19 September 2011
105. A Test Trail
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
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
# posted by L&F @ 5:49 PM 
18 February 2009
104. Squid Urine
Black Sheep H3 - 15 Febeerary 09
Guess who's on the wagon? Your humble scribe needs to lose 10 pounds so dress clothes fit again. What does that mean for you? An astoundingly inaccurate hash trash that includes not only the normal Scribe Lies, but also a ton of inaccuracies that will leave you wishing I had never learned to type.
Sunday morning started crappy enough: cloudy, dreary and 50. By Sunday afternoon, it was sunny and maybe in the low-to-mid 60's. T-shirt r*nning weather in February. Nice.
The anal joint Black Sheep/Bear Creek hash started at Southwest Hospital and Medical Center, near where Cascade and Fairburn crash into each other. The title of the hospital suggests what quadrant of Atlanta that's in. We pulled in to one of the entrances and were greeted by a group of wild turkeys hanging out near one of the entrances. And they weren't too interested in fleeing at the sight of us. Maybe 10 females surrounded one very happy male, who was sticking out his chest in a display of power, pride and dominance.
20 seconds later, we pulled up to see the hares in the exact same stance. Oh crap. Hash history tells us that Squid Dick and Urine Development are capable of running Darksides, and do so willingly. Not only that, Squid had just volunteered to hare Friday's SoCo hash at the last minute. Did he have something to prove? What kind of torture were we in for? We would soon find out.
On Out. We scampered to the west end of the complex and due south on the other side of a long metal fence, which was keeping us from scaring anyone on the other side. Another little strip of shiggy brought us to Plainville Drive, where we jumped into the woods and hit an oil pipeline.
The second check was the beast. It was where the pipeline crossed an access road at Utoy Creek. First was a YBF to the south, then nothing. Sober, not hung over and still full of energy, I decided to take one for the team and venture east to look for marks. I was a full 3/10 of a mile away, at the top of a ridge on the access road when I heard a whistle to the north, inside the treeline. I looked back toward the check and it was obvious no one but me heard the whistle. I was tempted to jump into the woods and make a beeline toward the sound, but my conscience got the best of me. I ran back to the check, went backwards on trail just a little ways on the pipeline, and hopped into the woods there. East again. Skeptical people followed until the marks appeared. Well, they still followed after they saw marks, but they weren't skeptical anymore.
We crossed Fairburn Rd, some RR tracks and North Utoy Creek to another check. Continuing on forced us to follow TP up a very steep, rocky cliff. This was the first visual treat of the day, and there would be a few more before we were done.
Northward. To a spot where the evil hares decided to practically circle-jerk us, going under Benjamin Mays Rd, then crossing North Utoy Creek two more times, and back to Benjamin Mays Rd by trudging down the side of 285. We hit a crazy hill to get to the side of Mays High School, climbing a lung-busting 75 feet, then gradually back down another 100 feet to a power cut.
This is where things get a little hazy. Easements and some other random goodness brought us to this massive concrete graveyard. There was nothing as high as some of the mountains we've seen on previous trails, but the piles this time around were numerous and stretched for an impressive distance, with undergrowth all around. How freaking long had these things been here?
After two or three more creek crossings, we hit a spot were two sets of railroad tracks converged, and we squeezed between them to an access road, heading due north, next to and slightly below one set of tracks. A huge, ancient metal thing that looked like a giant yard-art cow greeted us as we returned to Utoy Creek. How high was it? 30 feet? It looked like something that maybe once pumped something from the d'erection of the tracks over toward the creek. Plug this in to Google Maps and you can see it from above:
N33 43.775 W84 30.955
But what the hell were those udder-looking things? And why am I asking so many questions? We crossed the creek to a long field of hamsterland to the end, right back to that tough second check, around a half mile from the start. Length of trail: one-half of a 10-mile Darkside. 10 miles divided by 2 hares = 5 miles. Yeah, that's pretty good Hash Math.
There was much drinking thanks to Ballerina, who drove down to the On-In to sell us more beer. Since Pussy Pilot blessed the hares, Bone Hole ran circle, and he had his hands full, trying to control about 50 sufficiently lubed hashers for a longish Trail Trial.
During our chance to opine, we learned one of the first-timers had hashed in Cairo, but had never experienced our type of shiggy before. Turns out desert running and forest running are just slightly different. Imagine that. He attempted to comment on the hamsterland, which he appeared to be fascinated with. He mentioned something about going through it for about 300 meters. Meters? Well, much was said about him trying to confuse us with his scary system of measurement, and he was instantly named 100 Peters. He then decided to continue talking about the hamsterland and how he had to bend over a lot, so he was instantly renamed Bent Over for 100 Peters. Someone suggested he better stop talking before he got more added to his name, because knowing his luck, he would have mentioned something even worse, like having a long, sharp briar scrape across his ass, and he would have been re-renamed Bending Over for 100 Peters Made My Ass Bloody or something equally horrific. And there's no good acronym for all that. Trust me.
Our hares did a great job, strategically connecting memorable pieces of shiggy so we could have plenty to gawk at during our journey to beer. Join us next time when Blue Ball Special and Boner Rooter team up again. These ladies came through last year, and we all expect the same splendid outcum this time around.
May the Hash Get a Piece
Guess who's on the wagon? Your humble scribe needs to lose 10 pounds so dress clothes fit again. What does that mean for you? An astoundingly inaccurate hash trash that includes not only the normal Scribe Lies, but also a ton of inaccuracies that will leave you wishing I had never learned to type.
Sunday morning started crappy enough: cloudy, dreary and 50. By Sunday afternoon, it was sunny and maybe in the low-to-mid 60's. T-shirt r*nning weather in February. Nice.
The anal joint Black Sheep/Bear Creek hash started at Southwest Hospital and Medical Center, near where Cascade and Fairburn crash into each other. The title of the hospital suggests what quadrant of Atlanta that's in. We pulled in to one of the entrances and were greeted by a group of wild turkeys hanging out near one of the entrances. And they weren't too interested in fleeing at the sight of us. Maybe 10 females surrounded one very happy male, who was sticking out his chest in a display of power, pride and dominance.
20 seconds later, we pulled up to see the hares in the exact same stance. Oh crap. Hash history tells us that Squid Dick and Urine Development are capable of running Darksides, and do so willingly. Not only that, Squid had just volunteered to hare Friday's SoCo hash at the last minute. Did he have something to prove? What kind of torture were we in for? We would soon find out.
On Out. We scampered to the west end of the complex and due south on the other side of a long metal fence, which was keeping us from scaring anyone on the other side. Another little strip of shiggy brought us to Plainville Drive, where we jumped into the woods and hit an oil pipeline.
The second check was the beast. It was where the pipeline crossed an access road at Utoy Creek. First was a YBF to the south, then nothing. Sober, not hung over and still full of energy, I decided to take one for the team and venture east to look for marks. I was a full 3/10 of a mile away, at the top of a ridge on the access road when I heard a whistle to the north, inside the treeline. I looked back toward the check and it was obvious no one but me heard the whistle. I was tempted to jump into the woods and make a beeline toward the sound, but my conscience got the best of me. I ran back to the check, went backwards on trail just a little ways on the pipeline, and hopped into the woods there. East again. Skeptical people followed until the marks appeared. Well, they still followed after they saw marks, but they weren't skeptical anymore.
We crossed Fairburn Rd, some RR tracks and North Utoy Creek to another check. Continuing on forced us to follow TP up a very steep, rocky cliff. This was the first visual treat of the day, and there would be a few more before we were done.
Northward. To a spot where the evil hares decided to practically circle-jerk us, going under Benjamin Mays Rd, then crossing North Utoy Creek two more times, and back to Benjamin Mays Rd by trudging down the side of 285. We hit a crazy hill to get to the side of Mays High School, climbing a lung-busting 75 feet, then gradually back down another 100 feet to a power cut.
This is where things get a little hazy. Easements and some other random goodness brought us to this massive concrete graveyard. There was nothing as high as some of the mountains we've seen on previous trails, but the piles this time around were numerous and stretched for an impressive distance, with undergrowth all around. How freaking long had these things been here?
After two or three more creek crossings, we hit a spot were two sets of railroad tracks converged, and we squeezed between them to an access road, heading due north, next to and slightly below one set of tracks. A huge, ancient metal thing that looked like a giant yard-art cow greeted us as we returned to Utoy Creek. How high was it? 30 feet? It looked like something that maybe once pumped something from the d'erection of the tracks over toward the creek. Plug this in to Google Maps and you can see it from above:
N33 43.775 W84 30.955
But what the hell were those udder-looking things? And why am I asking so many questions? We crossed the creek to a long field of hamsterland to the end, right back to that tough second check, around a half mile from the start. Length of trail: one-half of a 10-mile Darkside. 10 miles divided by 2 hares = 5 miles. Yeah, that's pretty good Hash Math.
There was much drinking thanks to Ballerina, who drove down to the On-In to sell us more beer. Since Pussy Pilot blessed the hares, Bone Hole ran circle, and he had his hands full, trying to control about 50 sufficiently lubed hashers for a longish Trail Trial.
During our chance to opine, we learned one of the first-timers had hashed in Cairo, but had never experienced our type of shiggy before. Turns out desert running and forest running are just slightly different. Imagine that. He attempted to comment on the hamsterland, which he appeared to be fascinated with. He mentioned something about going through it for about 300 meters. Meters? Well, much was said about him trying to confuse us with his scary system of measurement, and he was instantly named 100 Peters. He then decided to continue talking about the hamsterland and how he had to bend over a lot, so he was instantly renamed Bent Over for 100 Peters. Someone suggested he better stop talking before he got more added to his name, because knowing his luck, he would have mentioned something even worse, like having a long, sharp briar scrape across his ass, and he would have been re-renamed Bending Over for 100 Peters Made My Ass Bloody or something equally horrific. And there's no good acronym for all that. Trust me.
Our hares did a great job, strategically connecting memorable pieces of shiggy so we could have plenty to gawk at during our journey to beer. Join us next time when Blue Ball Special and Boner Rooter team up again. These ladies came through last year, and we all expect the same splendid outcum this time around.
May the Hash Get a Piece
# posted by L&F @ 4:42 AM
14 February 2009
103. The Vinings Poo Garden
Slow Old Bastards H3 - 25 January 09
Please humor this undeserving scribe so I may illustrate a point. Imagine yourself walking near your home. Maybe it’s a place you enjoy seeing while you’re out, or it could be the street you use to get back to the delicious beer impatiently waiting for you in the fridge. Either way, it’s a place you hold dear. Now add the following visual:
On the side of this road, maybe next to the sidewalk, you see a young man squatting down. His pants are down around his ankles, and by the look of his twitching legs, you can tell he’s straining quite a bit. He lifts his shirt up to a safe level, and a long, tell-tale log falls to the ground between his legs. A repugnant smell immediately strikes your nose. Once he’s done committing this morbid corn massacre in your area of solace, he stands up with a flourish of his limbs, adjusts his clothes and calmly walks off as if nothing happened. You can’t help but stare in amazement at his steaming man-movement. How could anyone dare do this in public? What an ass wipe.
Is that butt-nugget nastiness seared into your cranium? Good. Because you need the correct visual to fully comprehend how irritated some people get about dog owners who don’t pick up after their furry friends busting ass on public land. If you ever let Fido fire off his keester cruise missles while you’re walking and don’t bother picking them up, what’s the difference between you and the guy exploding his colon cannonballs near your home? Nothing. If you think it’s any different, maybe you’re justifying the difference by convincing yourself that you’re powerless to control your dog’s asstastic anus. While that’s true, you can still control the shittilicious situation: take a bomb bag with you. This craptacular concept is what makes the Vinings Poo Garden so amazing.
To get to this formidable fecal fantasy, go halfway up Mt. Wilkinson Blvd. and down Cumberland Club Dr. The street starts off safely enough… there’s a quaint gazebo on the right, as well as the newish condos which brought about the swift death of one of the best pieces of shiggy in the area. A dryish creek on your left cuts a steep channel between two business complexes, and draws you to that side of the street. As you continue your stroll, you feel like you just went back in time 20 years. The farthest business complex has that aging aura, and you can see where the street ends at an older gated apartment complex.
This is where you first notice the smell; one similar to standing in an overused Porta John without the nostril-saving odor-eliminating chemicals. It’s dizzying. You quickly look for the source and realize it isn’t a source, singular. Try sources, plural. Next to the sidewalk, on the pine straw-covered patch of ground next to the creek, is The Vinings Poo Garden.
It’s like Satan Claus was delivering rectal releases on his satanic sleigh, but his bowel bag exploded over Vinings and scattered doggie logs all over this tiny chunk of land. But there’s one telling difference between that imaginary scenario and the real one: as soon as you lay eyes on this brutally brown wasteland, you are struck by how LONG people have been letting their pooches drop last night’s dinner here. Some of the stool chunks are white and nearly fossilized. Between these Jurassic jewels and the much-nastier new ones, there is every single age of doggie dropping you can imagine. You can actually doo an archaeological experiment here. The craziest part is that the people who are NOT picking all these digestive-tract divots are the ones who live nearby. Some of them even have to walk right by these stench-laden lawn sausages every day on the way back to their apartments. Did it start as a joke? Are these putrid puppy pickles now a piece of community pride? These are the questions that invade your brain as you’re looking at this vast field of feces.
I would have never thought to draw attention to this mass of mess if it hadn’t been for me haring an SOB live and carrying chalk. I passed by the Garden and was hit by that now-familiar fuming fragrance that fights with your olfactory sanity, and realized I had plenty of sidewalk to create a sort of septic scenic view. I was maybe 30 seconds from the On-In, but I saw Hired Snatch walking around the corner. He excitedly yelled something and started running toward me. “WELCOME TO THE VININGS POO GARDEN” I swiftly but clearly wrote in pastel chalk right next to all that toxic hell candy, then sprinted around the corner to the end. And that’s how the hash was introduced to Atlanta’s shrine of shit.
As long as these rover rockets remain, dogs will be tempted to unleash their loads. So I guess the only think I can say is…
To be colontinued.
Please humor this undeserving scribe so I may illustrate a point. Imagine yourself walking near your home. Maybe it’s a place you enjoy seeing while you’re out, or it could be the street you use to get back to the delicious beer impatiently waiting for you in the fridge. Either way, it’s a place you hold dear. Now add the following visual:
On the side of this road, maybe next to the sidewalk, you see a young man squatting down. His pants are down around his ankles, and by the look of his twitching legs, you can tell he’s straining quite a bit. He lifts his shirt up to a safe level, and a long, tell-tale log falls to the ground between his legs. A repugnant smell immediately strikes your nose. Once he’s done committing this morbid corn massacre in your area of solace, he stands up with a flourish of his limbs, adjusts his clothes and calmly walks off as if nothing happened. You can’t help but stare in amazement at his steaming man-movement. How could anyone dare do this in public? What an ass wipe.
Is that butt-nugget nastiness seared into your cranium? Good. Because you need the correct visual to fully comprehend how irritated some people get about dog owners who don’t pick up after their furry friends busting ass on public land. If you ever let Fido fire off his keester cruise missles while you’re walking and don’t bother picking them up, what’s the difference between you and the guy exploding his colon cannonballs near your home? Nothing. If you think it’s any different, maybe you’re justifying the difference by convincing yourself that you’re powerless to control your dog’s asstastic anus. While that’s true, you can still control the shittilicious situation: take a bomb bag with you. This craptacular concept is what makes the Vinings Poo Garden so amazing.
To get to this formidable fecal fantasy, go halfway up Mt. Wilkinson Blvd. and down Cumberland Club Dr. The street starts off safely enough… there’s a quaint gazebo on the right, as well as the newish condos which brought about the swift death of one of the best pieces of shiggy in the area. A dryish creek on your left cuts a steep channel between two business complexes, and draws you to that side of the street. As you continue your stroll, you feel like you just went back in time 20 years. The farthest business complex has that aging aura, and you can see where the street ends at an older gated apartment complex.
This is where you first notice the smell; one similar to standing in an overused Porta John without the nostril-saving odor-eliminating chemicals. It’s dizzying. You quickly look for the source and realize it isn’t a source, singular. Try sources, plural. Next to the sidewalk, on the pine straw-covered patch of ground next to the creek, is The Vinings Poo Garden.
It’s like Satan Claus was delivering rectal releases on his satanic sleigh, but his bowel bag exploded over Vinings and scattered doggie logs all over this tiny chunk of land. But there’s one telling difference between that imaginary scenario and the real one: as soon as you lay eyes on this brutally brown wasteland, you are struck by how LONG people have been letting their pooches drop last night’s dinner here. Some of the stool chunks are white and nearly fossilized. Between these Jurassic jewels and the much-nastier new ones, there is every single age of doggie dropping you can imagine. You can actually doo an archaeological experiment here. The craziest part is that the people who are NOT picking all these digestive-tract divots are the ones who live nearby. Some of them even have to walk right by these stench-laden lawn sausages every day on the way back to their apartments. Did it start as a joke? Are these putrid puppy pickles now a piece of community pride? These are the questions that invade your brain as you’re looking at this vast field of feces.
I would have never thought to draw attention to this mass of mess if it hadn’t been for me haring an SOB live and carrying chalk. I passed by the Garden and was hit by that now-familiar fuming fragrance that fights with your olfactory sanity, and realized I had plenty of sidewalk to create a sort of septic scenic view. I was maybe 30 seconds from the On-In, but I saw Hired Snatch walking around the corner. He excitedly yelled something and started running toward me. “WELCOME TO THE VININGS POO GARDEN” I swiftly but clearly wrote in pastel chalk right next to all that toxic hell candy, then sprinted around the corner to the end. And that’s how the hash was introduced to Atlanta’s shrine of shit.
As long as these rover rockets remain, dogs will be tempted to unleash their loads. So I guess the only think I can say is…
To be colontinued.
# posted by L&F @ 11:24 AM
03 February 2009
102. Roasted Shit
Black Sheep H3 - 1 Febeerary 09
There was once a bird
No bigger than a turd
And he made his home in a hooooole
He paid his cash
And ran the hash
And watched the Super Booowl
Emphasis on “turd.” More on that later.
2 Crabs and Blue Ball Special stepped up to hare our pre-Bowl madness. The start was a mile east of I-85 off Jonesboro Road in Union City/Fairburn at some abandoned shop on Goodson Connector Road. Funny it’s called Goodson Connector, since it actually doesn’t connect with Goodson Road; there is shiggy in the way. Mmmm… shiggy.
On Out.
We immediately hit a large patch of forest behind the building and circled around one of the shopping centers sort-of connected to Shannon Mall. This is where the smell first appeared, but I couldn’t quite place it. It seemed to this half-mind that it was a mixture of roasted chicken and shit. Maybe it was the sewer easement we were on.
Off the easement, we hit a fire road and bordered a creek, heading south toward I-85. There were no sewer caps in sight, but the smell remained… the disturbing smell of roasted shit. The undergrowth was plentiful here, and some of us were getting bloody. Colonel was not having a good day so far. He was either getting pulled down by Basil, or he’d uncharacteristically trip over a log or hidden briar, or he’d lose his cap. Every few minutes, I’d hear him swearing.
Our shoes were first moistened when we leapt into the creek and trotted under the highway. The further we went, the shorter the tunnel got, and the deeper the frigid water got. Halfway through, my feet started hurting, and by the time we got to the other side, I was shrieking like a girly-man, trying to get Bwana and Super Suck to hurry so I could hop up to muddy land. It’s always that first minute or two in wintry water that’s the most painful. Then the numbness sets in. And we would need that numbness for later.
This is where the undergrowth vanished and the lowland began, as the creek became a wide expanse of swamp. Some of it was stagnant muck; other areas looked like a moving floor of water. I fell behind the pack at the longest stretch of swampy fire road I’ve ever seen. Back-to-back areas of visual eye candy appeared, and I slowed down out of sheer awe of the scenery.
A man-made lake was right next to trail, which looked like a 2-foot high beaver dam. Water trickled out of some thin spots and added to the mud downstream. Just ahe*d was a beautiful patch of old-growth forest and the second-to-last check. I spent maybe 10 minutes half-searching for trail and half-looking around at the landscape. This was some sort of plateau. A drop-off to the east led to more dense forest. The drop-off to the southeast led to a long swamp. And a sharp change in d’erection to the south led to a slight rise in elevation. It was here I realized I must be the last of the runners. Except for Wine Ho, who started late and appeared off in the distance, immediately finding trail to the south.
That check solved, we hit the last of the mud at a power cut and hit the last check at Lester Road. Wine Ho disappeared farther down the power cut and didn’t hear my whistle when I finally found true trail through more forest in the other direction.
Blobs of flour and some TP criss-crossed developing housing developments, rising in elevation to a Scenic View (trash at the end of an empty cul-de-sac) and went across Peters Road to what was supposed to be the On In, just west of Green Valley Lake. I was still by myself, and I got there just in time to see all the bimbos ready to pull away. The Po-Po had snared everyone. The cop was still there, his hands on his belt o’ toys that he’d use on us if anyone got crazy. Off we motored, back to the start. The walkers found Wine Ho, and Oops/Deposit Slit got them all back to the start, not too long after the runners arrived.
Circle was at the side of the building. Bone Hole was partially successful in taming the boisterous pack. At trail trial, the hares got “one boob up” from RMB, instead of the typical Black Sheep two, because of the cop. 2 Crabs arose from the ice to expose an amazingly crisp ass print. Also, Boner Rooter got her mug back, downing a full beer, helping her keep her buzz for the 27th straight hour.
Let’s not forget the smell. Turns out we were right next to a Purina Pet Food Plant. Once I found out, the roasted shit suddenly starting smelling like dry dog food. The reason the smell disappeared halfway through trail was because we were no longer upwind.
The On-After was an energetic Super Bowl party, with host Bone Hole and hostess Blue Ball Special offering a fine spread of food.
Thanks to all for a great trail and a great day. Prepare, all you Sheepers, for our next adventure on Febeerary 15th when we once again join forces with BCH3.
May the Hash Get a Piece
There was once a bird
No bigger than a turd
And he made his home in a hooooole
He paid his cash
And ran the hash
And watched the Super Booowl
Emphasis on “turd.” More on that later.
2 Crabs and Blue Ball Special stepped up to hare our pre-Bowl madness. The start was a mile east of I-85 off Jonesboro Road in Union City/Fairburn at some abandoned shop on Goodson Connector Road. Funny it’s called Goodson Connector, since it actually doesn’t connect with Goodson Road; there is shiggy in the way. Mmmm… shiggy.
On Out.
We immediately hit a large patch of forest behind the building and circled around one of the shopping centers sort-of connected to Shannon Mall. This is where the smell first appeared, but I couldn’t quite place it. It seemed to this half-mind that it was a mixture of roasted chicken and shit. Maybe it was the sewer easement we were on.
Off the easement, we hit a fire road and bordered a creek, heading south toward I-85. There were no sewer caps in sight, but the smell remained… the disturbing smell of roasted shit. The undergrowth was plentiful here, and some of us were getting bloody. Colonel was not having a good day so far. He was either getting pulled down by Basil, or he’d uncharacteristically trip over a log or hidden briar, or he’d lose his cap. Every few minutes, I’d hear him swearing.
Our shoes were first moistened when we leapt into the creek and trotted under the highway. The further we went, the shorter the tunnel got, and the deeper the frigid water got. Halfway through, my feet started hurting, and by the time we got to the other side, I was shrieking like a girly-man, trying to get Bwana and Super Suck to hurry so I could hop up to muddy land. It’s always that first minute or two in wintry water that’s the most painful. Then the numbness sets in. And we would need that numbness for later.
This is where the undergrowth vanished and the lowland began, as the creek became a wide expanse of swamp. Some of it was stagnant muck; other areas looked like a moving floor of water. I fell behind the pack at the longest stretch of swampy fire road I’ve ever seen. Back-to-back areas of visual eye candy appeared, and I slowed down out of sheer awe of the scenery.
A man-made lake was right next to trail, which looked like a 2-foot high beaver dam. Water trickled out of some thin spots and added to the mud downstream. Just ahe*d was a beautiful patch of old-growth forest and the second-to-last check. I spent maybe 10 minutes half-searching for trail and half-looking around at the landscape. This was some sort of plateau. A drop-off to the east led to more dense forest. The drop-off to the southeast led to a long swamp. And a sharp change in d’erection to the south led to a slight rise in elevation. It was here I realized I must be the last of the runners. Except for Wine Ho, who started late and appeared off in the distance, immediately finding trail to the south.
That check solved, we hit the last of the mud at a power cut and hit the last check at Lester Road. Wine Ho disappeared farther down the power cut and didn’t hear my whistle when I finally found true trail through more forest in the other direction.
Blobs of flour and some TP criss-crossed developing housing developments, rising in elevation to a Scenic View (trash at the end of an empty cul-de-sac) and went across Peters Road to what was supposed to be the On In, just west of Green Valley Lake. I was still by myself, and I got there just in time to see all the bimbos ready to pull away. The Po-Po had snared everyone. The cop was still there, his hands on his belt o’ toys that he’d use on us if anyone got crazy. Off we motored, back to the start. The walkers found Wine Ho, and Oops/Deposit Slit got them all back to the start, not too long after the runners arrived.
Circle was at the side of the building. Bone Hole was partially successful in taming the boisterous pack. At trail trial, the hares got “one boob up” from RMB, instead of the typical Black Sheep two, because of the cop. 2 Crabs arose from the ice to expose an amazingly crisp ass print. Also, Boner Rooter got her mug back, downing a full beer, helping her keep her buzz for the 27th straight hour.
Let’s not forget the smell. Turns out we were right next to a Purina Pet Food Plant. Once I found out, the roasted shit suddenly starting smelling like dry dog food. The reason the smell disappeared halfway through trail was because we were no longer upwind.
The On-After was an energetic Super Bowl party, with host Bone Hole and hostess Blue Ball Special offering a fine spread of food.
Thanks to all for a great trail and a great day. Prepare, all you Sheepers, for our next adventure on Febeerary 15th when we once again join forces with BCH3.
May the Hash Get a Piece
# posted by L&F @ 11:13 PM
02 February 2009
101. Slow Old Blacksheeper
Slow Old Bastards H3 - 25 January 09
Here's What I Learned at SOB #419
--If you hare with a shedding grass hula skirt on, hounds will collect the shreds and put them in circle.
--Dr. Crotch Rot is a real person, not just an (in)famous legend.
--Surly can do a decent Malaysian Down-Down
--If you bust out with a 3-year-old's birthday cake before circle, all the kids will follow you around like you're the Pied Piper of Food.
--If you don't show up to an SOB for more than a year, you WILL be drinking in circle.
--If you cum to an SOB with your Trash bib, Darkside shirt and Black Sheep pants, you WILL be drinking in circle.
--If you hare an SOB live, some hounds will look at you funny.
--If your name is Hired Snatch and you're chasing a hare with a hula skirt and grass hat, drivers will look at you funny.
--If you hare the week after recovering from bronchitis, even haring SOB can kick your ass.
--Even a sub-3-mile trail with no shiggy can kick some SOB'ers asses.
--If you bring a gallon of shooters to the hash, the hounds will have no problem making them disappear.
--If you bring a remote-controlled plane to the hash, the hounds will have no problem making it disappear in a tree.
--If you bring a remote-controlled plane to the hash, dogs will go berserk.
--If you bring a screaming, flying stuffed monkey to the hash, toddlers and adult children will go berserk.
--The newest attraction in Atlanta: The Vinings Poo Garden.
--If a male hound sees a shiny object, even if it's in the middle of The Vinings Poo Garden, he will pick it up and sniff it. Mmmm... shiny objects.
Things You Might Get Scolded For at a Family-Friendly Hash:
--Showing your ass
--Grabbing boobs... even through clothes
--Singing the unaltered lyrics to Happy Birthday Fuck You
--Talking about body parts that a bathing suit normally covers
--Indulging in self-gratification
--Frolicking in The Vinings Poo Garden
--Farting and pretending that you love it
--Trying to eat birthday cake by sniffing it up your nose
--Experimenting with golden showers
--Eating flour
May the Hash Get a G-Rated Piece
Here's What I Learned at SOB #419
--If you hare with a shedding grass hula skirt on, hounds will collect the shreds and put them in circle.
--Dr. Crotch Rot is a real person, not just an (in)famous legend.
--Surly can do a decent Malaysian Down-Down
--If you bust out with a 3-year-old's birthday cake before circle, all the kids will follow you around like you're the Pied Piper of Food.
--If you don't show up to an SOB for more than a year, you WILL be drinking in circle.
--If you cum to an SOB with your Trash bib, Darkside shirt and Black Sheep pants, you WILL be drinking in circle.
--If you hare an SOB live, some hounds will look at you funny.
--If your name is Hired Snatch and you're chasing a hare with a hula skirt and grass hat, drivers will look at you funny.
--If you hare the week after recovering from bronchitis, even haring SOB can kick your ass.
--Even a sub-3-mile trail with no shiggy can kick some SOB'ers asses.
--If you bring a gallon of shooters to the hash, the hounds will have no problem making them disappear.
--If you bring a remote-controlled plane to the hash, the hounds will have no problem making it disappear in a tree.
--If you bring a remote-controlled plane to the hash, dogs will go berserk.
--If you bring a screaming, flying stuffed monkey to the hash, toddlers and adult children will go berserk.
--The newest attraction in Atlanta: The Vinings Poo Garden.
--If a male hound sees a shiny object, even if it's in the middle of The Vinings Poo Garden, he will pick it up and sniff it. Mmmm... shiny objects.
Things You Might Get Scolded For at a Family-Friendly Hash:
--Showing your ass
--Grabbing boobs... even through clothes
--Singing the unaltered lyrics to Happy Birthday Fuck You
--Talking about body parts that a bathing suit normally covers
--Indulging in self-gratification
--Frolicking in The Vinings Poo Garden
--Farting and pretending that you love it
--Trying to eat birthday cake by sniffing it up your nose
--Experimenting with golden showers
--Eating flour
May the Hash Get a G-Rated Piece
# posted by L&F @ 11:03 PM
17 January 2009
100. Meh! Damn Kids, Get Off My Lawn
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.
# posted by L&F @ 12:11 PM
16 January 2009
99. How to Make a Liquor Luge
2012 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.
# posted by L&F @ 10:44 AM
29 October 2008
98. The Mini Stone Mountain
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
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
# posted by L&F @ 9:48 PM
97. The Happy Heretics 100
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
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
# posted by L&F @ 9:43 PM
01 September 2008
96. Much Mud, No Briars
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
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
# posted by L&F @ 8:24 AM
13 August 2008
95. The Antagonist
“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
# posted by L&F @ 6:15 PM
22 July 2008
94. But We're Screaming Inside
Black Sheep H3 - 20 July 08
We pulled up to Welcome All Park and were greeted to 90-degree heat and a near-dead silence from every living thing in the area. The electricity in the air was non existent. Was this a hash? Did we accidentally arrive at the wrong outdoor event? No, there were Sheepers milling about in the shade, pretending to stretch. But it was so quiet. Even the air was overly still.
Chicken came over and handed me two gorgeous Bodum double-hulled rocks glasses. Just because I'm a fan of exceptional design. I belted out a quality "YAY!" that had me almost feeling guilty; sort of like if I had used a bullhorn in a library.
Wee Little Bit and Gentrifuckation were off to the side, whispering about the evilness they were going to throw our way. Then more whispering as the hares gave the bimbos their needed information. Was anyone actually talking at normal level?
The amount of time it took to get everyone circled up can only be described as forever. Pu$$y Pilot blessed the hares, who dashed northward into the heat. The pack shuffled off five minutes later. Note I said "shuffled." Slack Sheep in full effect.
Our first check was at the edge of a ball field, and the point of least resistance through shiggy led to a YBF. I went east and instantly became the DFL when trail was found through some moderate resistance to the west. I was dehydrated before trail even started, and trying to catch up with the slowish hounds was a chore. Ice cold water in the camelback helped a little. I was finally in the middle of the pack when we looked to the left and realized the hares circle-jerked us through the forest. We were almost right back at the start.
Most hashers who know the area will say that trails usually go north out of Welcome All Park, but after our circle jerk we he*ded due south, squeezing between an office complex fence and some briary hamsterland. It wasn’t until we hit the surprisingly cool water of a creek that I started snapping out of my physical coma.
Out of the creek we hit an access road that was almost totally overgrown, and followed blobs of flour through a graveyard and over South Fulton Parkway. This is where the hares presented us with their best idea of the day: Jugs of cold water, iced down in a trash bag. Yes, iced down. Maybe Hired Snatch should have consumed a little extra. More on that later.
We hit a check at some railroad tracks and asked the two nearby office park attendants which way the r*nner ahead of us went. Each of them pointed in a different direction. This was apparently where the hares split up. Wee Little Bit went down the tracks to do the last part of trail, while Gentri kept marking trail to the south.
Second best idea of the day: Taking us through a monstrous concrete graveyard. No joke… literal mountains of concrete pieces. Entire traffic dividers. Huge, thick slabs. And somehow we ended up on top of one of the mountains. The walkers took the winding truck path down, the rest of us tried our luck at following flour down the sheer face. A piece slipped out from under my foot and hurtled right toward PP. My brain tracked the piece in slow motion as I braced for the worst. Luckily, the tumbling slowed and the chunk tapped him on the back. That’s when I decided to stop until no one was directly underneath me. Lesson learned.
Third best idea of the day: The hares found old growth forest, between the creek and Roosevelt Highway. It was a gorgeous area with no undergrowth and plenty of room to stretch out. And there was even more of it on the other side of a wide power cut.
East on Roosevelt and North on Welcome All Road put us at a smaller branch of the bigger power cut. And underneath the closest tower was a massive BN.
The On-In was at a shady access road between the power cut and Welcome All Road, just south of South Fulton Parkway. Everyone was too busy checking for ticks to greet the incoming hounds with shouts of "On In." Yup, more quiet. Gentri had just pulled the third tick off his legs when he got a call from Read My Boobs. Hired was down the street and around the corner, overheated and quite miserable. Wee picked them up and Hired cooled down by consuming cold BEvERages. Bunny Tuna was DFL and in similar shape. She had been stung at least six times by yellowjackets and came in with the chills, then proceeded to amaze everyone by popping two Benadryl and downing a beer without appearing affected at all.
The beer had perked up most of the Sheep by the time circle started. Trail Trial was positive and back to a normal decibel level. Of note was Camel Toe, who was applauded for completing 23 of the 24 Hash Marathon hashes so far, and the clear leader with only 3 more hashes to go. Also, your GM and RA made a certain assless-shorts-wearing hound sit on the block for Swing Low. Isn't that sacrilegious? Well, there was an extra down-down involved, so my vote is sacrilLICIOUS.
A tip of the woolen sheep hat to the motivated hares for piecing together a quality Sunday trail. And thanks to all who came out to play in the heat.
May the Hash Get a Piece
We pulled up to Welcome All Park and were greeted to 90-degree heat and a near-dead silence from every living thing in the area. The electricity in the air was non existent. Was this a hash? Did we accidentally arrive at the wrong outdoor event? No, there were Sheepers milling about in the shade, pretending to stretch. But it was so quiet. Even the air was overly still.
Chicken came over and handed me two gorgeous Bodum double-hulled rocks glasses. Just because I'm a fan of exceptional design. I belted out a quality "YAY!" that had me almost feeling guilty; sort of like if I had used a bullhorn in a library.
Wee Little Bit and Gentrifuckation were off to the side, whispering about the evilness they were going to throw our way. Then more whispering as the hares gave the bimbos their needed information. Was anyone actually talking at normal level?
The amount of time it took to get everyone circled up can only be described as forever. Pu$$y Pilot blessed the hares, who dashed northward into the heat. The pack shuffled off five minutes later. Note I said "shuffled." Slack Sheep in full effect.
Our first check was at the edge of a ball field, and the point of least resistance through shiggy led to a YBF. I went east and instantly became the DFL when trail was found through some moderate resistance to the west. I was dehydrated before trail even started, and trying to catch up with the slowish hounds was a chore. Ice cold water in the camelback helped a little. I was finally in the middle of the pack when we looked to the left and realized the hares circle-jerked us through the forest. We were almost right back at the start.
Most hashers who know the area will say that trails usually go north out of Welcome All Park, but after our circle jerk we he*ded due south, squeezing between an office complex fence and some briary hamsterland. It wasn’t until we hit the surprisingly cool water of a creek that I started snapping out of my physical coma.
Out of the creek we hit an access road that was almost totally overgrown, and followed blobs of flour through a graveyard and over South Fulton Parkway. This is where the hares presented us with their best idea of the day: Jugs of cold water, iced down in a trash bag. Yes, iced down. Maybe Hired Snatch should have consumed a little extra. More on that later.
We hit a check at some railroad tracks and asked the two nearby office park attendants which way the r*nner ahead of us went. Each of them pointed in a different direction. This was apparently where the hares split up. Wee Little Bit went down the tracks to do the last part of trail, while Gentri kept marking trail to the south.
Second best idea of the day: Taking us through a monstrous concrete graveyard. No joke… literal mountains of concrete pieces. Entire traffic dividers. Huge, thick slabs. And somehow we ended up on top of one of the mountains. The walkers took the winding truck path down, the rest of us tried our luck at following flour down the sheer face. A piece slipped out from under my foot and hurtled right toward PP. My brain tracked the piece in slow motion as I braced for the worst. Luckily, the tumbling slowed and the chunk tapped him on the back. That’s when I decided to stop until no one was directly underneath me. Lesson learned.
Third best idea of the day: The hares found old growth forest, between the creek and Roosevelt Highway. It was a gorgeous area with no undergrowth and plenty of room to stretch out. And there was even more of it on the other side of a wide power cut.
East on Roosevelt and North on Welcome All Road put us at a smaller branch of the bigger power cut. And underneath the closest tower was a massive BN.
The On-In was at a shady access road between the power cut and Welcome All Road, just south of South Fulton Parkway. Everyone was too busy checking for ticks to greet the incoming hounds with shouts of "On In." Yup, more quiet. Gentri had just pulled the third tick off his legs when he got a call from Read My Boobs. Hired was down the street and around the corner, overheated and quite miserable. Wee picked them up and Hired cooled down by consuming cold BEvERages. Bunny Tuna was DFL and in similar shape. She had been stung at least six times by yellowjackets and came in with the chills, then proceeded to amaze everyone by popping two Benadryl and downing a beer without appearing affected at all.
The beer had perked up most of the Sheep by the time circle started. Trail Trial was positive and back to a normal decibel level. Of note was Camel Toe, who was applauded for completing 23 of the 24 Hash Marathon hashes so far, and the clear leader with only 3 more hashes to go. Also, your GM and RA made a certain assless-shorts-wearing hound sit on the block for Swing Low. Isn't that sacrilegious? Well, there was an extra down-down involved, so my vote is sacrilLICIOUS.
A tip of the woolen sheep hat to the motivated hares for piecing together a quality Sunday trail. And thanks to all who came out to play in the heat.
May the Hash Get a Piece
# posted by L&F @ 8:15 PM
19 July 2008
93. The Naked Man
Atlanta Full Moon H3 - 17 July 08
It’s easy to take Peachtree Creek for granted. As creeks go, it’s not that spectacular. It’s not wildly deep and it’s not the most pleasantly fragrant water in metro Atlanta. But it’s a liquid goldmine for hares trying to put together a shiggier hash inside the perimeter.
Red Breast and HoPo were the latest hares to take advantage of Peachtree Creek’s prime location, for Thursday night’s Full Moon hash. And that’s where we saw the naked man.
No one’s positive when the naked man first appeared in the area. In fact, most of us have never seen the guy. All we know is that at some point we started seeing his makeshift home underneath a railroad trestle on Peachtree Creek’s south branch, just north of I-85. The trestle is actually a large concrete bridge, and the underside is curved at the top. If you’re in the creek and look up, you’ll notice a long ledge on each side, stretching the entire length of the bridge. They’re not that far up, but to get on top of them, you have to be on the ends of the bridge where the dirt and rock piles give you a boost; getting to it from the middle is almost impossible.
The naked man’s makeshift home is on the south ledge. On the other side is some sort of colorful mural facing the water. So on one side there’s beauty; on the other side there’s crap. Now, this guy doesn’t have a whole lot of crap, but as far as under-the-overpass-living homeless dudes go, he’s got more junk than most. Blankets, stuff to sit on, a largish igloo cooler, some sort of pads to lay on, and a bunch of little shit that’s hard to focus on while you’re deftly avoiding stuff underfoot, but you can still get the feeling all that crap would come in handy for a such a wayward gentleman. Yes, he has clothes, too. Let’s not forget that part. He just wasn’t wearing them when we came through.
I think only one unfortunate hound saw the man’s cash and prizes. Slim Jim and the Twins. His own personal full moon, if you know what I’m saying. Niplets came around a corner of the creek and noticed the clothesless guy hurriedly trotting out of view. He reappeared while trying to slip on pants and then disappeared again. That’s when Niplets heard something you don’t want to hear when you’re slogging through a creek… the sound of rocks hitting the water and cracking on the exposed boulders. He quickly got to one side and climbed up to the tracks, trying to find the guy by peering through the shiggy. No sign of him. This now-half-naked guy was in some strategic spot hidden from view, somewhere at an elevation between Niplets and more approaching FRB’s. I was among this group, but was far enough back to have no idea who was ahead of me. So when I saw the rocks hitting the water, I initially thought some hound was fucking with us. But the rocks were coming too close. And these weren’t little pebbles. Some of the splashes were getting rather large, and when the projectiles connected with the boulders, the sound echoed through the creek’s entire miniature valley.
One of the rocks landed right near me. I wasn’t panicked, but urgently found it necessary to find out where Mother Nature’s missiles where coming from so I could dodge them if needed. Rocks that big could fuck someone up pretty bad. We had just come from a beer stop at Sweetwater Brewery, and maybe it was the full pint I had just chugged, but I let out a thundering bellow that belies my normally (pleasant?) demeanor:
“IF YOU KEEP THROWING THOSE ROCKS, WHEN I GET UP THERE, I’M GOING TO KILL YOU!”
Knowing I had not laid eyes on the rock-thrower, making such threats was not the best idea. Especially looking back, realizing we might have been dealing with a psychopath. But some psychologists and hostage negotiators will be quick to point out that my exclamation carried some weight. Instead of the more vague “You will be killed” or “You are going to die,” I had yelled in the first person: “I am going to kill you!” Apparently that means business. At least to people who don’t know that my only idea of killing is killing a six pack.
The shower of rocks stopped.
Several of us made it up the slippery kudzu hill to the tracks and looked around. No one. Niplets was gone by then, and my attempt at peering through the shiggy was only partially successful; I was only able to see enough of the creek to know no one else was right behind us.
We all got to the end in one piece, and your humble scribe received a warm down-down for the boisterous Rule 6 violation. So I either drank for stupidity, drank for my creepy Jekyll-and-Hyde outburst, or drank for scaring some poor homeless dude who was simply trying to protect his scant, filthy property.
If I ever become jobless and indigent, I already have my living quarters scoped out. It’s underneath the Paces Ferry bridge at the Chattahoochee River. It’s fabulous unclaimed property, although not nearly as impressive as the ledge the naked guy calls home. Hey, the other ledge is free. I could always crash there. I’d just have to supply our friend with some softer stuff to throw.
My name is Lost and Fucked, and I most solemnly swear that the above information is only partially based on fact.
May the Hash Get a Piece
It’s easy to take Peachtree Creek for granted. As creeks go, it’s not that spectacular. It’s not wildly deep and it’s not the most pleasantly fragrant water in metro Atlanta. But it’s a liquid goldmine for hares trying to put together a shiggier hash inside the perimeter.
Red Breast and HoPo were the latest hares to take advantage of Peachtree Creek’s prime location, for Thursday night’s Full Moon hash. And that’s where we saw the naked man.
No one’s positive when the naked man first appeared in the area. In fact, most of us have never seen the guy. All we know is that at some point we started seeing his makeshift home underneath a railroad trestle on Peachtree Creek’s south branch, just north of I-85. The trestle is actually a large concrete bridge, and the underside is curved at the top. If you’re in the creek and look up, you’ll notice a long ledge on each side, stretching the entire length of the bridge. They’re not that far up, but to get on top of them, you have to be on the ends of the bridge where the dirt and rock piles give you a boost; getting to it from the middle is almost impossible.
The naked man’s makeshift home is on the south ledge. On the other side is some sort of colorful mural facing the water. So on one side there’s beauty; on the other side there’s crap. Now, this guy doesn’t have a whole lot of crap, but as far as under-the-overpass-living homeless dudes go, he’s got more junk than most. Blankets, stuff to sit on, a largish igloo cooler, some sort of pads to lay on, and a bunch of little shit that’s hard to focus on while you’re deftly avoiding stuff underfoot, but you can still get the feeling all that crap would come in handy for a such a wayward gentleman. Yes, he has clothes, too. Let’s not forget that part. He just wasn’t wearing them when we came through.
I think only one unfortunate hound saw the man’s cash and prizes. Slim Jim and the Twins. His own personal full moon, if you know what I’m saying. Niplets came around a corner of the creek and noticed the clothesless guy hurriedly trotting out of view. He reappeared while trying to slip on pants and then disappeared again. That’s when Niplets heard something you don’t want to hear when you’re slogging through a creek… the sound of rocks hitting the water and cracking on the exposed boulders. He quickly got to one side and climbed up to the tracks, trying to find the guy by peering through the shiggy. No sign of him. This now-half-naked guy was in some strategic spot hidden from view, somewhere at an elevation between Niplets and more approaching FRB’s. I was among this group, but was far enough back to have no idea who was ahead of me. So when I saw the rocks hitting the water, I initially thought some hound was fucking with us. But the rocks were coming too close. And these weren’t little pebbles. Some of the splashes were getting rather large, and when the projectiles connected with the boulders, the sound echoed through the creek’s entire miniature valley.
One of the rocks landed right near me. I wasn’t panicked, but urgently found it necessary to find out where Mother Nature’s missiles where coming from so I could dodge them if needed. Rocks that big could fuck someone up pretty bad. We had just come from a beer stop at Sweetwater Brewery, and maybe it was the full pint I had just chugged, but I let out a thundering bellow that belies my normally (pleasant?) demeanor:
“IF YOU KEEP THROWING THOSE ROCKS, WHEN I GET UP THERE, I’M GOING TO KILL YOU!”
Knowing I had not laid eyes on the rock-thrower, making such threats was not the best idea. Especially looking back, realizing we might have been dealing with a psychopath. But some psychologists and hostage negotiators will be quick to point out that my exclamation carried some weight. Instead of the more vague “You will be killed” or “You are going to die,” I had yelled in the first person: “I am going to kill you!” Apparently that means business. At least to people who don’t know that my only idea of killing is killing a six pack.
The shower of rocks stopped.
Several of us made it up the slippery kudzu hill to the tracks and looked around. No one. Niplets was gone by then, and my attempt at peering through the shiggy was only partially successful; I was only able to see enough of the creek to know no one else was right behind us.
We all got to the end in one piece, and your humble scribe received a warm down-down for the boisterous Rule 6 violation. So I either drank for stupidity, drank for my creepy Jekyll-and-Hyde outburst, or drank for scaring some poor homeless dude who was simply trying to protect his scant, filthy property.
If I ever become jobless and indigent, I already have my living quarters scoped out. It’s underneath the Paces Ferry bridge at the Chattahoochee River. It’s fabulous unclaimed property, although not nearly as impressive as the ledge the naked guy calls home. Hey, the other ledge is free. I could always crash there. I’d just have to supply our friend with some softer stuff to throw.
My name is Lost and Fucked, and I most solemnly swear that the above information is only partially based on fact.
May the Hash Get a Piece
# posted by L&F @ 6:46 PM
15 July 2008
92. Slogfest
Black Sheep H3 - 6 July 08
A Southern Comfort hydro-hash on Friday. A long downpour in the middle of Pine Lake on Saturday. Obviously, I didn’t get enough water during the weekend and desperately needed more. We got plenty on Sunday.
Warning… Nerd Alert… Actual facts ahead…
Here’s the deal on all this rain: Atlanta is considered a rather large Urban Heat Island. Fewer trees and all the assfault and all the heat generated from so many people and things that they use creates temperatures that are much higher than in the outlying areas. And Atlanta is in the Humid Suptropical climate zone that typically sees rainy summers anyway. All that extra heat rises and forms clouds, and cooler air is sucked into the area and thunderstorms are created. And don’t think they all have to be late-afternoon storms. They carry over to the morning, too. In fact, it’s 10:30a as I’m writing this and there’s a storm blowing through right now. NASA has even shelled out money to study all this crap.
OK, you can relax. Back to the stuff that’s only partially based on fact.
The first drops of rain hit at 1p, right at the start of Atlanta’s annual Gay Pride parade. It got really dark and the sky opened up. Parade attendees later said the drag queens were in pretty bad shape because of all of their running makeup. As for many of the Black Sheepers, we got caught while motoring to the start; lightning overhead, giant claps of thunder and driving rain pelting our cars while we futilely attempted to see out of our windshields. The wipers never had a chance. Traffic on the interstates and side streets slowed to a crawl as the hares were regrouping at the start, quickly trying to mentally piece together a trail that would keep people from drowning.
Welcome to Baastard Day 2008. Foreign Lesion and Bwana talked amongst themselves while the surprisingly large pack slowly tricked in to the abandoned Toys R Us at South Dekalb Mall, off I-20 and Candler Road. The lightning and sheets of rain kept people in their cars or pushed beside the building. Finally near 2p we got enough of a reprieve for Sani to start taking money and have us all circle up for the on-out.
The rain started falling again just as the hares were receiving their blessing. We waited our five minutes in the downpour and scampered off to the visuals of already-dissolving patches of flour. The first section of our slogfest was under a thick canopy along narrow r*nning paths, and featured a false trail that made me the solid D.F.L. behind a single-file backup of hounds. This wouldn’t do. I slowly started passing everyone by crashing through the thick shiggy on the sides of the paths and leaping over piles of deadfall. By the time we climbed up to the edge of an apartment complex, I was among the FRB’s, and the only thing to show for it was my own idiotic sense of accomplishment and the long, bloody scratches on the underside of my arms.
We were in some fast-moving creek when we found out where the hares split their duties. (Heh, I said doodies.) We were approaching a tunnel when we looked up and saw Foreign up on the overpass, throwing clumps of flour at everyone. We threw verbal barbs at him in response, but they obviously weren’t effective. Even the typical Baastard Day make-fun-of-the-French jabs didn’t phase him. Actually, some of us thought he was there to assure everyone that they wouldn’t die when they dove in to the tunnel. The water rushing in was pretty intense, and the water on the other side was pretty deep, but it was manageable.
The rain ended by the time we hit Bwana’s part, but we were constantly reminded of the storm at every step. Mud, slippery vegetation, hounds falling, powerful bodies of water. My GPS crapped out, so the locations of our travels is unknown. All I know is that it was wet. Very. Wet.
The first rays of sunlight greeted us at the end, and most of the clouds were gone by the time we started circle. This is where we found out that we were treated to a circle jerk somewhere on trail. Apparently, all of us passed the bimbos but were blissfully aware of their location right next to us; all sitting there quietly, partially blocked by a construction dumpster, all snickering at our tunnel vision.
I can’t remember whose Boxer puppy that was, but that dog was one of the cutest ones I’ve seen in a long time. And as a bonus, it didn’t mind we were swearing and throwing out tons of sexual innuendo in its presence. One of the walkers even brought it trail treasure: A 2 1/2-foot hard-plastic Barbie-type doll, complete with a full cranium of matted hair and an extreme lack of orifices. The dog turned it into a giant chew toy while the large group of us humans engaged in an extended Trail Trial. Foreign Lesion got up when it was over and showed us that he can leave a rather distinct ass-print on the ice. Poonshine sat down for some random offense and noted with disdain that the doll didn’t have knees. No services rendered here.
Of note was the hares’ song, which was a quick limerick about Foreign that morphed into three other limericks about three other Black Sheepers. Looks like we’re to a point where we can do an entire circle just singing songs about our own loyal ilk.
Two of our newer members got called up as first-timers even though they did the 97-degree death march a month earlier. Bwana decided that Walt Jizzme and Steady Downward Thrust were still first-timers since he hadn’t seen them before. Yes, he misses a hash once in a while. And when these second-timers complained about the repeated newbie label, Bwana instantly gave them a second down-down for not having sat on a true ice block their first time around. That leads us to today’s lesson: Don’t turn Bwana into a Bitch With An Attitude. You will pay for it one way or another.
Our drought makes these summer thunderstorms rather welcome, even if we have to have a shorter trail once in a while. But a little less water might be nice next time around. You got that, G? Cum see what transpires on July 20th when Wee Little Bit does the honors.
May the Hash Get a Piece
A Southern Comfort hydro-hash on Friday. A long downpour in the middle of Pine Lake on Saturday. Obviously, I didn’t get enough water during the weekend and desperately needed more. We got plenty on Sunday.
Warning… Nerd Alert… Actual facts ahead…
Here’s the deal on all this rain: Atlanta is considered a rather large Urban Heat Island. Fewer trees and all the assfault and all the heat generated from so many people and things that they use creates temperatures that are much higher than in the outlying areas. And Atlanta is in the Humid Suptropical climate zone that typically sees rainy summers anyway. All that extra heat rises and forms clouds, and cooler air is sucked into the area and thunderstorms are created. And don’t think they all have to be late-afternoon storms. They carry over to the morning, too. In fact, it’s 10:30a as I’m writing this and there’s a storm blowing through right now. NASA has even shelled out money to study all this crap.
OK, you can relax. Back to the stuff that’s only partially based on fact.
The first drops of rain hit at 1p, right at the start of Atlanta’s annual Gay Pride parade. It got really dark and the sky opened up. Parade attendees later said the drag queens were in pretty bad shape because of all of their running makeup. As for many of the Black Sheepers, we got caught while motoring to the start; lightning overhead, giant claps of thunder and driving rain pelting our cars while we futilely attempted to see out of our windshields. The wipers never had a chance. Traffic on the interstates and side streets slowed to a crawl as the hares were regrouping at the start, quickly trying to mentally piece together a trail that would keep people from drowning.
Welcome to Baastard Day 2008. Foreign Lesion and Bwana talked amongst themselves while the surprisingly large pack slowly tricked in to the abandoned Toys R Us at South Dekalb Mall, off I-20 and Candler Road. The lightning and sheets of rain kept people in their cars or pushed beside the building. Finally near 2p we got enough of a reprieve for Sani to start taking money and have us all circle up for the on-out.
The rain started falling again just as the hares were receiving their blessing. We waited our five minutes in the downpour and scampered off to the visuals of already-dissolving patches of flour. The first section of our slogfest was under a thick canopy along narrow r*nning paths, and featured a false trail that made me the solid D.F.L. behind a single-file backup of hounds. This wouldn’t do. I slowly started passing everyone by crashing through the thick shiggy on the sides of the paths and leaping over piles of deadfall. By the time we climbed up to the edge of an apartment complex, I was among the FRB’s, and the only thing to show for it was my own idiotic sense of accomplishment and the long, bloody scratches on the underside of my arms.
We were in some fast-moving creek when we found out where the hares split their duties. (Heh, I said doodies.) We were approaching a tunnel when we looked up and saw Foreign up on the overpass, throwing clumps of flour at everyone. We threw verbal barbs at him in response, but they obviously weren’t effective. Even the typical Baastard Day make-fun-of-the-French jabs didn’t phase him. Actually, some of us thought he was there to assure everyone that they wouldn’t die when they dove in to the tunnel. The water rushing in was pretty intense, and the water on the other side was pretty deep, but it was manageable.
The rain ended by the time we hit Bwana’s part, but we were constantly reminded of the storm at every step. Mud, slippery vegetation, hounds falling, powerful bodies of water. My GPS crapped out, so the locations of our travels is unknown. All I know is that it was wet. Very. Wet.
The first rays of sunlight greeted us at the end, and most of the clouds were gone by the time we started circle. This is where we found out that we were treated to a circle jerk somewhere on trail. Apparently, all of us passed the bimbos but were blissfully aware of their location right next to us; all sitting there quietly, partially blocked by a construction dumpster, all snickering at our tunnel vision.
I can’t remember whose Boxer puppy that was, but that dog was one of the cutest ones I’ve seen in a long time. And as a bonus, it didn’t mind we were swearing and throwing out tons of sexual innuendo in its presence. One of the walkers even brought it trail treasure: A 2 1/2-foot hard-plastic Barbie-type doll, complete with a full cranium of matted hair and an extreme lack of orifices. The dog turned it into a giant chew toy while the large group of us humans engaged in an extended Trail Trial. Foreign Lesion got up when it was over and showed us that he can leave a rather distinct ass-print on the ice. Poonshine sat down for some random offense and noted with disdain that the doll didn’t have knees. No services rendered here.
Of note was the hares’ song, which was a quick limerick about Foreign that morphed into three other limericks about three other Black Sheepers. Looks like we’re to a point where we can do an entire circle just singing songs about our own loyal ilk.
Two of our newer members got called up as first-timers even though they did the 97-degree death march a month earlier. Bwana decided that Walt Jizzme and Steady Downward Thrust were still first-timers since he hadn’t seen them before. Yes, he misses a hash once in a while. And when these second-timers complained about the repeated newbie label, Bwana instantly gave them a second down-down for not having sat on a true ice block their first time around. That leads us to today’s lesson: Don’t turn Bwana into a Bitch With An Attitude. You will pay for it one way or another.
Our drought makes these summer thunderstorms rather welcome, even if we have to have a shorter trail once in a while. But a little less water might be nice next time around. You got that, G? Cum see what transpires on July 20th when Wee Little Bit does the honors.
May the Hash Get a Piece
# posted by L&F @ 5:20 PM
