Hare: Puff the Magic Assgrabber
Hounds: Piss Car Poor (PCP), Butthole Whisperer (B-dubbs), No Blow Angel (NBA), Dep’s Dipstick, Anything Goes, Butt Tickling Ken (BTK), Tina Eat the Piss, Cumbag Shitpants.
The intention was for this trash to be published much earlier. However, being that the hounds narrowly survived this death march, trash was written as soon as recuperation allowed it. Hash started out at Puff’s favorite bar, Harry’s Uptown. Puff likes to say it’s his favorite bar, but it’s the only establishment that still allows him through the front doors (in fact, they still allow him to sleep on the patio when hard times fall on Puff). It’s also the necessary distance away from College Hill Elementary to fall within the requirements of his probation.
The hounds were ready to get the shitty trail over with, and were 10 minutes into the 15 minute head start they had given this hare, when Puff showed back up at the bar to talk to some fellow tavern dwellers. Puff claimed the customers he accosted were family, but by the way they were handing him spare change and leftover appetizers, it was obvious ol’ Puff was once again on his racket. He started to ask the waitstaff for 3 empty plastic cups and a ping pong ball so he could, “fleece these squares for their last buffalo nickel,” but he was ushered out. So, that’s how he ends up with all the dollar coins.
Once he finally went on his way and the hounds started trail, it was obvious the trail was classic Puff. Trail was a bee line to his driveway. If only the rest of the trail would be this easy, thought the hounds. Upon arriving at his driveway, it was discovered that the hasher with such high standards for beer himself, had left us the lowliest swill known to man. An old can of Steel Reserve was found in one of the coolers. If the hounds had known how bad the rest of trail was going to be, we would have hoped for more high gravity alcohol to deaden the pain we were about to experience.
Trail meandered through College Hill, and the hounds arrived near the VA Hospital. A YBF and checkback were discovered, and the hounds spent a solid 10 minutes trying to find trail from this point. Every street was investigated, every direction probed, every corpse of a dead veteran who succumbed to Spanish flu while waiting on a secret VA waiting list was lifted, and yet no trail was found. The one direction that was not investigated was a canal running east. Of course, Puff, the laziest hasher in TAH3, wouldn’t dare take trail through this canal. Out of options, the canal was investigated, and trail was found! Someone, the hasher too lazy to make it to any hash on time, the hasher too lazy to wear hash appropriate attire, the hasher too lazy to utilize his whistle—this hasher had somehow mustered the fortitude to hop the guard rail and take us through this canal.
And this is where things started to get bad.
After a few more blocks, strange signs started to appear--peculiar hieroglyphs on the pavement that were undecipherable. The hounds started to think the worst. Perhaps these were the last signs of Puff, as he attempted to send us a message under duress. Where they symbols from a distant race of advanced beings that had abducted Puff to examine and probe his strange and misshapen body? There were so many possibilities. Yet the truth turned out to be what we hoped it wasn’t: Puff sucks at marking trail.
Have you ever seen gang graffiti where one gang’s graffiti is marked out by a rival gang’s, and then THAT gang’s graffiti is marked out? So take that, then imagine it scrawled by a 2 year old in sidewalk chalk. That’s what trail started to look like. At this point, the hounds wished they were in the middle of a gang war rather than be on this trail.
Trail took the pack south, right up to US-54. An arrow pointed south, but that couldn’t be. It was a highway with no crosswalk. Would the hare really take a pack of hounds, already primed with Steel Reserve, across lanes for westbound traffic going north on Oliver, westbound traffic continuing on US-54 W, westbound traffic deciding to go on US-54 E, northbound traffic heading east, eastbound traffic entering US-54 E, and every other combination of driver and destination on Kellogg that day? Yes, he would.
The hounds Frogger-ed their way across the lanes, narrowly avoiding becoming a hood ornament for every F-350 and Ram super-duty king-cab turbo-diesel hemi-engine with a pair of stainless steel faux balls hanging off the trailer hitch. They persevered, all in the name of getting to the second beer near.
The thought of getting through the second half of this trail and relaxing away from the public eye with fellow hashers and cold beverages is what pushed the pack along. Would it be underneath a bridge somewhere, with a cool breeze flowing through to take the sweat off the hounds’ brows? Would it be in a desolate alley, where the hounds could relax with their beverages and watch the sunset?
No, it ended up in the middle of a child’s park. We should specify that this wasn’t just in a park. It was in a park, practically in a person’s backyard, in full view of their second story, and in full view of several houses across the street. And the beers were warm. That’s what the pack had risked their life across Kellogg for.
The hounds quickly downed their warm beverages before Neighborhood Watch was called, and continued on trail. Trail ran alongside a cemetery, and mental images of lowering Puff slowly into the ground and shoveling dirt on his still moving body delighted the hounds. The highway was crossed again, this time by an actual pedestrian bridge, and the ONIN was found soon after. Puff was there, and cleverly had sat on the crowded patio, making our planned murder impossible. Accusations were made, beer was drank, and another night was ruined by a shitty trail. ONON!