6/11 HASH 1298: PBR and SinABar are assholes. Go YBF yourself.
Hares: SinABar, Power Bottom Redding (PBR)
Hounds: Piss Car Poor (PCP), NNColin, Boathouse Pussy (BP), Dep’s Dipstick, Anything Goes (AG), Tina Eat the Piss, Puff the Magic Ass Grabber, Poopy the Fruit Dick Slayer, NNDenise, Cumbag Shitpants, anyone I forgot.
Since PBR always complains about long weekday trails, and considering it was SinABar’s virgin hare, it was obviously going to be a short trail. What kind of asshole would set a long trail on a Wednesday? I mean, come on! We were joined by a couple virgins, NNColin and NNDenise. Well, there’s nothing like making sure a virgin never returns like a shitty trail!
The pack met at Merle’s, a regular hash spot known for their enchiladas, sandwiches, drunk mail carriers, and cheap beer. You know what’s cheaper than a Merle’s beer? A beer you pull out of SinABar’s car trunk and drink across the street in the alley. Keep it classy, Wichita.
The hares left, and after approximately 45 seconds (enough time for the hares to finish sex on trail), the hounds left in pursuit. Trail seemed pretty normal (read: shitty) and led into a neighborhood in the Delano area. This is where it went from shitty to I-am-never-hashing-again-you-wankers.
From an intersection, there was an obvious trail leading to the east. The racists forged ahead, through the Lawrence-Dumont stadium’s parking lot, braving any foul balls launched by our very own Wingnuts. I’m glad to know that I’m not the only one with bone spurs on their testicles. At least that’s what I call a wingnut.
After this ½ mile trek to the east, and as the racists were about to cross McLean, and at about the perfect trail distance for a Beer Near, disaster struck. A YBF was clearly marked on the street’s median. A thorough analysis was conducted: no known construction acronym was known as a “YBF”, no local gangs used this abbreviation, and it was unlikely that the hares used this to stand for “_Y_ou’re a_B_out to enjoy a _F_ew cold ones because you earned it.” By the scrawl, and the chalk still smelling of the 8-year old it was snatched from, it was obvious the hares were responsible for this unthinkable act. Let’s rewind a bit …
There was once a trail set by Hummer Gay’mes that contained a ridiculous checkback (I think it was 13 or 21 or some other number that is beyond most hares’ counting abilities). That checkback split the hounds across the entire area, lost, for maybe 30 minutes. In fact, I remember that only 2 hounds actually found trail after a thorough search, and the rest of the pack only barely heard the whistles and were able to get back on trail. If memory serves me correctly, one of those 2 hounds was PBR. Considering that most animals can learn from painful mistakes, you would think the same would be true for another slobbering beast, PBR. And, one would think that a virgin hare wouldn’t want to corrupt her still somewhat okay reputation. YOU WOULD THINK. Anyway, back to the present.
YES, THESE WANKERS SET A ½ MILE YBF. If we wanted to exercise, we would sign up for a stupid marathon. Did you think that these ridiculously dressed losers drinking beer in the alley were there for some kind of sporting event? It’s obvious we’re not trying to do anything above the minimum, evidenced by our sad careers and social lives. Why would you do that?
Dip was unable to believe these hares would be so dumb, so he circled a block in each direction from every single mark, all the way back to the intersection. He was so disgusted by this YBF that he left soon after the hash for Colorado (most likely to forget the incident while intaking the now legal recreation drugs in that state). From the YBF, the next mark on the real trail was found something like 10 blocks, on the Oklahoma border, 5 vertical miles into the atmosphere, or some other stupid distance from the intersection. It doesn’t even matter, the hounds were all set on pounding the hares’ heads in with a ball-peen hammer at this point, then folding their limp bodies into canvas potato sacks and dropping them into the Arkansas River. Not like it was planned out or anything.
The BN was at NNRachel’s house, and her elementary-aged son came out to join us in drinking. I think he said something about wanting to be a hasher when he grew up. Take that, astronauts! It was at this point that Cumbag realized he had lost his hash camera somewhere on trail, and was unable to document these fleeting moments that no one really gives a shit about.
Trail went from the BN to a well-known one-man brothel near 2nd and Elizabeth, specializing in bear culture and urethral sex. (Speaking of which, when are we going to have a Bear Near? We have enough hash bandannas to make our own hanky codes.) A few blocks to the east, the hounds found what appeared to be a former brothel client who had his sexual fill: Rocky the Raccoon. This little guy looked all tuckered out, and just needed to catch up on some Z’s. Little Rocky was being so silly—making his zany faces while we pet his belly and ran our fingers down his pussy nipples (that’s puss-y, not the other word … what did you think?? That I would include such vulgarities in trash?? That’s PUSSY, NOT PUSSY, you sickos). After PCP was finished playing “I’ve got your nose!” and pulling a magic quarter from behind Rocky’s ear, he left Rocky to finish taking his little nap in the sun. Hope we see this little guy on trail next time!
At circle, NNDenise revealed that she had found Cumbag’s camera on trail as lost property. Cumbag became very sweaty and nervous, and asked multiple times if she had opened the file folder called “Sebastian & Claude playtime.” She said no, and Cumbag sheepishly replied, “Oh, yeah, totally kidding about that” and looked around cautiously. False accusations were made, deadbugs were given, and circle closed what had become the most shitty trail known to man. God, those hares were wankers. ONON!