I've always said, if you want me to write trash, piss me off. Well, I got pissed off at this miserable excuse for trail. It turns out, the hares were planning to kill us, or at least some of us, a sort of a culling of the herd, so to speak. They failed, thank Gispert, since we've run out of our Died on Trail patches, and you know we all do this for the patches. But more about the death plan later.
So there we were (no shit, tell us about it....), extra pretty in our new red dresses, hoping to catch the eye of some random perv who might be into hairy men in dresses. As we meandered our way through WSU's campus, we knew we were convincing many high school seniors who were taking campus tours that we were their kind of people and oh boy, they want to go to school here; either that, or maybe it was time for them to start looking into Liberty University.
First beer stop was by the baseball stadium. This was our first clue that something was amiss. Why would the beer crew need two beer wagons, unknown amounts of garden tools, and multiple rough-looking henchmen? We were so naive.
Trail was pleasant enough through the rest of campus and then on north into a lovely neighborhood of curious people who weren't used to odd-looking people walking by, casing their houses for future break-ins. Turns out we were slowly being lulled into hash stupors. We finally found the second refreshment stop at the School of Oral Health, and there was much rejoicing because there was a port-a-potty waiting for us.
On the next leg of trail, Puff the Magic Ass Grabber was spotted in his vehicle making a get-away from this shit-show. He must have forgotten his red dress and was on his way home to fetch it. Either that or he set a record for being excessively late or excessively lost on trail.
Next up was a jello shot stop, then major limping and whining to the third beer stop. The cruel aspect to this was that the stop was located within the cemetery, which was surrounded by an 8 foot tall chain link fence, and we had to continue to go another half-mile out of our way to reach the BN. And all the while, the sadistic beer crew/grave diggers were jeering us and crowing over their access to the refreshments at the stop.
This was when the pack finally realized the purpose of this trail: Death. Why else would they lure us to the cemetery? Why did they need two “beer wagons” full of potential digging tools and 15 creepy grave diggers? Why else would they try to stupify us with excessive beverages? The Safety Monitor was even tempting us with with quaaludes before trail. Well, it didn't work. We athletes knew we were within a mile of the on-in. We continued on trail, stopping for a final shot stop at Kirby's, where the luxurious bathrooms were a much-appreciated plus. The kamikaze shots were a surprise bonus.
The pack made it back to the on-in. We participated in the circle, with the obligatory lauding of the hares and their shitty trail. Major awards went to clASS, for slipping and falling for absolutely no reason; to White Claw, for continuously putting English words together without making any sense, and not taking a breath for 20 minutes whilst doing it; and finally to Tina, for Best Pissing on Trail (on BTK's vehicle's rear tire). We missed the opportunity to point out the major flaw of trail: we should have been given trash bags to pick up trash, this being Earth Day and all. Mis-man has to be at fault for our missing this accusation by numbing our brains with beverages.
After circle we stuffed our bellies full of baked potatoes, chili, cornbread and beverages, thus resulting in our forgetting to call 911 to report the attempted mass murders. On on!
We were all prepared for this to be yet another elaborate Sir Dip practical joke, since it was on April Fools Day. Some speculated we’d show up and there would be no trail (ha, ha, real funny, Dip…), but the joke was on us. Sir Dip had a doozy of a trail prepared for us.
First of all, I don’t understand what’s so special about r*nning 1,500 trails with Tornado Alley H3 (he claims he’s r*n many more than that if you count with other kennels). All it is is r*nning around to excess and then drinking beer. Or is it r*nning around and then drinking beer to excess? I can never remember. Sheesh, any ancient person can do that, (and he is ancient).
The pack gathered at the Andover Community Center, a grease-spot in the middle of some Kansas cow pastures. It wasn’t an InterAm turnout, but a respectable (but not respectful) pack of disreputable wankers showed up, many from far-off, exotic kennels.
We were given our trail swag at the start of trail. It was brightly-colored tie-dyed cranium gear (made by True Trail Haberdashery ), which Sir Dip graciously autographed for each of us. I hear that those who were late rego-ing and missed out on the swag are now scouring eBay for one. Someone said they’re going for upwards of $500.
The beginning of trail started with a whichy-way, which turned into false trails, hidden marks, and eventually an intersection. We knew then that we were in serious trouble. Trail went downhill from there, both literally and metaphorically-speaking.
The pack faced five miles or so of weeds, brambles, barbed wire, poor markings, martinis, and actually not-crappy beer on this trail. There were a few evidences of an international flour shortage on the trail; either that, or Dip’s idea of a straight line needs to be addressed.
We had three beer stops, a shot stop, and a martini stop. The odd thing we noticed was that at the beer stops, the beer bitch looked a lot like Sir Dip. We hadn’t realized he had an ugly twin sister who drove the beer wagon, and looked eerily like Sir Dip. We then realized that he had pre-laid trail and Sir Dip was the beer bitch. Whew, thank Gispert the family gene pool didn’t go in that direction.
One of the pack brought her own flour to help mark trail. I guess she just didn’t have trust in Dip’s marking ability. Sadly, we didn’t find this out until the next day, otherwise we would have gladly called her into circle to celebrate her co-having efforts.
As the pack limped back to the on-in, we noticed bright red faces (sunscreen, people) and verrry slow gaits. We were about to call in Search and Rescue because the DFLs were so effing behind the rest of the pack. The best part is that no one died on trail.
At the on-in, we were greeted with more beer and pizza, and there was much rejoicing…..and then we……celebrated Sir Dip for his 1,500 trails with an engraved silver vessel, and his very own dead bug.
Congratulations, Sir Dip, and may the next 1,500 trails be as much fun! On on!
Hash Trash #2137
Lordy….this was a SHIT SHOW. Let’s break it down:
MRI hared (?) and hosted this reason to stay in bed all afternoon and not do trail. However, hounds miraculously attended including such TAH3 luminaries like (look up attendance….I just tell stories) and (yeah, them too.)
Spoon theory, man. Does anyone want to explain or?
As soon as a small breeze hit, Puff went to water trail and the hounds followed suit. Not the pissing, but moving forward. It was evident immediately that MRI was making a noble effort to save flour and using little because it’s Passover…we ain’t got time to make bread. So everyone was often lost.
The hounds eventually found trail and were excited by a crime scene in the distance across a rocky creek. Punky and somehow the Boomer Hashers thought to go investigate, slowly crawling over deadly rocks, while the Gen Xers and Millennials watched from lazy safety.
Trail disappeared and the hounds wandered the streets for months or possibly minutes seeking respite. PeeQuad found a can full of a mystery mush and asked for guesses on the contents. To everyone’s surprise when she opened the can it was something gross and creamy or one of those jumpy snakes….in either case, whoa.
MaDAMN NBA slowly stalked a panicked stranger. As he sat in his SUV, NBA ran swiftly to his vehicle and pounded his window. Demanding answers to questions no one heard asked. Just a total meltdown. I think she punched a cat. So cool to watch, y‘all.
Everyone got lost again and complained. Then somehow Punky finds the way. Punky is not aware of whistles being a thing so he just waves a lot. It has the neighbors on edge. And the hounds.
[There’s a chunk here I just assume I was disassociating]
And that’s why Tina actually owns that particular KFC.
There were some deadbugs, some songs, down downs, and this potential for a P4/Hobo war of aggression.
But who really was that person in the green car watching us at circle?
I’ll never tell