Hash Trash

R*n #1607

 

Moist.  The air was moist. The ground was moist. The Perfect Woman was moist.

 

Everyone knew what they were in store for.  It was a hash at glen park, and there were only 3 guarantees. It would be dark and gloomy, it would be hilly, and there would be a lot of extra beer because other than those who can’t afford to drink outside of the hash, only the craziest handful of the half-minds would show up.  

 

Captain Organ (from here on referred to as The Hare) gave the briefest of chalktalks which left the virgins thinking they had to r*n to get beer and tequila.  Those fools! Everyone knows that the walkers trail is the way to go at a glen park hash.  Once The Hare left to lay out his 5800 vertical feet of trail, the pack stood around for 10 minutes admiring Hand Pump’s newly cut hair. It is rumored that he even had the hairs on his dickey di do trimmed back from his knees.

 

Raspuken, excited that he’d be able to get a free shower from the rain, took off as soon as a whistle sounded, but was quickly overtaken by the usual FRBs Weiner I Am, Straight to Hell, Lost In Foreskin, and the ever-moist Perfect Woman.  Broken Boner took off fast as well, but then quickly remembered that his boner was only barely unbroken and fell to the very back of the pack, which allowed him to admire everybody’s lovely derrieres.

 

Trail happened. It was uphill for 87 miles, there was a coyote, it was moist.  No one spoke of it again.  Other than Bitch’s Bitch’s Bastard who loved it so much that he’s going to get a tattoo of the gps log.

 

Crabs was in a good mood, so he pardoned Ska Skank Redemption and The Virgin With Pink Shoes from having to drink from their new shoes.  While trail had been long and shitty, Circle was the opposite, short and constipated. Weiner I Am wasn’t safe and got publicly pissed on by Straight To Hell for not knowing how to count to three.  Cherry Poppins showed up late and instantly doubled the hash’s moisture level. Community Chest and Eat My Pussy made out, no one was sure if it was hot or not.  No one even realized that Fixed Queer was there because his grey camo leggings made him blend in with the asphalt.

 

It was moist, it was shitty, but against all odds, all those who came survived SFH3 #1607 and were the better for it.

 

On On!

Broken Boner