Blowing out birthday candles and making a wish is a child's fable, to be sure. And yet, superstition still leads us, year after year, to holding to that same wisp of hope, that lottery ticket to grandeur that will save us from our boring lives.

 

However, couldn't it be possible, that if enough people gathered together, yearning for the same idea, couldn't it be possible that it just might work?

 

Gathered on the familiar sidewalk by West Portal on the statistical apogee of hasher births, the pack was prepared to find out.

 

"But why is everyone born around this time?" asked millimeter Peter. "It seems highly improbable."


 

"I was planned to coincide with the start of summer vacation," explained Do Her Well. "Highest production on the assembly line... I mean, my mom's a teacher, and she needed the break to take care of me."

 

 

"Obviously the demonic forces are highest in summer," added Titty Boo Boo. "Why aren't you gone by now? I thought you liked to leave an hour early and claim the trail was live."

 

"Forgot I was setting trail-- actually, on my way here, I said to JDGI, I said, I wish I was haring, and Who's Your Daddy told me I was." And in a puff of flour, they were off.

 

 

The pack opened the van to begin prelubing. "This Drake's 1500 is tasty," remarked Sir Menage A Lot. "Wish it'd last forever."

 

"Just the right start to a trail," agreed Perfect Woman, who just shrugged when the pack took off promptly on time and continued to drink. "Let them solve the first check," he declared.

 

And solve it they did, after marking an optimistic pack arrow in every single direction. No Shit surged to the head of the group, demonstrating his racist marathon training to the jeers of the rest of them. Shaft attempted to use Fluffer's leash to trip him, but to no avail, as No Shit had also been training for the high jump.

 

Twerxes shuddered. "I hope it's not me that goes down tonight."  Just Tyler shrieked in the distance.

 

Miss Delivery groaned at the thought of going down on someone. "I'm still not recovered from 12 days of hashing," he told Bloqueen.

 

"You think you have it bad? I have to fly to Sweden in the morning. I hope my arms don't hurt, ha ha." Bloqueen squawked and fluttered off into the sky.

 

"Need more tequila," Miss Delivery said to himself.

 

Cockamole offered him a chip. "Taste this," she said, loading it with gobs of fresh guacamole.

 

"Why are you running on trail with a full bowl of guacamole?" Miss Delivery tasted her offerings, then shook his head. "Nevermind, makes sense now."

 

"Girl's gotta please herself," Cockamole winked and ran off ahead.

 

Meanwhile, at the cross on Mt. Davidson, Weiner I Am sighed and looked into the sky. "It is indeed Full of Shit," he remarked to Who's Your Daddy. "Here we are, alone. Together. Look at that couple, running away from us. They're happy. I wish someone would treat me like that."

 

 

 

"First of all, she's not here. Second, the flour says FOG. And third, I have my camera, if someone wants to be a very special lady."

 

 

 

Luckily for the rest of the pack, Weiner I Am and Who's Your Daddy were such racists that they finished their business and got to the beer before anyone else had to watch.

 

 

 

"I wish the walker's trail had been longer," opined Sleazy Like Sunday Whoring.

 

 

 

"Well, I wish I had a giant strap on named Shirley," retorted Do Her Well. "How long did you go?"

 

 

 

Sleazy slapped her fit-bit. "It's scrolling upwards... to read 6.66. Odd."

 

 

 

"Looks like it's broken. Just throw it over into the pile of trash Six Tits a Week is collecting."

 

 

 

"I'll have you know these are precious artifacts for my History of San Francisco exhibit," he called as he hauled off the bag of trash. "Gotta get these home, socks this smelly won't keep for long."

 

 

 

Shoeless Joe Jackson looked over at John Handcock. "You wouldn't believe what I found in the van." A freshly pressed Boy Scout uniform rested on his arm. "I heard you talking earlier..." A few other hashers drifted nonchalantly over to admire the patches and shiny buttons. "Maybe we can study it... more privately."

 

 

 

Cockagami looked over. "Is it too soon for a NAMBLA joke?"

 

 

 

"The only thing that's ever too soon in the hash is orgasms," Cunty Butler replied.

 

 

 

"Hell yeah," said Brown Eye, not looking up from Grindr. "If any of you could have half the endurance that I do..."

 

 

 

"I hope you find a real dog," Heracknophobia piped in.

 

 

 

"As long as it's not a bitch."

 

 

 

Meanwhile, circle had begun, and Just Jaci's new stripper pole was being celebrated with much fascination.

 

 

 

"Yeah," she admitted to the purchase. "I just wish I could make money off of it." She rubbed at her knee brace, and slowly began to remove it. The crowd gasped. Jaci looked up, to see a dollar bill or two drifting down from the pack. She pulled it up a bit, gracefully stretched her leg further out, and then slipped the brace lower once more. The sound of the occasional groan was all that penetrated the waning light of the sun. At last, Jaci finished removing her brace and sighed in relief. "Did anyone drop their wallet?" she asked.

 

 

 

Finally, the hashshit was set to be awarded to the latest crop of victims... er, celebrants. Miss Delivery gracefully pulled it out of thin air (aka his anus) and handed it over to Masterbaster-- the crowd declared he might need a recreational device for his semi-involuntary staycation.

 

 

 

"I wish I knew how to quit you," Masterbaster warbled, then grew quiet. No one noticed him slip to the back of the crowd and drift off into the night. What they did notice, unfortunately, was Hand Pump struggling with the keg.

 

 

 

"Drink more, drink more!" he yelled. "It won't stop pouring! It's flooding the dog park!" The Drake's 1500, as Menage had wished, was obstinately lasting forever to the detriment of all. There was nothing the combined forces of the hash could do, not Perfect Woman, not Primal Vagina, not On All Fours nor Cuming Mutha. The attempts of Cockamole, Twerxes, Miss Delivery, and Brown Eye were meaningless. It was only Muff Daddy, who demanded six dollars from the keg, who finally caused it to retreat in shame.

 

 

 

As for Do Her Well and Just Doesn't Get It?  Useless. They'd already gone home to meet Shirley.