#1286 17th Anal Tornado Alley Red Dress

Hares: Deb's Dipstick and No Blow Angel

Hounds: Poopy, Cumbag, Tina, CIA, BW, BP, PCP, BrownNose WhiteSack, Wet Pussy Flasher, Anything Goes, Audrey the Drug Dealer, Chihuahua, FastChug, Solo Sex Rex, Whiskey Dickerson, Too Cheap to Deny

Trail began at Quincy’s—an upscale type of place where you can get a High Life for $1.75. Somewhere you’ll find someone you want to bring home to meet mom. Some out of town KC wankers joined us, and realized what a shitty hash we have, and reinforced that they never want to travel on I-35 W ever again.

Trail went east into the neighborhood, and the hounds were foiled by a vigilante citizen who sprayed chalk off the pavement with his hose (not that one). After the pack bumbled around a bit, trail was found again. Trail went within one block of Cumbag’s in-laws, so they were lucky enough to see the hasher, who married their daughter, running in bright red speedos. When asked if they had seen the hares setting trail, Poopy’s mother replied, “I saw someone in a dress running that way, but I think it was a boy.” No, Poopy’s Mom, even “boy” is an overstatement.

A memorial song check was laid in ASS’s driveway. Appropriately, the required song was, “Ass O.” Markings then veered north towards the river. Kindly, the hares had let us know that the water crossing was no deeper than ankle-high. As the hounds were enveloped by the mighty Arkansas River, using their hound doggy-paddle skills to fight the strong cross currents, and keeping their eyes peeled for the giant man-eating catfish who survived the years of the Vulcan chemical company’s water contamination, we realized the hares have no clue of human anatomy and where the ankle is actually located on a person. I blame that on the fact that both of the hares are virgins, will die virgins, and will never be lucky enough to see a naked human (other than the peep holes they drilled into the public library toilet stalls).

Beer Near was placed on the far side of the river, which was convenient. The hounds could dry their soaking clothing, enjoy a beverage, and tend to the hepatitis A, B, and C that they had acquired in the river water.

Trail then went by a dog park (how do you not lead a pack of hounds THROUGH the dog park??), another pointless neighborhood, and down by another part of the Arkansas river. Thankfully, this time the hares had the decency to not try to again replicate the Lewis and Clark Expedition, and we ran alongside the river, rather than through the wretched thing.

The lovely trek parallel to the river was accompanied by a bouquet of smells most of the hounds had never smelled before. Unless, of course, they had previously been exposed to what a pile of rotting afterbirths smells like.

After cresting a hill, the shitty, substandard ONIN was in sight. But alas, there was yet a steep path down to the ONIN, marked by jagged rocks, waiting to puncture the hindquarters of the tipsy hounds.

ONIN was ridiculously long, as the idiot hounds and hares punished each other for their transgressions in life, and generally regretted ever hashing. The kennel rejoiced in the fact that they could demonstrate the local “deadbug” tradition to our out-of-towners, to further show off what degree of immaturity we relish in. After several of the hashers had been waterboarded to the point of losing consciousness with beer, the bags of chips had either been eaten or crushed into powder, and the coolers had been drained of anything alcoholic, it was determined to do us all a favor and end this sad excuse for a hash.

In the end, shitty trail, shitty hares, shitty hounds, and you’re an idiot for reading this far. ONON!

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