#1291

Hare: Tina Eat the Piss

Hounds: Piss Car Poor (PCP), NN Chris, Butthole Whisperer (B-dubbs), Sinnabar, Caught In Action (CIA), Deb’s Dipstick, Butthole Tickler Ken (BTK), No Blow Angel, Mary Tyler Whore (from Waukesha H3), Just James (from Long Island), Power Bottom Redding (PBR)

Trail started from the Brickyard in Old Town. Tina didn’t have the decency to even arrange a hash starting from a place with a roof. The hounds half expected him to start at a drinking establishment with a dirt floor also, but he surprised us.

The place was so fancy, in fact, that they had a $2 special on Left Hand Sawtooth Ale, served in actual glasses made of glass. The majority of the hounds were confused by this exotic beverage that was not brewed from Wisconsin, and was not served in an aluminum 16 ounce container. After realizing that the glass did not have a pull tab or that one could not simply jam a key into the side of the receptacle to drink it faster, the hounds found the beverage delicious. However, that’s as fancy as this trail got…

To commemorate his 20th hare, and 100th hash, Tina decided to do a trail in an area that TAH3 has never, ever hashed through before, Old Town. You only hit your 100th one time, might as well make it memorable, right Tina? The kennel might as well have been dropped into the Amazon, the place was so foreign. It was a wonder the hash started somewhat on time, given the difficulty finding this “Old Town” and having to exchange dollars for the local currency.

To compound the confusion of this trail (which broke ground on thoroughfares the likes of which no TAH3 hasher had ever laid eyes on, particularly not a dozen times in the last freakin’ year), the hare decided to sprinkle in some creative markings. Not creative like an artist or musician is creative—creative like a 7 year old who’s been held back in 1st grade a couple times is creative. A headbanging check (since Styx and Foreigner were in town), and a “1/2 way” check were in chalk talk. The hounds, in their confusion, just muttered, “Oh, that’s cute, Tina,” and, “you’re getting so smart,” and prepared for the worst.

As the hounds started off on trail, it was thought that they had already caught up with the hare behind the theater’s parking garage. Upon closer inspection, it turned out to be a bearded, homeless man. The resemblance was remarkable: the same odor, a similar manner of dress, the same hue in the back of the trousers.

Trail continued on in this new part of the city, completely and utterly unknown to the hounds. Near Century II Exhibition Hall, AKA “the Chode of Wichita,” two contrary markings sat next to each other. There was a normal chalk marking, and alongside it, a squiggly mark with an arrow on the end. The squiggly mark was a complete mystery. Was this a sketch of one of the deformed sperm that gave rise to our Tina? Was this his attempt to draw a straight arrow while furiously rubbing his little Tina? A true mystery.

The pack arrived at the “1/2” mark and all hell broke loose. The instructions at Chalk Talk were so vague, all the hounds froze in place at the odd mark. Staring at it did not glean us any understanding. Attempts to line up the sun’s rays by the means of a jewel on the end of a staff, and focusing the beam onto the marking, also did not yield any clues. As if orchestrated by the idiot savant hare, fountains started spraying like the world’s largest bukkake gangbang, and shitty music started playing. The hounds faced towards this cacophony of noise and gushing fluid, as if the nether regions of the Earth itself was pulsating from being in heat. Getting closer, it was realized it was just a shitty fountain in front of a sporting goods store. The good thing was, trail was found!

Trail meandered alongside the store. The same bum that was seen earlier was this time leaning against the back of a car that didn’t appear to be running. I really wish someone would clean up this city. Getting closer, the hounds realized it was actually Tina this time. In true Kansas-sporting-goods-store-parking-lot fashion, Tina popped his trunk to a cooler full of beer. The hounds took their beers, and walked down to the river’s edge as the sun was getting near to setting, like it was some kind of corny movie. A group of construction workers milled around nearby. Unfortunately, real life is nothing like pornography, and the construction workers didn’t strip off their shirts and fill all our holes. I mean potholes—get your mind out of the gutter. We have a huge pothole problem in this city. Potholes and bums.

At this point, the hare continued on trail alongside the pack. The trail was so shitty and nonsensical, even he was not sure which way trail went. After stumbling through the rest of this Old Town area, the likes of which we had never seen (in case you forgot how novel this trail was), the hounds approached near the Brickyard again. Trail suddenly disappeared. There was a mark, then nothing more. No clues. Nothing. No black box pinging from the bottom of the Indian Ocean (too soon?). Tina stuttered something about not knowing where ONIN should be or something-or-other. Tina had done what none had thought possible. He had reached a level of laziness unknown even to the hounds: He didn’t even finish marking his own 100th freakin’ trail. Not to mention that by doing 20 hares, he should know how it works by now. You put chalk, flour, or shiggy paper along the trail. Even Tina should be able to figure that out. Well, you would think.

Just when you thought a shitty trail couldn’t get worse—Tina surprises us. Good job. Here’s your 100th hash green bandanna. You can use it to wipe the drool off your slack jaw when you’re sitting in the disabled seats at the front of the city bus. ONON!

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