Hare: Boathouse Pussy
Hounds: PeeQuad, Sinnabar, Stumpy Whisker Biscuit, NBA, nnLeslie
As a special Mother's Day gift to the harriettes, the male TAH3 wankers stayed away and allowed the harriettes to have their own all-female trail. It's a good thing because this was a trail that required real balls to follow, and we all know our XY hashers are a little lacking in that area. Starting from Chapin Park next to the Starlite Drive-In, trail took off to the west. The hare had tantalized us with the promise of a beer near at a real live bar but she neglected to lay the BN mark anywhere near said bar, resulting in five very thirsty hounds by the time we found the on-in. But I digress. We sailed right by the BN, thinking "That would be a nice place to down a cool one", and climbed over a vicious-looking chainlink fence. Following trail to an ominously black and skunk-smelling tunnel that was closed off on the other side (thanks, BP) that perhaps Arnold Schwarzenegger might have been able to pry open but not this crew, we miraculously found trail on the other side. About 1/4 mile down the path, trail turned left down a sheer cliff to the dead-smelling Ar-Kanz-Ass River. As we were sliding down the lushly poison-ivied sheer cliff side, we spied what looked to be Sasquatch on the other side of the river. I have previously poo-pooed the idea of Big Foot, but I am now a believer. There was a figure looking back at us just like that famous fuzzy photo of Yeti, lumbering off to the scrub on the other side of the river. When we got to the lapping waters of the river, we sadly realized that the hare expected us to wade through the cholera-, diphtheria-, AIDS-,and hepatitis-laden river to get to the other side. It was at this point we recalled that the hare had mentioned that we might get our legs or shins wet on trail (oh, boy! she's going to take us through a sprinkler!), but she said nothing about our feet. For those of us of normal adult female height, the wade through the river was up to our knees. Unfortunately for those whose growth hormones stopped functioning at age 10, it got up to the twat region. On the other side of the cesspool, much talk ensued concerning the topic of murder and how to get away with it without getting caught. The rest of trail was anti-climactic (other than an arrow to nowhere), and when we got to the on-in we discovered the hare waiting for us with the on-in arrow pointing to her nether regions (no, thank you, BP, we don't swing that way). Circle took place, dead bugs were dispensed, beer was downed, and there was much rejoicing. On on!