgin Territory

2006-10-01T20:38:00.000-05:00

Black Sheep H3 - 1 Octobeer 2006

Click on the photo for a larger view. We had a couple hounds ask us about the area, so here's more info than any sane person needs:

Hares: Red Breast and L&F
Length: 6 miles.
Start: Next to Mount Caramel Church, between Cartersville and Canton
End: Near New Hightower Church

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THE AREA

Mount Carmel Church Road was carved from a ridgeline north of Hwy 20 between Canton and Cartersville. The ridgeline is quickly apparent when you start scouting the area, because getting back to it sometimes requires climbing up some lung-busting hills.

As for the church itself, it was built sometime when Jesus was alive. If you’re lucky, you can be in the area to hear the minister screaming to the congregation when church is in session and the doors are open.

Next to the church is the new Georgia National Cemetery. It lies on 775 acres that were donated by a WWII veteran and land developer. It is meant to serve more than 400,000 honorably discharged veterans that live within 75 miles of the site. Because of the work being done, the property was clear cut, and a couple miles of the old road were cleared and widened. Some connecting roads got the same treatment. In addition to the clear-cut roads, there’s also an access road on parts of the south side of the property near the treeline, which was built for drainage. Veterans are already being buried at the cemetery, although construction is far from finished.

On the other end of the road is New Hightower Church. The old church was dubbed Hell’s Church, partly because of its remote location inside the treeline. It was built in the late 1800’s, replacing the old log cabin that served the congregation. Vandals burned it down in 1990, and the “new” New Hightower Church was built in a more conspicuous place across the street from the nearby cemetery. Paranormal experts came to the area to “investigate” in 2004 and found nothing. The current church is still vandalized on occasion.

Because Mount Carmel Church Road is no longer driveable, getting between the two churches is a 14-mile drive. That means the shortest route is the old road. Heading from west to east, you have the option of cutting through the cemetery to the left of Mt. Carmel Church, or winding your way down a hunting road to the right of the church. The actual dirt road starts about a mile in, and this is where the Wildlife Management Area begins. About halfway between the churches, the road becomes overgrown or washed out in spots. And about 3/4 of the way across, the road disappears near the alleged site of an old bridge that we found no remnants of.

Interesting sites near the road are vertical cliffs, tons of creeks and a magnolia forest with leaves bigger than a toddler. At one point, the ATV trails become really narrow and look more like hiking trails, complete with a really thick canopy and totally blocks out the sun. Closer to New Hightower Church is a forestry area that the local high school runners use for their cross-country trails. As you have probably guessed, there are quite a few possibilities here.

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THE TRAIL

For our annual trail this time around, we did something local, if you consider 40-50 miles from downtown local. Red Breast searched through a number of Wildlife Management Areas and found this one, which was far enough out so we could assume it was virgin territory. I drew the WMA map on top of my GPS map and we drove up to the area for the first time a month early.

We spent part of that first day driving around, trying to find ways to get into the area, as well as places for a start and an end. One of our first stops was New Hightower Church. We ran into some groundskeepers there, and they gave us a big history and geography lesson. The biggest piece of info was that the road we were on used to go all the way to Mount Caramel Church about 4 miles to the west, now a dirt road through the WMA and the property for the new Georgia National Cemetery. We gradually made our way over to Mount Caramel Church and found a way to the WMA from there, without having to use too much clear-cut land from the Cemetery. We scouted to the first creek crossing, but it had just rained and the creek was too deep and moving too fast to cross. We knew we'd have to walk back to the car, so we ended the day there.

For our second day a week later, we met at the end and drove one car to the start. This is the day we found the dirt mountain and decided it would be interesting to put a TP face on it. The dirt mountain was where we entered the Cemetery property, and stayed in it just long enough to make a beeline to the dirt road. The scenic views on this part of the Cemetery property are amazing, with the Etowah River valley to the south and the Blue Ridge Mountains to the north. The creek was much lower this time around, so we crossed it and thought we could cross it again to keep going east. No luck. On the east side of the creek were almost totally vertical cliffs. We headed away from the dirt road until the crossing was possible, if you call two lung-busting hills possible.

The scenery changed here a bit, as the dirt road became a little overgrown and then totally disappeared. Some parts looked like hiking paths, and the thick canopy made the area so gorgeous, it became a perfect way to bust the monotony of straight forest running. The area here is perfect ATV territory, so we ran into a few riders while we were out. One of the guys gave us another history lesson. Apparently, there are remnants of a cannonball factory nearby. The last area on trail was a straight shot to the church through the forest. There was a trail here, winding halfway up a hill. There was even surveyor's tape down the length of it.

We both did a third day, but not together. She re-scouted her part, and I re-checked mine. My last day was the day before trail, and I walked the entire thing, finding a place for a water stop and adding the TP smile on the dirt mountain. I wish someone would have videotaped me up there on the mountain, clinging for dear life while trying to find enough rocks to secure the toilet paper. Oh, and me swatting at an annoying bumblebee who decided my yellow shirt was the world's largest flower.

Here's the insane part: I ran and biked for three freaking weeks to get back in shape so I could hare this trail, and got my 10K down to 53 minutes. But I still got snared three times. Jesus. I love Black Sheep but those 5-minute head starts suck ass.

Thank you to everyone who drove so far to do this trail.

May the Hash Get a Piece

71. Drama

2006-08-07T14:30:00.000-05:00

NC/SC 2006 - 23 June 2006 to 25 June 2006

There are a few things I normally don’t add to hash trashes. I don’t use names if it’s going to get people into trouble. I don’t call people out for laying a shitty trail. And I don’t include the drama. It’s all negative, and all a downer, and that’s not why we hash.

But let’s just say some sober aliens (translation: stupid aliens) were to fly their UFO here and pick these 71 hash trashes to read. They would not get a complete understanding of what hashing is about, because there's booze at hashes. And booze at hashes can lead to shitty trails and a shitload of drama.

One good thing about being a road whore is that you can avoid a lot of the drama because you’re not as involved with everything and don’t know everyone as well. You still witness drama, although it doesn’t usually affect you as bad. But the more you hash in one spot, even out-of-town, the more likely drama will strike.

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Enter the NC/SC Interhash. I know it’s in different places every year, but for some reason, all four I’ve done have led to some pretty wild drama, to a point where the drive home and the couple days after have produced some very non-hash-like contemplation. I don’t know what it is about this event, but it’s really wild.

Oh, you want examples. The first NC/SC I did was in 2003 at the Plantation, and that was the first event where I blacked out and became invincible. At one point, I was playing 3-Man with Captain Morgan. I stood up during a break in the action and proceeded to pass out cold, hitting my cranium on some random hard surface and falling to the floor. Luckily, some not-so drunk hashers drug my ass outside, forced me to puke and started force-feeding me water. Unfortunately for everyone that went to sleep later, I was up again at 3:30a, trying to find out where everyone was.

The next year at Pilot Mountain, I passed out cold in my tent at around 5am and woke up with a flood of water in my tent, which had been pulled up and somehow moved down the road. A wild storm had come though with hurricane-like winds and threw people’s tents around like they were, um, tents. Daybreak had hit when I crawled out of the watery tomb, and I was still so drunk the scenes of destruction barely even registered a blip. I was still drunk until noon. That was the year I stopped drinking for almost 2 months.

Now don’t get me wrong; there’s an amazing amount of fun included in these weekends. And even if you were to do some Random Acts of Super-Human Retard Strength, many people have been in the same position and won’t think less of you. As long as you don’t hurt anyone else, you’re just fighting your own guilt. The trick for me is to sleep enough before the event, eat all weekend and be very careful what I get myself into. That means no more 3-Man with hard liquor, and NO MORE TIPPY CUP. EVER.

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Fast-forward to 2006. The 13th Anal NC/SC was being held in Charlotte, on Copperhead Island at Lake Wylie. The last time we rented out the island was the year before, for Charlotte’s 600th. The area is great, since we’re relatively secluded and surrounded by the McDowell Nature Preserve. That means people who leave camp get a decent trail, and we don’t piss off a whole lot of locals or park rangers.

Sometimes you can predict the drama level for the entire weekend by how difficult the drive is to camp. Call it an omen. Our omen was Google. Gentrifuckation and I left Atlanta at 9:30a and hit his storage unit in Concord, around exit 50, to drop off some of his furniture. Google said to go back to exit 10 to get to camp, so off we went. Exit 10? Nope. Try exit 30. So back north we went, and our little jaunt to Concord took an extra hour and a half. But by the time we got off the highway, we didn't give a shit since the smell of beer was so strong. Hey, you can't spell BEvERage without BEER.

It was really spectacular to see everyone, and there was a lot of cool kids to see. There was positive energy everywhere and we noticed an upward spike of love every time another group arrived. The best part was that I kept seeing people for the first time all the way through circle Saturday afternoon. In other words, I kept saying, "Holy shit, I didn't know you were here this weekend."

It was hot -- easily 90 degrees (and humid) -- so just getting bags out of your vehichle left you sticky. Now try setting up a tent and an air mattress/sleeping bag combo. Some people were walking around looking like they had just jumped in a pool.

I had about a gallon and a half of extra shooters from the Drunken Scientist Lair that I couldn't consume on my own, so I brought the bottles to camp. And after the first beer hit me, I had the Genius Idea to pass them around immediately. This ended up being an acceptable prelube to the pub crawl, which started right before dark.

MINI-DRAMA #1: We got to the parking lot to find the gate locked, and hashers pulling up trying to figure out how to get in. It was Stupid, DP and Hilfrigger if I remember correctly. This minor ordeal lasted at least 20 minutes, since we had to find the combination to the lock that the park service gave us (6-0-0-6), and then try more combinations until one worked (0-6-6-0). Later than sooner, all the thirsty campers were shut inside the U-Haul and we were off. I found space in one of the vehicles that were following the U-Haul, and my space was laying on top of some bins in the back of an SUV. Hey, wait... Surly Temple was driving. Was he SOBER? I've never seen that before. Apparently, he made it to Drinking Practice at Shitty and Scabby's house the night before and had a little too much drinky-drinky.

MINI-DRAMA #2: The U-Haul got lost somehow, which didn't make much sense because we were supposed to be following it. The vehicles pulled off on a side street and some of us started calling people in our phone books to find out what happened. No one had their phone on, either at the pub crawl or at camp. Go figure. Finally, somebody with freaky-good eyesight spotted the U-Haul rumbling toward us in the dark, and we all pulled out behind it.

A lot of people arrived at camp saying they didn't feel like pub crawling, but I've got to assume most were glad they did. We only hit two bars, and it was fairly entertaining. In the first bar, we filled the place up and scared all the locals. At the second bar, we filled the place up again. This place was bigger and there were more people already there, which means we had more people to torment. A cover band was playing... um... covers... and pretty soon, the dance floor was full of semi-not-sober hashers and a guy who kept running around screaming for everyone to not hold drinks while they gyrated.

Surly and I always make Diddy's Spank Bank at least once during an event, but things were looking grim this time around. a) He forgot the wrestling singlets we were going to wear; b) He made Diddy sad because he also forgot a third singlet he had promised to give her and c) I was at a pub crawl without any women's clothing to change in to. Determined to get into her Spank Bank again, Diddy and I did a Top Swap... she got my t-shirt and I got her girly-top. Mission accomplished, but...

MINI-DRAMA #3: I was walking around a redneck bar with girly clothes on. And my appointed body guards kept walking away. Some bearded Harley guy walked up to me and said "Son, you better take that off." Things were looking grim. But a rednecky Lady Luck was one my side when this woman looked at me and said "What did you do, lose a bet?" I said yes, and for the rest of our stay, kept telling people I lost a bet so I wasn't a threat to anyone's manhood.

Somehow we all got back to camp and somehow I put myself to bed. I can't remember when it was, but it rained Friday evening. Hard. There was water in tents, mud in tents, as well as soaked clothes, bags and sleeping bags in tents. Rusty might have won for the biggest disaster - there was a coat of red mud covering most of his tent floor. Good stuff.

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As we were pointing and laughing at all the damage Saturday morning, I heard my co-hare snoring in his tent nearby. Shitty and I had decided not to scout trail this year and just wing it. And Buck was going to be a third hare, so we were thinking things would turn out pretty well. But I got a hair (hare?) up my ass and decided to at least go out and scout to the beer stop. All Tongues needed d'erections anyway for the beer truck and bimbos.

Copperhead Island is actually a peninsula shaped like a stubby little dick that sticks out into the lake. Going up the road (the shaft of the stubby little dick) and past the private property uses up almost a mile of trail, so if you want any amount of shiggy, you have to do a loop and cross the lake back to camp. Beav got a deal on noodles so people who hate swimming (like me) wouldn't drown. (YES, I know how to swim. Damn.) Scabby suggested crossing the lake last this year, which would mean we could have a second beer stop as everyone grabbed a noodle.

Wayyy Beyond Gay noticed I was heading out and volunteered to be one of the professional beer truck drivers. He then volunteered to drive me around so he would know where the beer stop and lake crossing would be. He had a park map in his car, so as he was driving, I was looking for landmarks and adding waypoints to my GPS. He finished his neighborly duties by dropping me off across the lake from camp. From there, I scouted backwards.

The area was gorgeous, and I even found a creek and some mud. At one point, I forgot to keep checking my GPS and ended up doing an entire loop all the way back to a piece of my surveyor's tape. Crap. Now I was running the risk of being late. I started half-running half-walking back to camp, and got back at 12:45. Trail was at 1. I had enough time to change shirts and get to circle. On-Out.

Shitty got snared at one point on trail while he was laying a YBF along a power line cut. As for Buck and I, the closest we ever got to getting snared was the entire area from the powerline cut to the beer stop. We heard whistles for over a mile, and never ran into a hound. At one point, we even SAW hounds. The best part was when the professional beer truck drivers were waiting for us at the first beer stop and heard the hares' whistles before they saw the hares.

MAJOR DRAMA #1
We never even got a chance to get the noodles out of the beer truck at the second beer stop. The park ranger said if we cross the lake he would shut us down. Apparently, the county allows boating and water skiing, but not swimming. How the hell were we going to get all these people back to camp? Shit. Option One was to drive some people back in the beer truck and grab a shitload of vehicles. But each vehicle would have to pay to get into the park. We chose Option Two, which kept the beer and the beer truck with the hounds. Furbreeze was driving Vitamin D Cup's car, and had followed the beer truck to the second beer stop, but had to park in the lot right before the Park entrance because she didn't have any cash on her. So her, me and Red Breast walked all the way to the car, got to camp and then tried to figure out how to turn the U-Haul into a Hound Retreiving Device. Well, I had been out 5 hours at this point in 90-plus degree weather, and for the first time ever, I got pissy at an event. Yes, it's true. We were standing in the sun, trying to figure out where the U-Haul keys were, who would drive, who had directions back to the second beer stop and whether it was fair to leave all those people in the back of a U-Haul for the long ride back to camp. By the time they got the keys and figured out who would drive (Buck, I think) it was all I could do to shove my GPS and someone and say "Follow the arrow and you'll get to them. I'm about ready to have a meltdown."

It was quite a while before everyone came back, and by that time, I had cleaned up, changed, medicated myself (with BEER) and chugged about a half-gallon of water. Circle was of the utmost quality, and as an added bonus, Rusty and Twattoo were bibbed. Congratulations.

MAJOR DRAMA #2
I was also haring the Shooting Star Hash that night, so after circle, I started putting the shots together. I was essentially working on an empty stomach, and time was getting tight, so I was trying to get my still-medicated brain to perform as fast as possible. Booze and juice and jugs and bottles were everywhere. It was all I could do to keep my funnel and measuring cup in sight at all times. At one point, the vodka I needed was buried somewhere, so I subconsciously grabbed a fellow hasher's bottle of vodka and used some of that. I was going to give away all my extra booze after the mixing was finished anyway, so I didn't think twice about it. But someone who knew the vodka owner was sitting there watching me, and got up to rat me out.

I had finished at least two more shots when Vodka Owner came back and called me out. Stealing booze is a baaaaaaaad offense, an my jaw dropped to the floor. How could I defend myself, or make any excuse believeable? It was impossible. The problem is (warning: big adult-type concept here), not only do I consider Vodka Owner a good friend, I also value the mutual respect we have for each other. I couldn't believe something like this was going to be what might put our friendship in jeopardy, especially since I know the guy who ratted me out, and we get along fine. He could have easily said something to me when it happened, although I don't blame him at all for deciding not to go that route.

Because I had been concentrating so fast and for so long, and because I was so tired and drunk, I stood there next to Vodka Owner and started mumbling like an idiot. Shock finally turned to irritation, and I was able to quickly rummage through all my booze until I found my own vodka and hand it over. I finished mixing and took my Pity Party elsewhere. While passing around the last half-gallon of extra shooters, I joyously blacked out for a few hours.

By 10:45 that night, I was barely able to move, but somehow found the energy to sprint back to start the Shooting Star Hash. Well, I THOUGHT it was 10:45. But apparently, the person we were using as a timepiece lived in the Central Time Zone, because someone later told me it was really 11:45 when I arrived. Shappens had already got the ball rolling by announcing the event, and adding a pre-lube extra-credit stop. I quickly got seven volunteers, handed each of them two gallons of booze and got some TP for the trail. On-Out.

MAJOR DRAMA #3
The hash was going well until someone who shall remain nameless decided to hit someone else who shall remain nameless square in the face and break some stuff. Things got chaotic at that point, but I never found out about any of it until later because I was so far ahead laying trail. Multiple people told me Sunday that the hash essentially ground to a halt, and by the time everyone was due to the second-to-last stop at the dock, hardly anyone showed up. The final stop was Key Lime Pie, and the two jugs of it eventually made their way to the group checking out the bleeding hasher.

The next couple hours were a blur. There was some swimming in the lake, and at some point, Scabby decided I needed to wear the (in)famous Sound of Music dress, so I had that on for the rest of the night. I was told I ended up hanging out at Confused and Money's tenting area, and allowed drunk people to Sharpie my entire cranium with a magnormous Marks-A-Lot. Around 3 in the morning, I went to my tent and passed out hard. But I apparently wasn't done making a spectacle of myself. A group of people photographed me and then drug me out of my tent -- cot and all -- and dumped me right underneath the keg pyramid near the beer trailer. To add insult to injury, they beat me with those long noodles we were supposed to use to float across the lake earlier that day.

------

It was daylight, maybe 6 or 7 am, when I finally woke up and carried my cot back into the tent. At 8:30, Gentrifuckation came in to find out if I wanted to get ready to leave. I was still drunk. And the 1.5 or 2.5 hours of sleep I got didn't really help, since people kept unzipping my tent flap every few minutes to take a look at the Sharpied Freak. I finally got ready to go, and we were out by 10.

This is the point where I wrap up all the drama with a witty and meaningful sentence that solidifies my argument and makes everyone caress their chin in thought. OK, here you go: Drama sucks.

May the Hash Get a (Non-Dramatic) Piece

70. Scandal (post #2)

2006-07-30T16:08:00.000-05:00

Black Sheep H3 - 23 July 2006

It has come to the attention of Black Sheep Mismanagement that the hash trash author for #417 intentionally distorted a number of facts. A fellow Sheeper who would like to remain anomymous was somehow able to acquire what looks like a rough draft of the post, pasted directly below, where you can see the exaggerations and out-right lies still in brackets. On behalf of the entire mismanagement team, I want to apologize for this lapse of journalistic integrity and would like to assure all of you that we will continue to make accuracy a priority.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Wow, food poisoning sucks. So there I was, hovering over the toilet, trying to force out the remaining intestinal unpleasantness. [As I look back on this moment, I realize that not even for a second did I consider staying home. It never even crossed my mind.] I even had to pull over once [three times] as I was driving to the start. [And still, the most that crossed my mind was "You'll feel better once you start running."]

I spotted hashers at the Publix parking lot in some far off suburb. Woodstock, I think. I chugged a pint [quart] of water and sat in the car with the A/C blowing in my face until I knew the liquid was going to stay down.

I felt the last little jolt of unpleasantness as Bunny blessed the Hares. [As soon as I felt the summer air and smelled the distant shiggy, every bit of unpleasantness instantly disappeared. I was almost late because of all the puking stops, so I barely made it in time to see Bunny bless the Hares.] Receiving the droplets of beer from Bunny's hand were One Ball (He Only Had One Ball) and Surly Temple (Queen of the Wild Front Queers). Surly made two announcements before they left. One was that the YBF on trail would be laid in what looked like crime-scene tape but had the word "Asshole" on it. He raised a piece above his cranium to show the gawking crowd what the hare pair had acquired. Scattered ravings were heard among the crowd. The second announcement was that "the trail is very well-marked." And yes, that's a direct quote. [Being sensitive to verb tense,] I wondered [was wondering] why he didn't say "the trail WILL BE very well-marked." Hmmm. To be honest, I've accidentally said the same thing on a live trail too, so I didn't think about the threat of a pre-lay too much longer. [Well, I’ve had a co-hare that has said the same thing, and our trail wasn’t pre-laid, so I guess that’s forgivable.]

The trail would end up being well-marked, by the way. On Out.

The only way the hares could have given us less pavement at the start would have been if we circled up in the woods next to the Publix parking lot. Because that's where the shiggy started. We encountered some thick undergrowth here, and it would give a taste of what would come later in larger quantities.

I started snapping out of it about the point we hit the first check. [I started feeling totally energized when we hit the first check.] This section of trail consisted of easements, fire roads, or other random areas where running was accomplished with little difficulty. One stretch was a wide, dry stream bed that barely had a channel cut into it. It was almost like running down a hiking path. I had the rare occasion of solving the second check, which led down type of access road. [Not only was I able to solve the first check, I also solved the second, and moved toward a full sprint down a type of access road.] Bodies of water ranging from puddles to miniature lakes made scampering down the road quite amusing. The road widened a bit and we happened upon some people on dirt bikes and ATV's. [I was watching my footing in the ATV tracks when I noticed a $10 bill in the dirt. Wow, that doesn’t happen often. I grabbed it on the fly and tucked it away.] The third check was here at a creek. Marks were easily spotted across the creek, so I assumed YBF and kept going down the road. [I spotted some marks across the creek, so I immediately assumed YBF. And when I heard something farther up the road, I immediately thought the hare was ahead gave chase.] After a few hundred yards [a quarter mile] with no marks [or hare] in sight, I went back to the check to see that a large number of hounds [a few hounds] had overtaken me.

If I remember correctly, we started seeing horse-shoe prints in the dirt soon after the creek crossing. I saw a wooden bench and realized we were on an actual hiking trail. [There was a fork in the trail here, and this was where I took my only wrong turn of the day. It led to a thick piece of forest that suddenly became a little too overgrown. I noticed there hadn’t been flour in a while, so I went back and almost ran right into some sort of vagrant. He had a knife in his hand. “Whatcha got in the bag?” he asked. He was talking about my Camelback. “Just water,” I lied. Actually, I also had my wallet, 60 bucks and my cell phone in there. I stealthily unclipped my whistle from my lanyard as he kept talking. “Well, I’d love to take a look then,” he said and held up the knife. With only instinct as my guide, I tossed the whistle up in the air near his face, which distracted him just enough so I could kick him square in the nut sack. He instantly doubled over and fell to his knees. I got the knife away from him, quickly reached over and cut a vine off a branch and threw the knife into the shiggy. I then took the vine and tied his hands behind his back. He was breathing heavy and sobbing. “Good luck dude,” I said and took off again. Well, I guess that was my adventure for the day.]

The fourth check came at a power cut here, and it was one of the more strategically placed checks I've ever witnessed. Overgrowth led to a creek to the left, shiggy to the right, and just ahead to the left and right were multiple trails. Probably six of them. And of course, there was the straight-ahead option. It took us a while, but we [It took me a while, but I] finally found trail through the overgrowth, over a slightly hidden bridge and onto another path.

I don't know the name of the river the hares dropped us in, but Black Sheepers have been in it before. This area of the river was not very deep and even runnable in spots. I was feeling really good by this point and my internal afterburners kicked in. It seem like I was passing everyone, and even kept up with the people who found the trails on either side of the river.

I think it was right after we got out of the river that we ran into One Ball. He was finished laying his part of trail and was catching is breath at the water stop. [He wasn’t being very forthcumming about the location of the next mark, so I slipped him the 10 bucks I found earlier, got the needed hint and sped away.]

The last half of trail was mostly forest-type shiggy with small-to-large amounts of undergrowth. There was some hamsterland and long areas of deadfall that slowed us all down. In the middle of this section, we saw the back of a business park of some sort and were in the sun for just a second, before we dove right back under the canopy. [That spot in the sun was where I ran into a snake sunning himself on a rock. It was rather large and turned toward me in a pre-strike stance, but momentum and a quick cut to the right kept me easily away from it.] This was the spot [Right after that point was] where we saw Little Easy blow by us all with an incredible desire to reach beer. [But there was no way I was going to led him spoil my almost perfect showing for the day.]

We seemed to go in a semi-circle here and started running along some more sewer easements. One exceptionally smelly one led to a park with the river as a backdrop. For those of you who did GE's trail in March of last year, this was the same ending; we just came in from the east instead of the west. Considering my pathetic showing at Bear Creek the week before, it was funny to know I came in within eyeshot of the FRB. [When I remembered that I needed to redeem myself for being DFL last week at Bear Creek, I dug up every last bit of energy I had and sprinted past Little Easy right before we got to the Bimbo Mobiles. Apparently, no one noticed that I had snuck in first, but it doesn’t matter. Hashing isn’t about competing anyway.] Time: 57 minutes [48 minutes].

It was less than 90 degrees outside, but it must have been really humid, because there were quite a few of us who hung out for a while, changed and still kept sweating like we were all in a sauna. After numerous adult beverages and what seemed like five tons of cake, we were all fed, lubed and cooled down.

Circle was where we finally saw how many people were actually here... 40+ [60+] at least. We had a couple virgins with us, and a number of visitors. One was from the DC area, and I think the rest were from Choo Choo H3 up in Chattanooga. Thanks for driving down.

For the benefit of everyone attempting to squat down bare-A$$ on the ice, two strips of asshole tape were strategically placed on the block.

At trail trial, one human with high expectations thought today's action was just OK. Another known for attending 24-hour races thought it was too short. Everyone else liked it, or liked it with extra thanks for the lack of a death march. Apparently, Pine Lake the day before was a little strenuous. So here's a big thank-you to the hares for a quality trail and an ending that didn't suck.

If your half-mind can't grasp the every-other-week concept, August 6th is the next hash. All us Sheeps will turn into Lyons for the 11th Anal Lyon Run. If we don't see you there, we'll see you around.

May the Hash Get a Piece.

70. Scandal (post #1)

2006-07-30T16:01:00.000-05:00

Black Sheep H3 - 23 July 2006

[As usual, this was posted anonymously on the Black Sheep board.]

Wow, food poisoning sucks. So there I was, hovering over the toilet, trying to force out the remaining intestinal unpleasantness. As I look back on this moment, I realize that not even for a second did I consider staying home. It never even crossed my mind. I even had to pull over three times as I was driving to the start. And still, the most that crossed my mind was "You'll feel better once you start running."

I spotted hashers at the Publix parking lot in some far off suburb. Woodstock, I think. I chugged a quart of water and sat in the car with the A/C blowing in my face until I knew the liquid was going to stay down.

As soon as I felt the summer air and smelled the distant shiggy, every bit of unpleasantness instantly disappeared. I was almost late because of all the puking stops, so I barely made it in time to see Bunny bless the Hares. Receiving the droplets of beer from Bunny's hand were One Ball (He Only Had One Ball) and Surly Temple (Queen of the Wild Front Queers). Surly made two announcements before they left. One was that the YBF on trail would be laid in what looked like crime-scene tape but had the word "Asshole" on it. He raised a piece above his cranium to show the gawking crowd what the hare pair had acquired. Scattered ravings were heard among the crowd. The second announcement was that "the trail is very well-marked." And yes, that's a direct quote. Being sensitive to verb tense, I wondered why he didn't say "the trail WILL BE very well-marked." Hmmm. Well, I’ve had a co-hare that has said the same thing, and our trail wasn’t pre-laid, so I guess that’s forgivable.

The trail would end up being well-marked, by the way. On Out.

The only way the hares could have given us less pavement at the start would have been if we circled up in the woods next to the Publix parking lot. Because that's where the shiggy started. We encountered some thick undergrowth here, and it would give a taste of what would come later in larger quantities.

I started feeling totally energized when we hit the first check. This section of trail consisted of easements, fire roads, or other random areas where running was accomplished with little difficulty. One stretch was a wide, dry stream bed that barely had a channel cut into it. It was almost like running down a hiking path. Not only was I able to solve the first check, I also solved the second, and moved toward a full sprint down a type of access road. Bodies of water ranging from puddles to miniature lakes made scampering down the road quite amusing. The road widened a bit and we happened upon some people on dirt bikes and ATV's. I was watching my footing in the ATV tracks when I noticed a $10 bill in the dirt. Wow, that doesn’t happen often. I grabbed it on the fly and tucked it away. The third check was here at a creek. I spotted some marks across the creek, so I immediately assumed YBF. And when I heard something farther up the road, I immediately thought the hare was ahead and gave chase. After a quarter mile with no marks or hare in sight, I went back to the check to see that a few hounds had overtaken me.

If I remember correctly, we started seeing horse-shoe prints in the dirt soon after the creek crossing. I saw a wooden bench and realized we were on an actual hiking trail. There was a fork in the trail here, and this was where I took my only wrong turn of the day. It led to a thick piece of forest that suddenly became a little too overgrown. I noticed there hadn’t been flour in a while, so I went back and almost ran right into some sort of vagrant. He had a knife in his hand. “Whatcha got in the bag?” he asked. He was talking about my Camelback. “Just water,” I lied. Actually, I also had my wallet, 60 bucks and my cell phone in there. I stealthily unclipped my whistle from my lanyard as he kept talking. “Well, I’d love to take a look then,” he said and held up the knife. With only instinct as my guide, I tossed the whistle up in the air near his face, which distracted him just enough so I could kick him square in the nuts. He instantly doubled over and fell to his knees. I got the knife away from him, quickly reached over and cut a vine off a branch and threw the knife into the shiggy. He was trying to get up so I kicked him in the stomach. He went all the way down this time. I then took the vine and tied his hands behind his back. He was breathing heavily and sobbing. “Good luck dude,” I said and took off again. Well, I guess that was my adventure for the day.

The fourth check came at a power cut here, and it was one of the more strategically placed checks I've ever witnessed. Overgrowth led to a creek to the left, shiggy to the right, and just ahead to the left and right were multiple trails. Probably six of them. And of course, there was the straight-ahead option. It took me a while, but I finally found trail through the overgrowth, over a slightly hidden bridge and onto another path.

I don't know the name of the river the hares dropped us in, but Black Sheepers have been in it before. This area of the river was not very deep and even runnable in spots. I was feeling really good by this point and my internal afterburners kicked in. It seem like I was passing everyone, and even kept up with the people who found the trails on either side of the river.

I think it was right after we got out of the river that we ran into One Ball. He was finished laying his part of trail and was catching is breath at the water stop. He wasn’t being very forthcumming about the location of the next mark, so I slipped him the 10 bucks I found earlier, got the needed hint and sped away.

The last half of trail was mostly forest-type shiggy with small-to-large amounts of undergrowth. There was some hamsterland and long areas of deadfall that slowed us all down. In the middle of this section, we saw the back of a business park of some sort and were in the sun for just a second, before we dove right back under the canopy. That spot in the sun was where I ran into a snake sunning himself on a rock. Even though it was curled up, I could tell it was rather large. It turned toward me in a pre-strike stance, but momentum and a quick cut to the right kept me easily away from it. Right after that point was where we saw Little Easy blow by us all with an incredible desire to reach beer. But there was no way I was going to led him spoil my almost perfect showing for the day.

We seemed to go in a semi-circle here and then started running along some more sewer easements. One exceptionally smelly one led to a park with the river as a backdrop. For those of you who did GE's trail in March of last year, this was the same ending; we just came in from the east instead of the west. When I remembered that I needed to redeem myself for being DFL last week at Bear Creek, I dug up every last bit of energy I had and sprinted past Little Easy right before we got to the Bimbo Mobiles. Apparently, no one noticed that I had snuck in first, but it doesn’t matter. Hashing isn’t about competing anyway. Time: 48 minutes.

It was less than 90 degrees outside, but it must have been really humid, because there were quite a few of us who hung out for a while, changed and still kept sweating like we were all in a sauna. After numerous adult beverages and what seemed like five tons of cake, we were all fed, lubed and cooled down.

Circle was where we finally saw how many people were actually here... 60+ at least. We had a couple virgins with us, and a number of visitors. One was from the DC area, and I think the rest were from Choo Choo H3 up in Chattanooga. Thanks for driving down.

For the benefit of everyone attempting to squat down bare-a$$ on the ice, two strips of asshole tape were strategically placed on the block.

At trail trial, one human with high expectations thought today's action was just OK. Another known for attending 24-hour races thought it was too short. Everyone else liked it, or liked it with extra thanks for the lack of a death march. Apparently, Pine Lake the day before was a little strenuous. So here's a big thank-you to the hares for a quality trail and an ending that didn't suck.

If your half-mind can't grasp the every-other-week concept, August 6th is the next hash. All us Sheeps will turn into Lyons for the 11th Anal Lyon Run. If we don't see you there, we'll see you around.

May the Hash Get a Piece.

69. A Little Clarification

2006-06-12T23:38:00.000-05:00

Black Sheep H3 - 11 June 2006

Some people have hobbies that require them to buy things like paint and brushes. Some people fix up classic cars and have to find spare parts. My pastime forces me to get a tetanus shot and a Hep A vaccine. And after this trail was over, I was glad I had both. This was one of the best Black Sheep trails I’ve done.

That was pretty much what I uttered at trail trial, and I’ve now had enough people ask me about that statement that I guess it wouldn’t hurt to explain myself. So here you go:

WHAT MAKES A HOUND BLURT OUT SUPERLATIVES AS OFTEN AS HYPER-INTELLECTUAL SNOBS BLURT OUT BIG WORDS LIKE "SUPERLATIVE"

--Getting to Experience Something Epic.
Maybe the trail is all underground and you have to fight claustrophobia and a rather unpleasant smell. Or maybe your trail is 6 miles of gorgeous but tough, hilly terrain that makes everyone come in wide-eyed but exhausted. Today’s question is: can you have one piece of geography that turns the trail from good to great? Today’s answer is: Yes. (Get ready for more superlatives.) We went through the toughest patch of swamp I’ve ever been through on a Black Sheep trail, and it eclipsed the pain of the toughest swamps I’ve ever experienced at a Southern Comfort or down in Macon. Put it this way... this swamp nearly broke some people. It started off innocent enough, with some calf-deep muck and the occasional ankle-busting deadfall. But all of a sudden, we made a turn, the forest canopy disappeared and it quickly turned into this slog-fest, where we were all knee-to-thigh-deep in mud, straining to pull our feet out at every step. There was also at least a foot of water on top of all the mud. People were stuck and screaming. Others were losing shoes and screaming. Stopping only meant you sank that much deeper, making it that much more difficult to keep moving. The air temperature didn’t seem overly bad here, but the swamp water was so warm, it made it feel like the Jolly Green Giant had just used the swamp as his personal toilet, and that uncomfortable feeling made us want to get back to solid ground that much faster. But we couldn’t. After fatigue set in, I started looking around for stuff I could grab onto, to help pull me out of the mess every time I needed to take a step. Sometimes I found the rounded stump of a small tree. Other times I found a patch of reeds. But more than half the time there wasn’t anything to grab, so I was forced to curse tall people and keep fighting. Toward the edge of the swamp, there was no water, and it made us think we were finished. But the mud was just as deep, and without water, this was even more psychologically punishing. After we got to the on-in, we estimated this whole area was about 200 yards, which works out to about a tenth of a mile. One little piece of geography that definitely left some mental scars.

--Having to Push Yourself to the Limit.
Some of this has nothing to do with the hares, but with your own energy level and the weather. It was well over 90 degrees during trail, and that can suck the energy right out of you. It was actually as hot as it was two weeks ago, but there was a breeze this time around, so it didn’t feel as bad. Also, I’m still recovering from an injury, and I’m not back to where I need to be physically. So that swamp and those painfully small tunnels absolutely beat me down. Oh yeah, the tunnels. After we got done with the swamp, the hares decided to take us through a series of tunnels under the business park at Beaver Ruin. Colonel Clit and Top Cunt told the hares to bring flashlights, but some didn’t. Other hounds had their batteries give out while down there. The only help they got was from lighted hashers who might have been near them, and the occasional glow stick thoughtfully placed at every intersection. Turn after turn ensued, and at one point, the tunnels got small enough where it was necessary to walk on all fours.

--Getting Way More Good Than Bad.
There were some areas where the marks were really thin, especially right after the tunnels. If it weren’t for us noticing the Slack Sheepers making a beeline for the end, some of us tunnel rats would have been stumped. Also, there were several points where CB’s and a WS and something else we couldn’t figure out was placed over vegetation using flour. They were mostly unreadable. There have been trails where this stuff would have been a death sentence during trail trial, but not one person even mentioned them this time around. Some examples of good vs. bad are more about personal experiences on trail, rather than the overall group experience. Before we got to the swamp, I had seen a couple hounds who let branches swing back and hit the people who were behind them. One of these hounds was especially thoughtless, and at one point, a really thick branch flew back and smacked me right in the nuts. News flash to anyone without testicleeze: if you get hit right, you get the lovely experience of a blinding pain where you double over and try to keep your eyes from watering. About a quarter mile later, I see this thoughtless hound try to jump down into a really dirty creek and make a quick cut to the right at the same time, and they end up slipping and doing a face plant in the water. Ahhh, it’s the little things.

--Getting Sympathy Pains while on Trail.
Yeah, this is probably only me, but there are times when we’re all suffering on trail and I’m actually feeling bad for whoever SCOUTED it. Blazing trails can be tough, especially when you’re in virgin territory, working through really tough spots, or don’t have a map/GPS.

--Having Your Brain Stay Active While Moving.
This is one reason that road turns into road rage. It’s boring. Forest running with some deadfall presents a challenge. Running through an abandoned house is entertaining. And you can’t turn off your brain while running through creeks. I actually used part of my half-mind on this trail trying to figure out how the two hares split the flour duties. A trail that turns into a constant mental assault leads to happiness. Huh, I said doody.

And finally...

--Having the Boys get Wet.
If I was female, it would be “Getting the Beaver Wet,” although if I was female, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t want that to happen. Yes, I actually know how many times in a row that Slim Jim and the Twins get submerged. Prior to this hash, I went four trails without that happening. Trails usually don’t get a positive superlative if the boys aren’t moistened. In case you think I’m being heartless, this means around 70% of my OWN trails would be automatically disqualified.

This has been an opinion piece from a hash retard. So don’t bother wasting precious beer-drinking energy trying to disagree. These are my personal guidelines, and I suck anyway.

May the Hash Get a Piece

68. Hedonistic Easements

2006-06-01T20:40:00.000-05:00

Black Sheep H3 - 28 May 2006

Wow, it was hot. Oppressive hot. The only consolation we had was that the humidity could have been a little higher. This was Hedon weekend, so as usual, the start was close to Camp. And as usual for a Memorial Day weekend, Hired Snatch stepped up to the plate for the haring duties. The spawn of his seed, Big Squatch, was having the birthday thing that people generally have every year. And since we saw him at the start with flour and that look of heightened anticipation, we immediately knew how he wanted to celebrate the milestone: co-haring and getting briar slashes up and down his legs. So this is how the Second Anal Big Snatch Run came about.

The start was a dirt lot off Tingle Lane, and yeah, the tingle came from the blinding heat streaming down from above and radiating up from the dirt at our feet. I think I counted eight brave wanks who came from Camp. Hey look, a visitor. Ganja Man (from Jamaica, then Britain, then Ventura H3 in SoCal) took leave of Hedon briefly to join us, despite the punishment he endured at trail the day before. Oops was another camper, but Deposit Slit was notably absent. Apparently too much drinky-drinky. By the time Sani showed up, I had been standing out in the sun long enough to not even notice that Bunny had not cum down with her. And I shit you not, when Bwana blessed the hares, I was so heat-befuddled that it barely even registered that Bunny wasn’t doing the blessing. This is what my brain was telling me: “Fuck it’s hot… Hey, Bunny’s not… FUCK it’s hot!” Here’s something else that crossed my mind as Bwana wrapped up: “Fuck it’s hot… Hey, O&5 is co-hari… FUCK it’s HOT!”

Back at camp:
A drunk hasher stripped off all their clothes and joined other drunk hashers in a game of naked volleyball. Some drunk hasher sitting among of group of other drunk hashers took a drink in front of them, and everyone else in the group saw it and subconsciously took a drink immediately afterward. Some drunk hasher was having sex with another drunk hasher in a tent.

I think there were about 20 hounds watching the hares disappear into the distance. And this act took a while. My Ampersand Brother took the easterly route up Tingle Lane toward the I-85 off-ramp, while Big Squatch took the westerly route, across the length of the lot, up a kudzu hill and toward the far side of a distant building. As for Hired, he decided he had enough excitement for the day and let his son take over as the main hare. Translation: Hired would be transporting himself to the end via vehicle. He was already bloody, so we figured he had earned his keep. A few minutes later, we finally found someone who had been timing the countdown (Gentri I think) and we were off soon after.

In short, there was some forest running, some power cut running, some easement running and some fire lane running. Yuron had a new puppy with him and bailed out right before we hit a very-welcome beer stop at about the halfway point. We hit a big, floury “BN” not too long afterward, and followed flour a couple tenths of a mile down a fire lane to our destination. We were all dripping wet, even though we never found water on trail. The Quote of the Day was uttered here, by a steamy Hot Lips: “I’ve been sticky before, but never THIS sticky.” Hey, you find entertainment where you can.

Back at camp:
Another keg blew. A gentle breeze blew next to the camp kitchen, providing some relief to the humid hashers sitting on the wooden bridge. Someone blew someone.

The end was the intersextion of the fire lane and a power cut, in a shaded area not too far from a sewer cap, which we only noticed when the breeze shifted. The first thing we saw when we got in was that 2 Crabs Fucking was turning into 2 Crabs Leaving. Already in his truck, he said something about the man who owned the property calling the cops on SoCo’ers the last time he ended here. Sani had just gone back to the start without knowing this, and at some point while she was away, she got the same message. Shit, we were going to have to leave. At this point, a general malaise set in. Yes, I said malaise; an aura of uncertainty that turned our delicious beers just slightly bitter; a nervous anticipation that kept us from that pleasant/settled feeling you get when you know you’re done moving and exerting any more mental energy. This is when EverQueer used his half-mind to remember back to that fateful night at SoCo, when the crazy homeowner accused the pack of doing drugs and other morally questionable things. Cops were called and a shitty time was had by all. But he also remembered that the homeowner had said something about asking permission next time. So that’s exactly what EverQueer did. He and Big Squatch drove to the guy’s house, got his permission, and they even cleared up that little drug issue. They got back, Sani returned and there was much joy and sat-iss-faction. We mourned the temporary loss of 2 Crabs, someone temporarily renamed him 2 Crabs Freaking (and 2 Crabs Fleeing) and we got back to drinking delicious beer and finding thirsty ticks all over ourselves.

Of note: Holy shit, 0&5 got bloody. Hey Pussy Pilot, he broke your record for the most blood I’ve ever seen on someone after a hash. And your record has held for almost four years now (sorry Foreign Lesion… I didn’t see you on your trip to the hospital a while back). It wasn’t exactly the volume of blood that was so impressive, but the perfectly even distribution of red across every exposed surface. On that note, I’ll take this time to apologize to everyone who came but didn’t get a mention today. Next time, please do something horrifically embarrassing or pathetically cute at some point during the afternoon so I can proudly proclaim your insanity.

Back at camp:
Someone woke up from a nap in their tent, leaned over to grab their half-full mug, drained the warm golden contents and shuffled to the keg trailer for a refill. Someone at the Tiki Bar laughed at someone else who had puked the previous night. Two harriettes got a group of guys totally horny when they mashed their boobs together and started moaning. Someone even got wood. So did someone else.

There were puns flying around in circle, so we started naming people after Barf Bag. Example: Barf with an Attitude. During trail trial, our out-of-towner Ganja Man decided he liked the quick journey to the beer, and he was especially happy that he found plenty of Newcastle in the cooler. The compliments led to applause and happiness. We swung low courtesy of Hired, combed the area for any trash so the landowner wouldn’t get upset, and we were off. It was sometime later that Boner Rooter realized she didn’t have her ultra-super-special PowerPuff Girl water bottle with her. And because we had picked the area clean of anything other than ants, ticks and grass, she knew there was a thief in our midst.

Back at camp:
Music collector and Hedon DJ Asshole realized a thief was there as well. His IPod, a borrowed IPod and an IPod charger all disappeared in the overnight hours, leading to much irritation and the gigantic question of how he was going to replace $800 worth of stuff.

For those of you who saw Davey and I back at the start, an explanation might be in order, especially considering some of the looks we got. We had decided we needed to make an appearance at Hedon, and thought streaking would be appropriate. So I took my morbidly dirty Trash bib and tied it around my waist. You know, so the bib covered up my Skin Whistle and Oysters. Then Davey tried tying one of those microfiber sunglass bags around his junk and decided his full package was too large to fit inside. So he put it only around his schlong and pulled the string on the sunglass bag really tight so it gripped as much as possible. Once we were happy with the placement of our coverage, we were off.

Back at camp:
Two loyal Black Sheepers streaked around the entire Hedon property with their makeshift loincloths. It probably wasn’t the brightest idea considering how hot it was and how instantly sweaty they got, but it was generally acknowledged that the two scantily clad hounds were very proud to represent their hash in such a revealing way.

Join us next time, when a Clit named Colonel gives us his version of a shiggy orgasm.

Until June 11th UFF’s
May the Hash Get a Piece

67. Scribe Times Two

2006-05-05T23:46:00.000-05:00

Black Sheep H3 - 30 April 2006

There's no way in hell I'm going today. I've got a wicked hangover and it's probably going to rain. Hashing is such a commitment. I won't get back until 7 and I've got to be at work early in the morning. And it's so far away. Sigh. Damn it, I forgot to take my medication.

What a beautiful day. Oh, hell yes I'm going. How can I miss the bestest hash in Atlanta? Not only is it in territory I've never done before, there are gorgeous ladies throwing flour for us. And as an added bonus, the combination of both harriettes creates a Four-Inch Clit.

Finally, here's the start. Bloody hell it's cold. I hate when my man-nips get hard. They chafe against my shirt. I hate the word chafe. I forgot my whistle. And I forgot to take my medication again. Well, it's in my dry bag. I'll grab a pill before I throw my stuff in the bag truck.

Stop being a wuss. You have a penis, you are a man. Why the hell do you need a whistle? With virgins and baby-carrying fathers on trail, someone behind you will find you and help you. Or vice versa. Plus some beer will knock out this hangover. I love everyone.

But wait...where IS everyone? Crappy Blue Angels and parades and what-not are making everyone mill around in the wind, goosebumps bigger than manhood, waiting for the stragglers. Damn visitors and virgins can get here on time; One Ball and Snail Trail and Gentrifukation and Martha Screw-It appear totally unable to be prompt. Maybe they've all been getting some while everyone else waits in the parking lot.

Oh goody - they're blessing the hares. Check out Basil freaking out, even more than usual. Laughing makes me happy. Wow, all three virgins are cute. I think I'm getting a chubby. On out.

Jesus, I hate road rage. Oh wait, we're in shiggy already. Jesus, I hate poison ivy. Oh wait, we're out of the PI already. Jesus, I hate checks. Oh, wait, I didn't even have to solve that one. Did we just pass by a creek? Guess what moron forgot to take his pill again? If I have to see one more piece of poison ivy, I might shit myself.

Yay! Our feet got wet in that creek. And everyone knows that wet equals happy. Hey look, there are my friends Crabby and GE and UD. I've missed them. They all ran over the road instead of through the tunnel like I did. We're the coolest.

Man they are running fast, complaining that trail is prelaid. Those guys are jerks - I don't even know why I pretend to idolize them. I'm having to stop and put TP back on trees, falling further and further behind. Where did everyone go? This trail blows. Oh, for fuck's sake - there's a copper head in the creek! I wish there were some TP to follow. I hate snakes. That thing freaked me out. Now there are whistles behind me. Hashers are stupid. Why do we even do this?

That was a neat downhill treck. That deadfall was challenging. It's wild being on hiking trails for a second, and then cutting away from them into more shiggy. It's beautiful down here. Trees, greenery, streams, butterflies. I love the world. Oh look, a little up-hill climb.

This little up-hill climb isn't ending. My freaking quads are burning. I can't even jog anymore. Oh look, there's more uphill. This is more like up-mountain. I can't believe my first memory is when I was dropped as an infant. This mountain sucks that bad. Check out how much I'm sweating. I bet my ass smells like a sewer. Wow, what a surprise seeing a hiking path up here. I wonder where this goes? Hmmm... a little curve. The check is kicked up this way. This has turned epic. And to think I was going to stay home. It's so peaceful up here. I'm going to sleep well tonight. Ah, sleep. Sweet blissful energizing slumber. Maybe I'll just lay down here and rest. After all, the air does seem to be getting a little thin. This mountain seems to not want to end, but if I rest I bet I'll feel better. Yes, I'll just nap for a minute or two.

No. Gotta go. Gotta get up this mountain. There ain't no stopping me. Yay! There's the BN. Oh sweet mercy! I think I'm gonna cry. Or sniff someone's crack. Or both. Where's my bag? Where are my pills?!

Was that a rain drop? Why can't that bitch Mother Nature wait for circle to be over? Where is everybody? Who the hell are those drug addicts parking up here on top of this mountain? Yeah, go into the woods and toke up. Speaking of drugs, I think mine just kicked in.

My God, what a gorgeous view from up here. How did the Harriettes find this road for the On-In? Trail trial is moving right along. Why, thanks Bwana, I will comment on trail. I'd have to say it was quite surreal. Almost like a dream. I guess all that fast running at the start and that mountain at the end really kicked my ass. I think I recovered though. Thanks to... um... the beer. Yeah. That's it.

Silent, with reverence. Mmmm mmmmmmm, mmmm mmmmmmmm mm mmm mm PLUUHHH! Mmmm mmmm mmmm mmmm mmmm-mm mm mmmmm. Mmmm mmmmmmm, mmmm mmmmmmmm mm mmm mm PLUUHHH! Mmmm mmmm mmmm mmmm mmmm-mm mm mmmmm.

FYYFF's.
May the Hash get a Piece.

[Thanks to Davey Crochet for co-scribing.]

66. That Didn't Suck

2006-04-24T21:13:00.000-05:00

Happy Heretics H3 - 30 March 06 to 2 April 06

Thursday. 1pm.
There's only one perk to starting work at 5 in the morning: I can get the hell out of town early. So with a little planning, I was able to leave for Charleston the instant my shift was over. Here’s what I was leaving for:

The Events
1. The Cooper River Bridge Run
2. The Cooper River Bridge Run Pub Crawl
3. Drinking and Camping and Drinking at Shit’s House
4. Sunday brunch, including the World's Best Bloody Marys at Shem Creek Bar & Grill

These events were all connected at some level, but because I'm stupid, I had no earthly idea how. Shit tried to explain it to me, but because of my constant mental state (see the previous sentence) it wasn't sinking in. I just figured I’d learn as I went.

So there I was, driving through the armpit of South Carolina, listening to Howard Stern on Sirius. The show started as I left downtown Atlanta, and finished exactly 5 hours later, as I was pulling into Shit's driveway.

Uranus had also decided to leave early, and was in the middle of his own personal pre-prelube in the house when I arrived. Several hours later, the official prelube was underway, as he, me, my bad grammar and our host took off to do a miniature pub crawl through Mount Pleasant and downtown Charleston. I was determined not to get a hangover at any point, so I started chugging water right after dark. How much water? I was drinking out of gallon jugs all weekend.

Friday. 9:30am.
Morning arrived with that sun-rising thing, Shit leaving for work and me waking up sooner or later. There was a list of stuff for Uranus and I to do, including picking up various foodstuffs. I still had no idea where the hell all of it was going to be distributed, but I figured the events would have to start before all this was going to become clear. During our travels through Mount Pleasant, we happened upon a Goodwill store, and it was at about this point I realized I hadn't purchased a dress for the Bridge Run. So I dragged Uranus inside the store, and to the entertainment of the civilians inside, had him help me pick out a lovely red number. That would end up being the best six bucks I spent all weekend.

If you've never met Shit Happens, here's a summary: the man doesn't stop. He pulled up into his driveway Thursday night at about 8:30 after working his real job and then putting in a few hours at the Expo downtown. He jumped out of the car, threw his work stuff inside and immediately put up two tents in the backyard. And in the time it took me to piss out the last beer I drank, he had the deck swept and the hot tub prepped. Friday was the same thing. He jumped out of the car at 3p and within about 90 seconds, had us starting to unload the car and distributing a ton of food that was going to various places. Some went in his kitchen, some went in his freezers, and other stuff (race food) got packed for an eventual trip downtown. With that done, we all got in the van and picked up a couple kegs (Miller Lite I think) for the house, then went to a beer distribution center to pick up almost 80 gallons of Trumer Pils (that’s good beer, by the way) for various areas of the weekend. His final prep before the official drinking started was hooking up some kegs. My final job was taking Thor and getting 500 pounds of ice. By the time all of us were settled, people started arriving. Perfect timing.

Friday night. A fire was set. Tents were erected. And I know this might be a shock to some of you, but beer was consumed. We got an idea early on who was going to be the best representatives of a hash, and this weekend, it was the freaks from Peach Fuzz. They made the most noise, wore the least amount of clothing, and since there were more hashers from Augusta than any other city, I'll just go ahead and assume they drank the most amount of alcohol. (There are your props, guys... you rock.) There had been rumblings of a possible prelube pub crawl, but that never panned out. Logistical update: Some of the beer we bought went to the campers, and some of the frozen food we bought went to us too. Um... but it was served in a heated form.

Saturday. 6:45am.
I think I passed out about midnight, and when I woke up Saturday morning, I found out some of the more-motivated drunks never went to sleep. I hurried up and got changed into my lovely dress and started helping gather people to walk/run the race. Bucket Slut was someone on my personal Wake Up List, and just like he said, I was going to have to shake the earth to get him up. But shaking the earth didn’t help. After much shaking and yelling, I had to give up and let him sleep.

There were two groups from the house that left before us, but we were still on time. It was already warm enough where we knew the temperature was going to be a good motivator for further beer consumption. The walk to the start: almost two miles. Dead Peter Beater and I got into a deep discussion about random things, and by the time we were swallowed by the thousands of people near the start, we had lost all the other hashers. I say “deep discussion,” but considering I was in a dress and she was half-naked, the discussion couldn’t have been that intellectual. Think Cooter Shooters and having sex with fruit. Don’t ask.

There was an electricity all around us right after we crossed the starting line, but I don’t think it was because it was the official start. I think everyone was just excited the voice from the ultra-annoying race cheerleader was fading out. The first amazing view was when we rounded a turn and caught our first glimpse of the new bridge, now packed with a sea of people. The second was being on the bridge itself and seeing the huge cables heading skyward toward the top of the towers. Did I mention this was the first run on the new bridge? Oh. It was the first run. On the new bridge. Sweet.

The Something-Something Ravenel Bridge is the longest cable-stayed bridge in North America, and has two monstrous diamond-shaped towers. The entire bridge stretches 2 1/2 miles, has a total of eight lanes, and even has a split walking/bike lane. Translation: the thing’s huge. And from any angle, it’s sick-gorgeous.

What I learned duing the r*ce: if you want attention, be a dude and wear a red summer dress.
What DPB learned during the r*ce: if you want attention, flash what God gave you. A lot.
As for the dress part, every few minutes, someone was giving me “compliments” or even wanting to take a picture with the Male Freak Show. Like most other hashers, I’ve done my share of Red Dress Runs and other events where strange attire is common. But I’ve never received this much attention. I’ve got to think it was because I was one of the only people of the 50,000 who was wearing something out-of-the-ordinary. As for the flashing-what-God-give-you part, a lot of firemen, and even some media people got to see boobies.

We started jogging after the bridge, when we got into downtown Chareston. It was about this time that I started running around like a berserk moron, cutting diagonally down the street, dodging sweaty, gawking people. After one of my more energetic sprints, I heard, “Hey, L&F!” Who was it but Yacca from Atlanta, who was doing the r*ce with her mom. Unfortunately, I couldn’t talk long, because there were two certain people who desperately needed to get to the end for beer. So off we went again.

We must have looked pretty rough right around mile 5, because at one point, some police officers told us where to shortcut to the park. Hey, what the hell. We didn’t have numbers, and we weren’t timing ourselves. So we got into the park and eased our way into the Charleston Running Club’s roped-off area. I had an epiphany here, when I realized this was where some of the food went. And there was a lot of beer. The comments about the dress changed here. No longer was it, “Don’t you look cute” and “Hey, that’s your color.” Now, it was “Oh, you’re a hasher, right?” One grey-haired lady asked it and then gave me her hash name. “Once a hasher, always a hasher” was her comment as she moved toward the kegs. Once a drinker, always a drinker. We met one lady who technically never hashed before, but did a Red Dress Run in London a few years ago. She said it was fun, but according to her, they made her husband look like a slut. And that’s bad?

We got word that the buses were about ready to start taking people back to Mt. Pleasant, so a small pack of us left the park. But we were in no way motivated to wait with the sweaty masses in the bus lines, so we walked down the street to the marina and attempted to catch a water taxi to the other side. The idea was to then catch a street taxi from there to the house. Yeah, that was the ORIGINAL idea.

There were more than 50,000 extra people downtown, yet this genius company only had one boat running. It was leaving right when we got there, and then we waited through another cycle. At this point, we realized the bus would have been quicker, but we were still un-sober, so we didn’t care. The funny part was that when we finally got ready to board, they put the rope across right in front of us and said the boat was full. The harriettes made puppy-dog eyes and the guys looked about ready to riot, so they let us on. The ride across the river included many jokes at the expense of the guy in the dress. It seems salty ocean spray (or is that un-salty river mist?) makes civilians a little brave.

On the other side, we further fouled the already-foul public toilets and shuffled over to the bar at the closest hotel, which was conveniently located on the water. It was here we were told that a cab would take two hours, but that make-it-yourself Bloody Mary’s were immediately available and only a dollar. So we sat outside and pretended that we needed to get back to the house. Three rounds later, we were the public entertainment, singing vile limericks and other assorted spurts of nastiness. We had somehow impressed the table of seven civilians next to us, and before too long, I had one of the women’s shoes off and was giving her a foot massage. The guys with her watched in disbelief, as the short, bald loudmouth worked his way into the good graces of the cutest girl at their table. Here’s what she said as I reached for her second foot: “How lucky am I that I can have some guy I don’t even know rub my feet?” Yeah, like I was being punished. I did my best to laugh with a sense of humility, and proceeded to move my hands up her calves.

Just Chris had been with us. He's a DUI lawyer and very aggressive. I got done worshipping at the Altar of Feet and looked up to find him gone. About an hour later, he showed up with his SUV. He told us that he had walked to the front of the hotel and got a family to let him into their hotel shuttle bus. But the shuttle driver was only able to drive him about halfway to Shit’s house, so in a move some of us found astounding, the driver pulled over and essentially kicked him to the curb. Knowing that glory was just around the corner, the brave Just Chris jogged the rest of the way, got his vehicle and drove to the hotel for his moment in the spotlight. After showering him cheers and praise and yays, we motored back to the house. Our three hour trip from downtown to the house was complete.

The sun was warm, and we had been consuming quite heavily, so we were doubly toasty. After telling everyone else at the house about our adventure, our small group eventually blended in with the rest of the drunks. I squeezed in a 15-minute nap and then began chugging from another gallon jug of water. The quality afternoon hangouts were at the end of the dock and in a camp-chair circle among the tents. At 5:15pm, we started getting ready for the pub crawl, and by 5:30, after a mind-numbing negotiation with the cab drivers at the street, we were heading back downtown for the annual pub crawl.

As soon as I found out that the final kegs would be for this night-long event, all the logistics of the weekend finally became clear. (I’m sure you were dying to know that.) About 40 people from the house joined about 30 other people in some random parking lot to watch Shit scamper off. We were thirsty, so we only gave him about a one-minute head start.

I’d have to say the most entertaining part of the night was playing with the pub-crawlers who had never hashed before. We got to see them look around in wonder, as they witnessed what a large number of people without inhibitions can do to a fine drinking establishment. At some point in the middle of our journey, our aggressive buddy Just Chris was named Game Cock, and he further earned his name at the last bar by creating drama with some female. I’ll leave it at that. I can’t remember the name of the last bar, but it’s owned by a hasher, and this was where Slappy finally go so drunk, he fell into some random civilians’ booth. Of all the drunks who got drunk after 6 hours of drinking, he was the most drunk. We all got back to the house and he passed out on a bed, and didn’t move a muscle for about 10 hours.

We had a new group hanging out at the house, and it included Shit’s daughter, who took much pleasure in helping decorate Slappy with multiple Sharpies. I squeezed in a 2 hour nap and then started mixing drinks, and was among the last standing at 5am when the last of the days booze finally kicked in. There were two people left in the hot tub and they were both passed out. Nice.

Sunday. 10am.
I woke up and realized it was 10am. The World’s Best Bloody Marys would start flowing in an hour, so I quickly showered, shaved, got dressed and packed up the car. At some point during this rush, Slappy got up and randomly decided he needed to shave all the hair off his cranium. So he asked the bald scribe for advice. What did the bald scribe say? “Do it, but do it in public.” So we plunked him in a chair outside and I sheared his hair down to stubble. He then proceeded to go back to bed while the rest of us went to Shem Creek Bar and Grill.

Albert La Prince is Shem Creek’s long-time bartender and award-winning oyster shucker and he makes some amazing oyster shooters. Those went down quite nicely with the seafood and the WBBM’s. After a couple hours and a huge dose of caffeine, I was ready for the ride back home.

Yeah, that was a long write up, but remember this, you wanks: that’s not just recapping a trail and circle. That’s recapping four full days. And here’s a recap of the recap: that was an amazing weekend. I was never bored, I was constantly entertained, the beer never stopped flowing, and the company was absolutely outstanding. I drove home barely able to comprehend what just happened. That didn’t suck. Not even a little bit.

FYYFFs. I love hashing.

65. The First Menu

2006-04-22T08:42:00.000-05:00

NC/SC 2005 - 30 Septembeer 05 to 2 Octobeer 05

Since I posted the Shooting Star Hash menu for the Black Rock campout (#64), my half-mind decided to post the other menu... from NC/SC ‘05.

Worthless backstory: Creating shooters gets me more excited than a masochist at a sadist convention. So I bugged the shit of Shit Happens during AIH in Toronto until he let me help. My pitch was that I could save him a lot of money by making some of the booze in the Drunken Scientist Lair. After a few calls and e-mails, the menu and the amount were set. 7 stops, with 2 gallons of shooters at each stop.

I ended up using the event as a way to rework a lot of my recipes and add cost sheets so I'd know if home-creation is worth it. The verdict? Sometimes it is, and sometimes it isn’t. As an example of “worth it,” Key Lime Pie using homemade Licor 43 costs $18 a gallon. Key Lime Pie using retail Licor 43 costs around $65 a gallon.

I arrived at camp on Friday afternoon with 8 gallons of shooter ingredients, and a couple gallons of stuff from the Drunken Scientist Lair, just in case. I had to scout for Saturday's trail right after I got to camp, so I started furiously prepping for the Shooting Star right when I got back. Once everything was ASSembled in the freezer, all we needed to do was wait and see how things would transpire.

Surly brought two wrestling singlets, and I threw one on right before the hash started. On top of that, I added the newly created Booze Belt, which allows for spontaneous mixing anywhere at camp. (Anyone wearing it looks like a total dork.) Numerous volunteer-bartenders at various stages of undress were working the stops, and the added eye candy was a definite plus. By the time we had circled camp and completed all the stops, some people were quite drunk. Believe it or not. We even added a legitimate extra credit stop by throwing together about a half gallon of Homemade Mudslide. The original extra credit was the Mat Shot, and it tasted perfect, which means it was perfectly nasty.

I think we had some level of leftovers at every stop, and we continued drinking that for the rest of Friday night and into Saturday night. Having bonus booze was almost as cool as the bonus eye candy.

====================================
THE SHOOTING STAR HASH MENU
NC/SC 2005

KEY LIME PIE
You'll start this trail like you end it: drinking a pie. This orgasmic concockshun made its hash debut at Trifuckta 2003.
1) Chew the crust but don't swallow.
2) Accept the creamy, white liquid.
3) OK, now you can swallow.
4) Throw back your cranium and scream it
like you mean it: KEY LIME PIE!

CRANBERRY KAMIKAZE
The main flavors of the original Kamikaze are orange and lime. But you've probably had it a bazillion times. This one stays true to the original, but adds a little sumpin' sumpin'. And it's not watered down with a shitload of ice like at your local dive-bar.

THE NAWLINS HURRICANE
Yeah, baby… this one's packing a flood of flavor. One of your Humble Bartenders started this shooter in a tiny rocks glass, and refused to stop adding liquors and juices until it tasted right. He ended up with a stock pot overflowing with 3 gallons of booze. Call FEMA.

PIMMS AND LEMONADE
Huh? You haven’t heard of Pimms? Maybe you were born on the wrong side of the pond. It has been around more than 150 years. It was originally served at James Pimm's oyster bar in the financial district of London and has been a British tradition ever since. Lemonade or Champagne are the ever-popular additions.

NUTTY RUSSIAN
This version is made with a homemade Kahlua that beat out the real thing in a blind taste test at an Atlanta restaurant. A homemade schnapps with praline, hazelnut and almond fills out the flavor, but it doesn't overwhelm the coffee, chocolate and vanilla flavors that are in the traditional version. So don't worry, OK jerkoff?

HOMEMADE BUTTERY NIPPLE
The "Buttery" is Butterscotch Schnapps. The "Nipple" is Bailey's. Some Bailey's recipes call for blended raw eggs. Fuck that. So how do you make good Bailey's without them? Spend 9 nights working on it. Mwaaahhh haaa haaa haaaaaaaaaaa.

APPLE PIE
The 12-step program is for pussies. Here's a 7-step program that's easier to remember and a lot more entertaining.
1) Apple Juice
2) Vodka
3) Cinnamon
4) Whipped Cream
5) Shake your cranium
6) Swallow like a good little Catholic girl
7) Scream like the drunk and happy hasher
you are: APPLE PIE!

[Extra Credit - The Mat Shot]
If you’ve ever stayed at a local bar until closing, you might have run into a bartender who offers the bravest soul the spillage that’s trapped in the mat. Hey, there’s alcohol in it. And there’s always much rejoicing as someone lifts up a glass of this room-temperature mixture and throws it down. With this version, you get something a lot cleaner. It also stays true to any original out there, and is just as “tasty.” Good luck.

====================================

64. It Never Gets Old

2006-03-28T01:54:00.000-05:00

Black Sheep H3 - 17 March 06 to 19 March 06

So there we were. Friday night at Black Rock, drinking at the fire and singing that same song, over and over again.
Surleeeeee, Surly Temple, Queen of the Wild Front Queers.
People, I don't know why, but it never gets old. Especially after a few mugs of Terrapin.

THE SURLY SONG
(the extended version)
Melody: Davey Crocket

Born into a hashing family
Lays trails longer than the eye can see
His volume of drinking is beyond belief
Wore his first dress... when he was only three
Surleeeeee
Surly Temple
Queen of the Wild Front Queers

Well, at least everyone at the fire was laughing. But apparently, a few people who had accidentally put up their tents too close to ground zero thought midnight was a time that Sheepers should be sleepers. I can't remember who it was, but a rather cranky camper approached us and said "I think you guys need to stop singing now." Our reply:
"Stop singing what? [insert dramatic pause here while everyone looks at each other and takes a huge gulp of air] Surleeeeeeee! Surly Temple! Queen of the Wild Front Queers!" For some reason, she stood there while we belted out another glorious version of "More Beer" and some other classic that escapes me at the moment. Was she waiting to talk sense into a pack of drunks, or was she just amazed at how stupid a pack of drunks could be? I was laughing so hard my side hurt.
One of us: "Guys, I think we'll have to stop now."
Another of us: "Stop what?"
All of us, somehow starting at the exact same time: "Surleeeee, Surly Temple, Queen of the Wild Front Queers.”

Random Memories of Black Rock, in no particular order:
--The car-sized logs we were able to get onto the fire.
--The vast line of chili pots inside the main cabin, waiting for the hungry campers.
--The line of headlamps in the shiggy during the Shooting Star Hash
--People downwind of the fire continually turning around in pain because of the smoke.
--The short, cardboard-covered monolith hiding the cooking pigs.
--The absolutely gorgeous views we got on trial.
--Realizing how long the drop is from the lid to the drop-zone of the outhouse.
--Realizing Devo survived the entire weekend without freezing to death.
--Seeing a cornelius keg next to the Terrapin. HOMEMADE BEER! (Thanks Pussy Pilot)
--Around 8 of us discussing the joys of porn, shitting in vending machines and other delights.
--The glowing liquor luge.
--The jaw-dropping view at one of the turn-outs on the way back down the mountain.

This was our fifth year up at Black Rock Mountain State Park. I think we had 10 chilis in the cookoff, and everyone ate their fill. I had been running around most of the late afternoon and early evening getting the Shooting Star Hash together, so I didn't see who won. I think there were multiple winners this year.

The hash started at 9pm, and for those of you who are used to Shooting Star’s starting at midnight, hey, it was midnight somewhere. This year, I e-mailed everyone early and got donors for each stop. That took care of the money thing. And not only did everyone pick good shooters, everyone had their picks and the ingredients to me well before the deadline. This was important because it takes a while to make the menu:

====================================

THE SHOOTING STAR HASH MENU
Black Rock Campout 2006

Bikini Line and Citron My Face
Donated by Gasshole
We’re starting off strong tonight. Not only do you get a two-fer AND a theme, but a slogan as well: First We Wax, Then We Eat. The Bikini Line is Vodka, Chambord and Tia Maria. Citron My Face is Absolut Citron, Grand Marnier, Sour Mix and 7-Up. Get your tongue ready.

Gorilla Fart
Donated by Crack Pusher and Cums Online
Banana Schnapps. Gorilla. Get it? Good little camper. OK, so we have half of the name down. Now for the fart. No, this doesn’t smell bad. It’s the kick coming from the Vodka and Rum. Put it this way: whether a gorilla farts on you or attacks you, it’s going to be memorable.

Black Rock Antifreeze
Donated by Gentrifuckation and Martha Screw-it
If you remember our first year up here at Black Rock, everything left outside Saturday night froze solid. So antifreeze might come in handy. The famous green (Happy St. Patty’s Day, by the way) color comes from Midori Melon Liqueur. Also included are Vodka and a homemade Sour Mix that beat store-bought stuff in taste tests.

Purple Hooter
Donated by Bwana and 4 Inch Hole
There’s a reason this is a classic: it’s marvelous. The only thing better than one Hooter is two Hooters, and honestly, does it ever matter what color they are? Absolutely not. The “Purple” here is Chambord. Also included is a proof-booster (Vodka) and some 7-Up to round out the flavor.

Tootsie Roll
Donated by M.C.
Let’s give equal time here. If we’re going to obsess over Hooters, we also need to obsess over a drink that reminds us all of a tiny male unit. Sure, Long Thick Dong might be more manly, but that hasn’t been invented yet. This creative creation includes Crème de Cocoa, Amaretto, Vodka and the surprise ingredient: Orange Juice.

Sweet Santorum
Donated by Davey Crochet
Davey grabbed three random (and quite delicious) liqueurs from his house and dared L&F to create something. The result? The shot is fantastic; we’re just not sure about the name. Included in this cuncockshun is Buttershots, Kahlua, Chocolate Hazelnut Cream and a dash of Half-and-Half. Mmm… creamy.

Apple Pie
Donated by Surly Temple
The 12-step program is for pussies. Here's a 7-step program that's easier to remember and a lot more entertaining.
1) Apple Juice
2) Vodka
3) Cinnamon
4) Whipped Cream
5) Shake your cranium
6) Swallow like a good little Catholic girl
7) Scream like the drunk and happy hasher
you are: APPLE PIE!

[Extra Credit]
If you’re still standing, please look for some random bald guy with a Booze Belt. He has Ruby Relaxers ready to mix for you. That’s Vodka, Peach Schnapps, Malibu, Cranberry Juice and Pineapple Juice. He also has Chocolate-Covered Raspberry, Chocolate Raspberry/Almond and Doublemint Gum.

Thank you for getting drunk with us,
--The Black Rock Bartenders

====================================

Gentrifuckation hared our little excursion, and as with past years and past hares, he tortured the pack with a rough downhill part and an even rougher uphill part. Yes, even that close to camp, there are plenty of opportunities for pain. Mountains. Remember the mountains.

We got to the first stop and Gasshole had a box full of shot glasses for everyone. Sweet. Later at MC’s car, we were greeted to the rap song Tootsie Roll as her shooter came out. Devo (yes the dog with the transparent penis)...

Begin Tangent:

TRANSPARENT PENIS
Written for Devo by Twattoo and L&F
Guitar Riff: Original

Transparent penis.
You can see through it.
Transparent penis.

End Tangent.

...was decked out in the front seat with a necklace lined with Tootsie Rolls. I believe this was the shot that put some people over the top. There were people who got back to camp and started dispersing almost immediately. A whole group went a mile up the road to the cabins. Please hate them. They got beds and showers and heat. The rest of us froze our freaking asses off in 34 degree weather. Well, at least those of us who are wimps froze our asses off. I chose the back of the truck (Thor, with the shell), and didn’t bother putting a blanket over the inflatable mattress, so I ended up near frozen when I woke up. And I kept waking up. Oh well, I had to get up early anyway, because we had a trail to scout.

Bwana, Dribbles (the self-described old men) and the young whippersnapper (um… me?) drove up almost to the cabins and parked. It’s really peaceful up in the mountains (stating the obvious here), so the only thing making a sound was me cursing my painfully new Garmin Vista model… the CX… which had buggy software on launch. Because I had turned the tracks off the last time I used it, when I turned it back on, it wouldn’t get past the colorful welcome screen, which says…

L&F
Black Sheep H3
Charlotte H3
Carolina Trash H3

…just for your information.

So it was unusable for us. I didn’t know what was wrong with it at the time, and I couldn’t try to fix it until I got back home, so I was a little annoyed. How the hell were we going to scout this trail in a couple hours in the mountains, and split it, without a GPS? Jesus.

We decided to start off in an area we were familiar with, and our hope was to loop back with a near-circle jerk as a way to add more mileage before we cut over to an area where a certain bald guy got lost 4 years ago. We found an area where we knew we could cut back up at the end of the loop, and then hung long strings of surveyors tape for reference at whatever point we climbed back up. Then we headed out for the longish haul.

As usual, the area was absolutely gorgeous. We kept walking, and kept finding cool areas pointing away from camp. So we kept taking them. The two veterans and I kept looking off at the distance, and looking at the sun, trying to figure out how sharp we would need to cut to hit the surveyors tape. At some point, we realized we were too far away to cut, and decided that we would have to split the trail here and then make the entire trail a large loop, with a final mile down the road from the cabins to camp. At one point, there was a really obvious cut in the hill, so we figured this would be a great place to split the first and second parts of trail. I volunteered to climb the Hill of Death and poke around while the other two made a bigger loop than originally expected and find out where another hare split could be.

My trick was to get back to the tape. Their trick was to finish the loop. Their last hill was a steep one, and when they got to the crest, they saw the cabins way off in the distance. So this was where trail would go. They kept the cabins in their line if sight, and sooner or later, all three of us met back up at the car.

For the actual trail, the entire pack walked the mile up to the cabins and Bunny blessed us up there. Trail went well, and none of us got snared, even though the FRB’s started coming back to camp about 40 minutes after the on-out. I guess we lot lucky.

Circle ensued, and drinking was had by all. Then we opened circle again when the uber-DFL’s came in.

With the formalities out of the way, heavy drinking then ensued, and we were soon treated to what Niplets had been slaving over for 24 hours… two 70-pound roasted pigs. Some of us ate the eyes and the brains, because they were there and needed consuming. More beer, shooters and liquor was consumed, and at one point, I lit my cranium on fire again, but the flames weren’t as high as they were that morning. Oh, I didn’t explain the morning cranium arson? Oops. Flames. Slight discomfort. Laughter and pointing.

At some point that night, there was a better attempt at sleeping, and the clean-up and leaving mid-day Sunday. But what this manifesto needs to end with is the excellent decision by
Surleeeeeee, Surly Temple, Queen of the Wild Front Queers
to carve up the block of ice from circle and make a liquor luge. With the help of a few people, we got the block lighted with a flashlight and the channels cut and the booze ready. I’d like to proudly announce that is was the best liquor luge ever made in Atlanta.

OK, I’m sick of writing. You get the idea.
On On to Cooper River.

May the Hash Get a Piece

63. There's Shiggy Here?

2006-02-27T16:09:00.000-05:00

Southern Comfort H3 - 24 Febeerary 2006

"Shiggy in Avondale Estates!!!" is the promise that drew us to the start Friday night. Shiggy and Avondale Estates are not normally words that are uttered together. Satellite imagery showed a couple promising areas, but being on the ground is a lot different than looking down on Earth from a satellite.

The start was at an abandoned office park near all the Dekalb County services buildings at Memorial and Kensington. The cast of characters in order of appearance were:
2 Crabs
Your Humble Scribe
Runs Down
Breast Stroke
Davey Crochet
Meow
Squid Dick
Dane Bramage
The Ghost of Everqueer

I took a wrong turn near the start and drove into the back lot of the Dekalb County Medical Examiner's office, where I drove right next to a van marked "Technical Body Recovery Team." Could this be a sign of things to come? Undaunted, I found the real start and disrobed to the delight of no one so I could put on hash gear. At the appointed time, we circled around a slightly hyper Runs Down, who informed us Meow would be bimboing, but not beer-meistering. But... but... where was our golden nectar? Apparently, Runs called Everqueer just moments before, and woke him up at the dorms, so our beer-meister would be joining us at the end. Pre-trail instructions included the quote of the evening: "There will be a couple danger signs, but I'm not going to lay them." With that logic firmly in place, our hare continued: "The dangerous parts will be REALLY obvious. If you get hurt, you're REALLY stupid." We tried to explain the group he was dealing with, but he was too nervous about trail and getting snared to care. On Out. We watched him struggle through the shiggy next to the parking lot's fence for a good minute and decided to give him five minutes from the point we couldn't see him anymore. Then he disappeared but we kept hearing him crash through the brush, so we decided to give him five minutes from the point we couldn't HEAR him anymore.

The pack left at the exact moment I realized I had forgotten my goggles, so I was a couple minutes behind everyone. (I would be glad I got them. More on that later.) I trudged through a foresty section for a while to the edge of a contruction site, and still didn't see anyone. There was a steep change in elevation here, and I decided to jump down. But it was dark, and since I didn't have anyone in front of me to gauge the earth below, I jumped blindly into mud that went up to my calves. There was much mental rejoicing.

I caught up with the pack at a check, located at the back of the Medical Examiner's office, so at least I had my bearings. Trail continued on assfault for a while, and almost as an apology for the road rage, Runs dipped us into an urban swamp. Yeah, he actually found a swamp here, and from what he told us later, it looked N.A.S.T.Y in the daylight. Well, that would explain the extreme blackness of my shoes, socks and feet when I changed at the end.

The briars started here. A lot of them. Big ones, thick ones, long ones... any type you can imagine. And they were still flexible, even in the winter, so you couldn't break through them. Arg. I swear to you I broke records for the number of times I got my cranium gear stuck on vines. I can only imagine how stupid I looked rotating around trying to free myself. More stupid than I normally look, obviously. We even saw some of those briar trees, which can even be scary to look at.

From the swamp, we did a lot of forest running in between homes and apartments. This is the great part about haring for a night crowd: You can find thin strips of shiggy and know the hounds will have a lot harder time realizing where they are. At one point, I noticed lights of an apartment complex and could almost hear Runs as he was scouting for this trail, letting out a bellowing, evil laugh. "Mwah hah hahhh... they will have no idea where they really are!"

Aren't water towers normally built on the highest points of an area? Well then, we hit one of the highest points of Dekalb, because we ran right next to a nice-sized monstrosity with the county's name beautifully scrawled across it, and the whole thing wasn't built up too high. Interesting.

The smell of pot greeted us as we ran toward a Marta stop. I don't remember which one, but I remember the large amount of stares we got as we all ran through the main section and into the parking lot. 2 Crabs got the first snare of the night at an apartment complex nearby, and we waited for the pack to reconvene before taking off once again. There was more shiggy here behind the complex, some weaving around a fence and one of several creek crossings. I also vaguely remember a large easement of some sort and a climb up a Hill of Death to a street above.

Apparently, Runs was getting tired, because the second snare seemed to occur not too long after the first one. We were on the tracks, and from what I was told, it is important to note these weren't the Marta tracks, since those carry quite a bit of electricity. As we were waiting our allotted time, we spied someone way off in the distance on the tracks, and knew right away it was Runs. His backpack busted not too far from where he had left us, and because he was getting so tired, he decided to go back and take the street to the end and save the longer, shiggier route for another trail.

Trail ended at in the front yard of Runs' house, and we were treated to seeing him get drunk while he was running circle. Apparently, he lives in one of the coolest neighborhoods ever, because no one complained, even though we stayed out there for quite a while, shouting and loudly uttering the traditional SoCo hash song countless times. Circle ended with us naming Meow, who from now on and forever more be known as Furry Curry. Welcome to the hash, and thank you for being a such loyal bimbo.

Join us Friday to witness what Wine Ho will be torturing us with. Until then,
May the Hash Get a Piece

62. Baby Showers and Other Manly Things

2006-02-26T23:43:00.000-05:00

Carolina Trash H3 - 18 Febeerary 2006 to 19 Febeerary 2006

My cell phone, Saturday night: Ring.
Me, carefully shifting my mug between hands so I can answer and not spill precious beer: Hello?
Spooge: Hey, does Bagless drive a blue van with handicap plates?
Me: Yeah, why?
Spooge: Does he drive a blue van with an On-On sticker and Cobb County plates?
Me: He would probably be the only person on the planet who drives that. I hope that's a Trash sticker. Where are you?
Spooge: In Alabama on I-20. I might be behind him. He's driving really fast.
Me: You don't have his number?
Spooge: No.
Me: I'll call you back.

Me, pushing phone buttons with super-human retard strength: Bloop bloop bloop bloop bloop bloop bloop.
Fag Hag, answering Bagless' phone: Hey, [unprintable nerd name]
Me: Yay! Hey, where are you right now?
Fag Hag: In Alabama on I-20. We're coming back from a game.
Me: Well slow down so Spooge can say Hi to you.
Fag Hag: Oh, so HE'S the lunatic behind us.
Me: Yeah. And you know I'm playing middle man from Fayetteville right now. Sweet.

Fucking-A sweet is right. Helping Trashers verbally canoodle at Interstate off-ramps, one gulp of beer at a time.

We got to Trashville about 2pm on Saturday afternoon. Those us with boobs went to Tang's baby shower. And for those of you living under a rock, that's Spooge's better half, and she's almost ready to pop. Those of us without boobs stayed at Tripple Nipple and Yucca's house, warming up the beer pong table. We also did what guys normally do when someone lights a fire at a fire pit: We stand around it and say "Yup" a lot. We were on our 3,539th Yup when the girls started arriving. Now that everyone was together, we were all focused on one goal: Getting fucked up as a way to welcum back Yucca from Afghanistan. I had just learned to count to Two, and that came in handy because that's how many kegs we had at our disposal. Then I had to learn fractions real quick because there was a 2 1/2 gallon container of Yucca standing by. There was food everywhere, and everywhere you looked, there seemed to be another rat-dog the size of one of my bowel movements.

If that cell phone anecdote gave you a warm, fuzzy feeling inside, take that feeling, stretch it out all night, and that was the party. Hey, anytime there's naked people jumping in a near-freezing pool, good times aren't far away. Around midnight, there seemed to be a lot of people who we were explaining hashing to, and it turns out they were some drunks from across the street. And by across the street, I mean this dude's house who lives on the river and has an outside bar. Can you say Ending for a Float?

Ruby Relaxers rock. There might be some of you who think they're too "girly," but if you're also playing beer pong with straight manly Yucca, it sort of balances out.

We're flash-forwarding to Trail now, because I said so. Sunday 1500hrs. The start was off Raeford, I believe. There was railroad tracks, and 1/4 of the trail smelled like a natural gas leak. That might be enough of a clue for some of you. County Services blah blah blah maybe. This was where more Yucca was consumed. Anyway, TN, Cunt, Red Breast and Keyless laid trail, and for about 24 hours, I had heard people say that it was going to be short because "the girls were laying it." Um, no. If they made it long to prove everyone wrong... good. There was three beers stops and a good amount of shiggy. At one point, a check had us baffled, and with everyone milling around, I decided to follow the last mark we saw, which was at a tunnel under a street. I trudged through water up to my thighs to get to the other side. Once there, I realized that the last mark we saw was seriously the last mark. But how can you regret doing a tunnel, especially when you get to the other side and see a drainage pipe with icicles hanging below it? Oh, did I forget to mention it was freaking COLD out? There was a check about 1/2 mile from the start/end, and as five of us continued along on trail, I noticed the rest of the pack decided to shortcut. But I don't roll that way. So for all but four of you, here's what you missed: SHIGGY. Forest, a dried-out creek bed, briars, etc. Gotta love Etc. I was Drunk Trasher to a virgin for this trail, and he ran the whole thing in shorts and a tank top. He was shivering at the start, and the cool-downs at the beer stops seemed to be hurting him a little. Suggestion: Clothes with more fabric. After the five of us got through the shiggy, we hit a check at a CSX Railroad building that confused us just long enough to get stopped by a slow-moving train. My virgin decides to jump on the train, in front of the frumpy CSX guy. Not too bright. While Mister Frumpy stomped closer, and my virgin's co-virgin/friend tried to get him down, the rest of us bolted down the street. Once we were all back together, we boxed our way back to the end. As soon as we got there, circle commenced immediately.

Of note at circle: It's a little surreal traveling more than 350 miles to get to trail and then not having to do a visitor down-down. I'd have to say it's almost as enjoyable as beer, and almost as pleasurable as anything that vibrates.

May the Hash Get a Piece

61. Park Your Ass for a Black Sheep Trash

2006-02-12T19:07:00.000-05:00

Black Sheep H3 - 5 Febeerary 2006

From one park to another, this is how we frolicked during Black Sheep’s 404th, also known as the ALS Fundraiser Hash, also known as the Super Bowl Prelube Hash.

The Pre-Game Show: Happy Birthday, Fuck You
Some of us might have been a bit hung over for this trail, since the night before was the Party of the Moment… Dr. Doo Doo’s birthday extravaganza. I will avoid going into any of the gory details of this joyous event, since some of you might be eating while you’re reading this.

First Quarter: The Start
A decent-sized group of people had gathered at the park, which was either Mark Trail or Nathaniel Scott in Decatur. The most energetic living thing at this stage of the game was Martha Screw-it’s Bassett hound, which was loving that everyone was at a much lower elevation dealing with footwear. (Ask her about the doggie-dicks of some of the more rotund males of the breed; it’s priceless.) Bwana and Wee Little Bit were our hares, and were ready at the required time, although we were still without our Slack Sheep hare. Well, Doo Doo pulled up while the other two were getting blessed, clad in jeans and what looked like black dress shoes. Nice. He grabbed some flour and the three took off.

Second Quarter: All Over the Place
We sprinted after the hares in a westerly direction, immediately hitting one of the park’s wooded areas, and then followed Parkland Dr. down to I-20. This part of town is odd. Not only does I-20 cut directly south here, Flat Shoals does some strange meandering thing as well, and actually crosses I-20 twice. So unless you’re really smart (a geography major), or have looked at a map before trail (2 Crabs) then there’s a good chance big landmarks won’t help you figure out which way you’re going. But hey, most of us were following flour anyway, so who cares. And flour led us through what one harriette described as Urban Shiggy. Of course I’ve heard this phrase before, but not on a Black Sheep. I’d have to say that the hares squeezed every bit of shiggy out of this area, because the turns and changes of scenery were coming at a quick clip. Bonus: this kept our brains busy. At one point, we almost did a complete loop in a wooded area, ending where I-20 meets Gresham Road.

Half Time: Our Long Search for Flour
Our little reprieve from exertion came here, at a couple of checks near the overpass. The first check had many of us milling around north of the highway, and the second check had us shuffling around south of the highway, scratching our craniums in confusion. We cavorted around a shopping center for quite a while, talking to the locals and finding a rather disgusting spot in the back alley. Our search extended to nearby streets until we finally found trail much closer to the check, hidden between the tight space of a fence and the sound barrier at the Gresham Road off-ramp. So obvious, yet so crafty.

Third Quarter: Tractors and a Really Bad Stench
The twists and turns of trail slowed here, with a construction area to the west giving us a larger area to play in. From here on out, we pretty much followed the streets and shiggy next to a long creek, first diving in just as it went under I-20. Wow, it was muddy here, and the smell was atrocious. I think what made it worse was that our shoes were still dry up to this point, and we had gotten used to solid ground. A few creek crossings on the other side of the highway cleaned off the mud. One long stretch before the end was an easement of some sort, and during trail trial, a few Sheepers commented on the strange sensation of running on the bazillion tractor tire indentations. We ended at Dekalb Memorial Park, right where I-20 starts to dip south. Sani’s hot soup, birthday cake and a glorious keg were all at the ready.

Fourth Quarter: The Circle
Bwana made it quite clear he was not too thrilled about sitting bare-ass on the ice in the cold weather, so a few hounds decided to stretch out their comments to add to our fearless leader’s misery. Speaking of the low temperature, Pussy Pilot got a shout-out for doing trail with a short-sleeve shirt on.
It’s also worth mentioning the large number of entries in the Things That Made the Pack Groan Department. One was the canoodling pair of Doo Doo and Double Penetration, frolicking on the ground in their birthday orgy. Yay for genitalia. There was also quite a bit of licking of the ice. That always gets a decent reaction. And let’s not forget TLS’s slow striptease down to his panties. Yes, I said panties.
Before our traditional Swing Low, Sani informed us that we had just donated more than 800 dollars to ALS research, and that helped put us over the amount needed to get a hash foot and Studda Bubba’s name on the Muscle Mountain Mania event jersey.

The Post-Game Show: Wee Little Bit’s Casa
An even bigger group turned out to watch the Super Bowl. Some of the more frequently heard comments included “Hey, where were you for trail?” “That ad didn’t make any sense” “I love beer” and “Sex is the best thing ever.” OK, I made up that last one. But it’s true, isn’t it?

On that note,
May the Hash Get a Piece

60. Just a Little Stunning

2006-02-06T23:34:00.000-05:00

Biloxi H3’s Eat Mor Chikin Weekend - 20 January 06 to 22 January 06

Our latest road trip has been sponsored by storm-devastated Biloxi and surrounding areas. Tolerating me in the car this time around was Red Breast and Poke Her Cabana.

First up… The Things I Learned Before, During and After Eating Mor Chikin:

--Chick-fil-A has some great props for a weekend of this caliber.
--The Biloxi crowd really knows how to welcome out-of-towners.
--If you turn down a chance to play Tippy Cup in Biloxi, the Welcoming Committee will turn on you.
--If you walk around with a battery-operated chicken that makes hellish sounds of pain when you choke it, people will tire of it (and you) very quickly.
--Five months after d-day (K-day?), and you still have to drive forever to get to an open bar. But hey, once you’re there, Scareoke sounds exactly the same.
--Two out-of-towners laying trail can be quite entertaining.
--Porkymon’s house smells like my butt crack. And by butt crack, I don’t mean my butt crack after I shower, I mean my butt crack after I get done haring.
--Want an abandoned bike? Walk around Ocean Springs for a few minutes.
--If you’re wearing flour-covered running tights in Ocean Springs, and you put a plunger on your freshly shaved dome, one of the locals will stop and ask you what’s going on.
--If your name is Burn-n-Bush and you just got your house repaired, you might need to swallow quite a few Bravery Pills before you invite a bunch of drunk people over for a weekend.
--The more drunk you are, the cooler drinking games are.
--“What the Fuck” is the coolest drinking game that I can’t play whatsoever.
--How do you make a 79.9-proof Hurricane? Mix powdered flavoring into straight booze.
--If you drink hard liquor and beer all weekend, and forget to drink water, you tend to get quite ill after a couple days.
--If you drink too many Hurricanes, you will pass out. For a long time.
--I will always forget something at an out-of-town event. Sometimes, I’ll forget two or three somethings.
--If you say you’d be willing to have public sex with a Dwarf for a nominal fee, drunk hashers will whip out their cash faster than Paris Hilton whips out her wad at Louis Vuitton.
--There’s a new type of Christmas Tree. It’s a Biloxi Tree. Directions: Take a regular tree from the Biloxi area, add hurricane-force winds at a 20-plus-foot storm surge, and let the water recede. Ornaments will include clothes, paper bags, toys… and maybe even a full-size boat.

Up second: I’d like a Perspective Sandwich with a Side of Humility, Please.

I’ve tried writing this part multiple times and have given up each time. It’s so hard to put that much damage into words. Because it’s really beyond words, and even beyond pictures. You have to go there. In my case, words or pictures didn’t elicit anything close to the crippling feeling I got standing in the middle of what looks like the aftermath of a nuclear bombing. I found myself unable to speak. Sitting here thinking about it makes me feel the same way I did at Porkymon’s lot, looking around at what used to be his neighborhood.
There’s nothing.

Porky drove us around early Sunday afternoon so we could see some damage, including his house. This would have been the fourth time I made the drive to his place, so I thought I was a little familiar with the area. But too much was gone. We were at a part of town with sporadic housing, crippled businesses and countless piles of wood and other assorted garbage. I hadn’t realized it, but we were really close to his house; on Race Track, actually, just north of the back bay, heading east. There were empty lots everywhere. All of a sudden he turned left and said “OK, this is my street.” He could have slapped me and it would have caused the same reaction I had. I sat straight up in my seat, screamed something and looked around in amazement. It was Lepoma Avenue, but there were no houses. There wasn’t even a street, really. Just a vast expanse of mud and scattered garbage. I looked to my left at some trees, in what would have been some back yards. I looked to my right and saw through two lots to Brittany Avenue, and I could have sworn I even got a quick glimpse of a blue truck on M and L Road two streets over.

We parked in front of his house. It was one of the few left standing because it was one of the few made of brick. There was one other house close-by. In fact, it was in his driveway. We got out of the car. It smelled here, and it wasn’t just from the mold. It was rot of all types. I can only imagine what it smelled like before they carted all the crap away. I looked back toward the water and just stood there paralyzed. Talking was out of the question. I could barely even breathe. I actually felt something inside my chest; a tingling, as if someone were yanking something out. I didn’t understand what I seeing. That much power, ripping everything down. That much force, turning an entire neighborhood into a vast expanse of ruin. This many families that lost everything. And it wasn’t just here. There were miles and miles of areas that looked just like this.

I walked a couple of lots toward the water and stood on a slab that used to have a house on top of it. There was scattered pieces of tile here, and nearby, a stuffed doll face-down in the mud. A piece of wood. Another piece. A tiny ball. And holes everywhere, which would have been footprints if the earth had been able to support more weight. A fence popped up out of nowhere, showing where the lots were divided. I looked back, and for the first time, noticed some FEMA trailers. People who had nowhere to go, living here in what was now a desolate floodplain.

The other three were slowly walking toward Porky’s house, and I ran to catch up. We made our way over a small mountain of trash and up the porch steps to where the front door used to be. It was now lying inside, covering more garbage. The smell of rot was really strong and there was an almost imperceptible sound that I wasn’t able to place until later. It was actually a faint combination of sounds that for some reason forced me to remain as silent as possible, as if even the slightest amount of extra noise would upset the delicate balance of what was left here. There was a drop of water, a clicking of wood and a creaking of some sort. I couldn’t feel the breeze, but I knew there was at least a tiny bit of it slowly brushing past something. I walked though the living room and toward the kitchen and realized what Porky had meant by “unsalvageable.” It was actually difficult to focus on any one thing for too long, as if my brain didn’t want me to dwell on the loss. I remembered all of his costumes and all of his Halloween paraphernalia in the guest bedroom and made my way over to that part of the house. Again, nothing but a black pile of rotting waste.

At the side of the house, the carport had fallen over, and I didn’t even notice what we walked over to get to the back yard. The metal roof of the carport, maybe? There was more junk piled up, and you couldn’t even tell there was ever a large RV shed back here. It just floated off. A boy was close to us in the next lot over, wading though the mud with large rubber boots on. I noticed the stillness in the air, and I saw him bend over and pick up a golf ball. “You’d be amazed at how many of these you can find here,” he said as he saw me walk closer. He told me his uncle lived a couple lots over and liked to practice his swing once in a while. I mentioned how strange the neighborhood looked, and he said it was a lot worse before they carted all the junk away. He seemed out of place here, nonchalantly trudging around among the nothingness.

I walked back down the driveway to the extra house. The floor seemed weak as I stepped inside, but it could have just been the junk all around. There was that sound again. The roof had caved in at spots, and there was a lot of insulation everywhere. I looked over into the kitchen and saw the cupboard door open below the sink. The intact, shiny pipes struck me as odd, and seemed as out of place as the boy over in the next lot. I don’t remember seeing any drywall, which isn’t very surprising.

I walked back out to the muddy street and realized I had seen enough. From the ravaged casinos to the dense forests of debris-filled trees, to the rows and rows of apartments with the lower two stories missing, to this desolate mess, I finally came to grips with the magnitude of it all, and suddenly got really tired. Needless to say, there was quite a bit of silence on the drive home.

The flooding of New Orleans had an unexpected consequence: It took the media’s attention away from the sprawling, widespread damage across Mississippi, and made people lose perspective on what Hurricane Katrina really did to the Gulf Coast. That’s what made the trip down here so important. And I didn’t even see the area at its worst. People with empty lots are getting their finances straightened out, and others have their houses back together. There’s not a whole lot of happiness here yet. But there’s enough.

On On

59. The Trash Invades Reality

2006-01-28T11:04:00.000-05:00

Carolina Trash H3 - No date necessary

ATLANTA (AP) - Police were called to the aftermath of surreal riot on Saturday, located at a construction-site cul-de-sac off Moreland Avenue, just outside the Perimeter.

According to people being treated at the scene, the instigators were a group of runners known as The Carolina Trash, who traveled down from their home base in Fayetteville, North Carolina to find out about the local runs here in Atlanta.

The Trash is one of many groups known as The Hash House Harriers, known collectively as The Drinking Club With a Running Problem, but extreme differences are seen from city to city.

Apparently, the local Hashers laid out a cross-country trail that ended at the secluded cul-de-sac, which will soon be part of the Moreland Vista Apartments.

Witnesses said the visiting members of the Trash were unhappy with the leadership and lack of ambition from everyone involved, and began throwing beer and disrobing.

When the more aggressive locals took offense and began confronting the unhappy pack, the Trashers allegedly began defecating at the site and urinating on everyone within range.

Some of the drunken males even began masturbating, in an attempt to spray additional bodily fluids. One was even projectile-vomiting on command.

This sent some of the Atlanta women screaming, alerting the weekend construction crew working at the nearby apartments.

"When we got to the area, everyone seemed pretty drunk," said construction worker Mark Darymple. "Some people were slipping in human waste, others were coated with red Georgia clay and beer. The entire area smelled like someone spilled Pabst Blue Ribbon in a porta-john. I think the oddest thing I saw was a cat fight where one of the ladies had another pinned to the ground, and the one on top was squeezing her breast milk into the helpless girl's face. Tears and milk. Wow."

Darymple went on to say his crew decided to avoid getting in the middle of the confrontation when the members of the Trash who weren't using their genitals as weapons offered them free beer. "They seemed like they just wanted to have a good time," he said, shrugging his shoulders. "Plus, it was warm there. They were lighting random fires everywhere."

By the time police arrived, most of the group had disbanded, except for the people who were hurt.

They would only give what they called their "hash names," which they said were awarded to them after five runs with the group.

In an ironic moment, one male calling himself I Am My Own Punchline was injured when he slipped on a pile of semen and fell to the ground.

Another named Goody No Shoes said a bottle hit his head and he passed out, only to wake up several minutes later with black marker all over the exposed parts of his body. "I got Sharpied," he sighed, referring to the permanent marker manufactured by Sanford.

A female from Decatur, whose hash name is too explicit to print, said the Trash had staged what they called an Invasion, which is apparently the term they use whenever they leave Fayetteville on a road trip. “They invaded all right.” the woman said, “My personal space, my privacy, my set of morals.” She then cursed for about 15 seconds, kicked a charred running shoe and walked off.

Charges are unlikely to be filed, due to the anonymity of everyone involved, and the refusal of the construction workers to make a statement.

AP-28-JAN-06

58. Shiggy Porn or Dry Hump?

2006-01-15T12:32:00.000-05:00

Black Sheep H3 - 8 January 06

The last time I did a Tastes Like Shit trail, it was of the insanely shiggilicious variety during our trip to Johnson City, Tennessee for the second-ever (and last) TCH3. But a month or two ago, TLS apparently got nicknamed Trails Like Shit for the “communication error” that turned his Atlanta co-haring into a mega cluster. Communication error. That’s like using the phrase “wardrobe malfunction” when your top gets ripped off by a horny guy half your age and your titty makes a guest appearance on national television.

I checked the satellite maps, and there were many possibilities for road rage. So we were going to be treated to orgasma-shiggy or forced into some twisted, temporary celibacy. Either way, I had a feeling we were going to get a workout. Something else that made us interested before we even started was that we were doubling up with the new Slack Sheep. That trail was going to split off at some point and co-hare Sani was going to give the Slackers an easier time.

For a January day, it was incredibly warm as the pack gathered for the 402nd running of the Black Sheep Hash. And holy crap, the turnout was impressive. There was close to 60 runners and bimbos at the start to watch TLS get out of his car in full Elvis attire. Maybe I should mention the day’s Elvis Birthday theme. The hare paraded around the parking lot of Nickajack Park for about 10 minutes, and then put the blazingly white costume away for later use at circle.

After an official Bunny Blessing, the hares departed, flour bags in hand. The expected YBF was found way up a hill and into some thick forest, which had many of the hounds cursing. True trail ended up down Nickajack Park Road for just a bit, then along a powercut and some random dirt to the grassy strip next to the breakdown lane on I-285. Yes, the pack ran along the interstate for a while, going northbound on the southbound side of the highway. This is where the railroad tracks started.

We went down the tracks to an Elvis-approved DS (donut stop) and cut though a little strip of shiggy to another set of tracks, which morphed into a bridge across the Chattahoochee River. This long stretch on the ties was where a number of people had little personal traumas as they tried to stifle one or more of their phobias. Some of us even kissed the ground on the other side when we finally got across. And who can forget the two face-plants.

Flour led us under the bridge, past a freshly dead raccoon, into a few steps of muddy water, and then right back on more tracks. And that brought us right back near 285 on the northbound side.

It was about this point we got off the ties and down into what was sometimes a swamp between the tracks and the river. Today it was bone dry, with the only mud in sight being the dried stuff on top of the leaves. For a mile, we trudged through uneven and litter-strewn forest with the tracks visible up above. One Ball’s translation: Spoiled Wilderness. The scenery was interesting, so we decided to continue following true trail. Between the shiggy and where the mile ended at Bankhead Highway, we ran along an access road for a powercut, where we were treated to a series of abandoned cars, complete with Bonnie-and-Clyde-type holes littering the sides. There was also a massive tire graveyard where we found ourselves among an ocean of black circles.

After a run up Bankhead Highway and through some forest, we ended back at the zig-zagging powercut, which connected us to an extra-wide easement. At the end of our lengthy trek along this little piece of sewer heaven, we finally found a little swamp; calf-deep and just long enough to numb our feet. A final easement brought us to the end, two miles from the start, and off the same street we turned on to get to the park. Length of trail: around 6 1/2 miles.

Because of ankle issues, I’m really damn slow in uneven shiggy, so I sometimes find myself among the last in. Today was one of those days. I barely got changed when circle started. During Trail Trial, most people announced they liked it, especially the mental pain of the bridge. But not surprisingly, there were a few who voiced their displeasure at all the dryness. If you need some perspective, a certain bald someone keeps track of the number of times The Boys get wet on Black Sheeps, and it happens about 75% of the time.

I decided to join the majority and be happy that we got to r*n a 10K among some pretty entertaining and impressive sights. Davey Crochet wrote the official hash trash, and he summed it up well when he thanked the hares: “If it weren’t for you, we couldn’t sit on our fat asses and complain.”

Until next time,
May the Hash Get a Piece

57. I Shaved My Taint

2006-01-01T10:15:00.014-05:00

Carolina Trash H3 - 9 DecemBEER 05 to 11 DecemBEER 05

2011 UPDATE:

Well, spank my ass and call me stunned. Since this page is the #1 return on Google for "Shaved Taint"... maybe I should actually jot something down on the subject.

There is only one product I've ever used that does a decent job on the junk: the Norelco Bodygroom. It actually works. I won't paste a link because I don't want you drunks thinking I get blowjobs from Philips for the mention. There are Bodygroom reviews on Amazon if you're interested.

Why Norelco and not the other guys? For one thing, the Bodygroom is the right size. Also, I've been using Norelco products since I was in junior high, shaving peach fuzz off my shitty little face. Their razors last a long damn time. Even in their products with lower-end batteries, battery life is fine, like in the Bodygroom (you're not buying a $120 razor here). There are now three versions of this thing. Again, go to Amazon for reviews.

My only complaint is that you can't plug the cord into the Bodygroom for recharging. You have to plug the cord into the plastic stand, and then set the Bodygroom on the stand. I don't know if the high-end Bodygroom is different in this respect.

Now, for the actual act of shaving down there...
Hey moron, shower first. And dry off well. Start with your balls, because if you can shave your balls, you can shave ANYTHING on your body with no problem. Remember, your ball skin is sort of like a raisin, so you'll have to pull it relatively tight in the area you're shaving. If you don't, and you nick yourself, you're doing it wrong. Trust me, once you have clean balls, you will actually be horrified with yourself if you ever let your ball hair grow out too long. It looks odd and is very uncomfortable, not to mention a turnoff for most Significant Others who play down there.

When you're done shaving, even if you still see the remainder of hairs near the very base of your skin, don't panic. Your skin will be smooth.

As for the taint, unless you squat over a mirror, you'll have to shave it blind. Either way, it's so much easier than the nuts.

Now for an editorial on manliness: I've actually heard dudes brush off the idea of shaving their junk because it would somehow make them less of a guy. They suggest or straight-out say that it will make them a [insert homophobic slur here]. Sure, some guys will never learn, and this paragraph is not for them. For everyone else... have you ever talked to significant others or potential significant others about what they like, or what turns them on? Do you think you're in the bloodline of the biblical Samson and will lose all your man-strength if you cut your hair? Do you have some childhood issues that you've turned into crippling adult baggage? What the hell is wrong with you? It's fucking ball hair. Get over it and clean up.

I have spoken.

NOW BACK TO YOUR REGULAR PROGRAMMING
I couldn’t decide how to start this damn thing, so I’ll start it five times.

1. This is the tale of Prom 2005, also known as The Trash Invades Their Home Turf.

2. Yes, I count my hashes. The payoffs are few and far between, like the one that cropped up at Prom 2005. First off, this was my 200th hash as L&F. More importantly, this was my 100th out-of-town hash. Yes, you drunk wankers, I have held my own personal Hash Invasion 100 times. And not surprisingly, a majority of them have been in North Carolina. And without even knowing I was celebrating such an important milestone, the Trash decided to bestow upon me something rather impressive.

3. I have a new prized possession: a smelly, oily bib. The following is a bit of blathering regarding the events surrounding my favorite event from Prom 2005... when five semi-sober hashers were bathed in rancid turkey oil, beer and random nasty foodstuffs.

4. OK, how was I to know that my considerate and successful effort to clean up my genitalia would lead to so many strange looks? Was it because it was ME who was advertising it? Fine, then take me out of the equation for a moment so you can answer the following question without vomiting: Let's say you're a harriette, or a confused young man, and you’re down there at eye level with a guy’s junk, what would you rather see and then start licking with an incredible amount of gusto? A hairy sack, or a clean, smooth sack? One nut, one and a half nuts or the more-typical two, I’m going to bet a sparkly clean bag wins out every time. And even if the taint ain’t your thing, you’ve got to realize that some guy who just spent the better part of an evening trimming and shaving his legs, and then shaving his package, would definitely want to finish the job. Tip from past experience: leave a little up top or you’ll end up looking like a well-endowed 7-year-old.

So there we were. Drinking Saturday night at John J’s. Many of us were showing a lot of skin, or showing a lot of clothing that didn’t seem very normal. I had just succeeded in frightening one of the few civilians in the bar, so I bailed out of that conversation before there was any trouble. And what better way to keep a low profile than turn around to the nearest hasher and loudly proclaim that I had shaved my taint. As you already know, I got some strange looks. But this time, a few shaving fans gave their support. All of a sudden, out of nowhere, I’m told that guys don’t HAVE taints. Huh? Well, that turned into a rather compelling discussion. But maybe I should start at the beginning of the weekend.

5. It was Friday at 8:30p, and the Atlanta-ites had just landed at the Hash Hotel in Fayettenam for Prom from Hell 2005. And we had just missed the U-Haul for the pub crawl. But there was a rumor that we were already going to be we were already going to be treated to the first amazing gesture of hashpotality… the U-Haul was cumming back to the hotel to pick us up. Sure enough, a couple minutes later, an oversized truck pulls up to the front of the hotel. And there’s this strange noise coming from it. As we approached, the noise got louder, and there was a faint rumbling. By the time we got to the back of the U-Haul, we heard a chorus of muffled singing and realized that everyone from the pub crawl was in back. We opened the sliding door to the second amazing gesture of hashpotality… the loudest and most energetic greeting we Atlanta wankers have ever received. Thanks, you drunk bastards.

Yucca. Holy shit, there was lots of yucca.

Since we were late, our first bar was the official second bar, and it was here that the driver and passengers (who shall remain nameless) decided to park right over a muddy water hole. As soon as the door rolled up, the mass of people in the back of the U-Haul started pushing the people in the front right into the water. Mass chaos ensued, and much unhappiness was had by all. A couple of people actually left to go change, since they were dripping-wet from the waist down (and not in a good way).

Without a doubt, Friday night was the night to get drunk. And we did. There was a bar somewhere in the middle of our journey where there were strippers. This was where I started seeing people stammering and weaving and falling down. Someone said we had driven all the way to Spring Lake, which made sense, since at least one leg of the trip seemed to consist of quite a bit of driving. On the way back toward town, I noticed people passing out while standing up in the U-Haul. This is always an entertaining sight. Whoever was driving the truck was kind enough to swing by the hotel again, and it was at this point I heard someone say they just sat in puke. There was also an obliterated harriette who was being held up by two chivalrous harriers. She made it into her room, but only with quite a bit of help. It was midnight, and I had been up 20 hours on 4 hours of sleep, so I decided to crash. From what I gathered later, the masses went back to John J’s until around 2 or 3, where people got even more tanked on more beer and Ruby Relaxers.

Flash-forward to mid-morning Saturday. The more motivated drunks were up doing what they do best, as well as helping pass around bags containing items of fast-food goodness. I’d like to point out that this was when the owners of the hotel realized they had made a mistake by letting us stay there. We were all congregating outside, or standing outside our rooms shouting at the congregations. Let’s not forget the hotel employee who was freaking out about the disassembled bed in the hashpotality suite. Other than that dude, there was a lot of positive energy in the parking lot, and it lasted for hours. Sooner or later, the energy made its way to the back lot, and we circled up for trail.

This might be a good time to point out that not everyone made it to the start. There were a couple very hungover people still in bed. Puking was involved, as well as moaning and groaning (and not in a good way). The one or two who made it to circle were shuffling around as if they were auditioning for a zombie flick. And they would have won the part, no problem.

Trail started with road, which morphed into railroad tracks, which turned into a gut-wrenching walk on the ties high above the Cape Fear river. What got us across? The beer stop was on the other side. Everything after the beer stop was shiggilicious, with plenty of forest and hills. The finale was everything between the second beer stop and the end, which was an Arboretum or some other sort of gorgeous area of greenery.

As for circle, I’ll cut right to the chase. The bibbing was phenomenal, and you already know why I feel that way. Unfortunately, a few of you have decided to become worked up and bitter because the five of us (Me, Red Breast, Diddy, Piggy, Dolly Style) ended up with bibs that were practically gunk-proofed by the peanut oil that came straight from the turkey fryer. Well, let me put you fuckers at ease, if I may.

First off, Ass Spelunker dropped year-old milk into the mix. And there was the typical skankified meat and other unkind foods. Spitzer was my bib hostess, and as she held the glorious, dripping piece of black cloth over my cranium, all I could smell is vomit. (Was it the milk, or the combination of everything?) Then, Buck let us have a full splash from the bucket right across our faces. Now, I’ve seen people who have been able to get up and either wash off or wipe up right after their bibbings. But when you have oil all over you, no amout of water is going to help. And all wiping did for us was grind the oil deeper into our pores. It was at this point the simmering turkey smell started taking over, and I could almost see the fumes as we hopped into the back of the truck, on our way back to the hotel.

Cleanup was entertaining, to say the least. First, I tried to get pools of oil and chunks of shit out of my ears, and then tried to get the oily coating off my eyes so I could make the blur go away. Once my senses were restored to full working order, I removed my still-dripping bib and put it between two hotel towels. After a few stomps with my fuming feet, I removed the bib to find something interesting. Do you remember the episode of the Simpsons where Homer tried to gain weight so he could work from home? He knew there was enough fat in his food if he could wipe it across a paper towel and have the towel turn clear. Well, the bath towels soaked up the grease from the outer bands of the bib and turned parts of the white terry cloth into a tamped-down translucent mess. And I’m not kidding… in the middle of this towel outline I could see “CTrH3,” where the bib gave up even more oil. As for me, I soaped-down four times before I was able to feel clean enough to put on clothes. But I still smelled like turkey.

[I’ve had the bib two weeks now, and although there’s not a whole lot of flour or food chunks stuck to it, it’s really starting to smell rancid. I’ve taken it to two hashes, and even ran with it between layers of winter clothes. But even after all that, I can still put the bib down on a piece of cardboard and have the paper soak up oil.]

But wait folks, there’s more. The official Prom was Saturday night at John J’s, where we all gathered, dressed to impress, and knocked down unlimited amounts of PBR. The average amount of drama ensued, including a female-attacking-male fight and a health scare involving a lot of tongues and the transmission of Strep Throat. Drinks were drunk, awards were recieved, Paddy and Bill energetically entertained, and a good time was had by all.

One side note from our time at John J’s: We definitely ironed out the question of whether guys have taints. The answer is… of course they do. Taint the ass, taint the nuts. As Three Ring pointed out, it’s actually GIRLS who don’t have taints. They have Cuzziffits. Cuzziffit wasn’t there, the hole would be THIS BIG. [Add the sound of applause here, please.]

Sunday morning: more electricity in the parking lot, and later, the Fat Boy/Holy Crap I’m Hungover Trail. We of the Atlanta Contingent made it to the start to see everyone off, and then began the longish drive home.

Thanks to everyone who made this the best Prom since the last Prom. And special thanks to our diligent hash scribe, Chef Boy R Dum, for actually posting something of substance. (Yahoo post #5675). Oh yeah, and May the Hash Get a Piece.