Hot Buttered Fun

R*n 1513


Hares: Backwash & Crabs

Hashers, I should be looking for a job right now, but I owe it to myself and the ghost of Gispert (our founder)  to produce a Hash Trash by noon today (written Friday).  So, I am nailing myself to the chair and turning on my search engine’s family filter (to limit temptation) in an all-consuming effort to get this baby out. 


Blood on Trail

That’s the way I like to start my Hashes, with blood on trail….even before the first “On-On is shouted.  Millimeter Peter – mostly sober, mind you – was riding along the Muni Tracks.  He decided that there would be less friction if he rode the actual rail.  Unfortunately, in an uncharacteristic burst of speed, the N-Judah scooted up behind him and gave him 120 decibels of horn.  The result?  Blood on pre-trail!  We're off to a great start... 

 

Blood on Trail Redux

The award for quickest Blood on Trail goes to Slug, who was six steps into the trail when she tumbled onto the sidewalk.   “The hell with this,” she said and joined the walkers who were already heading to the Beer Check to get a jump on the Hot Buttered Cum Rum.      

The trail swung through the shopping center at Masonic and Geary.  Unbelievably the janitor, who had stopped Crabs earlier in the day for drawing arrows in the hallway, had not washed away arrows or flour.  Perhaps he believed Crabs when he told him that he was setting a trail for a large group of foreign shoppers who were arriving later to buy shoes – despite the shoe store going out of business two years ago.  Small details can be important when telling horseshit stories. 

Hashers dashed through the cobblestone pavement of USF, past the cathedral where St. Ignatius - patron saint of ales and lagers - looked down upon hashers scurrying around the quadrangle like a bunch of ants at a picnic.

The section of trail that went through Golden Gate Park was absolutely beautiful – especially in daylight.  But, since it was moonless night when the actual running of the trail occurred, it turned into a Fall Festival, and by Fall I don’t mean Autumn. Soap Scum tumbled down an embankment, catching a face full of straw pine needles and squirrel droppings.  Diamond in the Muff, took a muff dive over the top of a fallen tree, and Shaft was hit in the chest by a tree branch recoiling from the hands of Sit on My Facebook.

“I’m sorry, I was aiming for your gonads,” said SOMF.

Backwash and Crabs, swept the trail and were astonished by the speed of the Hash.  As one blue jean-clad visiting hasher from Georgia said,  “Jesus, this is one frickin’ fast Hash.  

Thus, we proposed handicapping several of the FRBS:

Bitches Bitch……..Will wear Hand Pump’s Overalls

Just Doesn’t Get It……Will wear Cherry Poppin’s shoes

Cherry Poppins…….Will wear Just Doesn’t Get Its shoes

Cumming Mutha……..A notorious short cutter, will wear Muff Daddy’s Glasses

Milimeter Peter………Will start at the site of the prior week’s Hash

Westward Ho…………Will start each SFH3 run in France

With the winter chill in the air, the hares in their unyielding generosity supplied a vat of hot buttered rum.   On all Fours and Raspukin, not normally dance partners, spent the evening whirling around the steaming vat, high fiving and howling at the moon. 


Down-Downs

In an effort to increase his strength and stamina, No Shit has been attending “Boot Camp.”   I know what you’re thinking, “Boot Camp” must be a typo; surely I must have meant “Boob Camp.”   Surprisingly, this is not true.   This Boot Camp is the real thing, they jump over obstacles, crawl under barbed wire and shinny up ropes.   On this last task, No Shit could not make it to the top of the rope and slid down backwards, burning a parallel crack in his buttocks.

Massive Cock Check drank for barfing on the airplane trip back from Boston.  I believe he was just clearing room for Orange Food to be consumed that evening at the Hash.

Rub My Buns and Cherry Poppins had a competition as to who would be the most likely to pick up a gay guy at the Badlands bar.  Rub My Buns won the completion, but he’s been practicing. 

Can’t Rush Anal celebrated her birthday for the fifth and final time that week. 

Snowball 37 drank for occupying that limbo space between returning hasher and visiting hasher.

Tasty Snatch and Soap Scum will be heading to the Big Island soon, sharing a bed and coconut oil.  “Mai Tai’s for everyone when we return,” Tasty Snatch shouted. 

Well, as you can see it’s past noon, too late to do start anything new, especially look for a job.  Time to stuff beer down the back of my trousers and go to happy hour at the Velo Rouge.  I get two beers at happy hour prices.  The first one comes from the waitress, the second I pull from the back of my pants.