Hounds: Dipshit, PCP, PBR, CIA, BDub, Anything Goes, Sinnabar, NBA, PPL, Beastiality B4Boys, TACO, Puff
Starting from Joe's on Washington Street, the hare led the pack through the rabbit warren that is known as Old Town, laying trail through parking garage after parking garage, then almost totally confusing us with a check back, which led us back to an intersection that forced us to scour the full 369 degrees of two parking lot hells.
After finally finding the hare's two-inch long faint chalk mark a half-block to the south, the pack abandoned its suicide pact and decided to continue on with life. We wound through alleys and more alleys, and found the beverage-near at Rain, home of cheap wells on Wednesdays. After downing many vodka concoctions, the hounds stumbled out the door and some were actually able to locate some of the marks. Others gave up and short-cutted to the on-in, while others walked around aimlessly hoping to find marks, other hashers, the sound of whistles, or kind strangers to point the way. Back at Joe's, all hounds were finally accounted for, and circle commenced. The usual falsehoods were flung, innocents were maligned, beer was drunk, food was ingested, and all was right with the world. On on.
#1294 NBA to A blah blah blah
Hounds: Tina, Cumbag, The Slayer, PBR, Sinnabar, Dip Stick, Dip Shit, nnThomas
This old hat of a trail started from NBA's abode, a location known so well to the populace of Doo-Dah, that even with no published address, hashers were able to make their way to her den of debauchery. In typical lazy fashion, NBA asked the hounds if she really needed to lay trail, since "you all get the point by now". The hounds protested and sent her upon her plodding way. Once out of earshot, Dip vowed to run trail blindfolded and mark it just as well as the Hare ever could.
The Hounds took off and were immediately threatened by lightning strikes and flash floods on trail. Luckily trail was reinforced by Dip's nearly invisible blue marks, so in case the Hare's bright pink marks were washed away, the Hounds would have a second trail they would not be able to see.
Trail took the hashers through a surviving Manson Family acolyte's back yard where Cumbag said a prayer to nnCharlie's graven image in the window. His prayers were answered in the form of a Beer Near a few short blocks away... On the very porch of the house he shares with Poopy.
At the BN, Poopy introduced the Hounds to her dogs, nnZaida and nnRubby. Not satisfied that the hashers were suitably impressed by her dogs, Poopy gave them the kill order and chased the hashers off her porch. Luckily, none of the hashers left their beers behind to be devoured by the foul beasts.
Thunder and lightning crashed continuously through the second half of trail, and certain of the fairer hashers began to be frightened. Fortunately, Sinnabar was on hand to comfort the shaking and wide-eyed Tina and PBR, repeating over and over that "being struck by lightning doesn't even hurt, and you'll both be dead in moments".
Back at the ONIN (NBA's house, for something different) Dip Shit was mixing margarita limeades for himself when the hashers showed up. Though we had to pry the margaritas out of his angry little fists, it was well worth it to have such an exotic libation to celebrate such an un-exotic trail.
Circle was performed with Dip as honorary co-hare, who kept shouting, "MY 1000th HASH IS BEING CELEBRATED THE WEEKEND OF JULY 11th THROUGH THE 13th! PLEASE VISIT OUR TORNADO ALLEY FACEBOOK PAGE OR TAH3.COM FOR DETAILS!" Of course we all knew this, but he shouted it anyway.
Circle was slightly damp and since Puff wasn't on trail, there were no deadbugs to be performed. However, the hashers drank their fill and ate the hot wieners that PBR so kindly wrangled for them. And all rejoiced.
Hares: Butthole Whisperer (B-dubbs) & Power Bottom Redding (PBR)
Hounds: Poopy the Fruit Dick Slayer, Cumbag Shitpants, Deb’s Dipstick, Mary Tyler Whore, NNChris/Butt-Her-Finger, Puff the Magic Ass Grabber, Sinnabar, Piss Car Poor (PCP), No Blow Angel (NBA), Tina Eat the Piss.
The follow-up the widely popular kid-friendly hash, hares PBR and B-dubbs decided to do an adult-friendly hash. By adult-friendly, they took us to their favorite hook up spot, Chisholm Creek Park / Sedgwick County Nature Center / Buy-a-6-Pack-and-a-Bottle-of-KY-and Meet-Me-At-Our-Regular-Spot-In-The-Bushes.
The trail went off to an absolutely shitty start by beginning with an “DOLN.” Yes folks, that’s a “Dead Oompa Loompa Near.” It’s exactly as stupid as it sounds. What’s even more stupid is the fact that one of the hares mistakenly thought Oompa Loompas appeared in The Wizard of Oz. If you would bother to take adolescent Judy Garland off of freeze frame on your VCR once in a while, you would realize that. Sicko.
And yeah, I said VCR. The hares still have VCRs because their pornographic faves were made illegal before the introduction of the DVD. Some ruling by the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia. They’re into some sick stuff.
Anyhoo, the rest of the trail was pretty much the hounds running from one patch of poison ivy to the next. Well, with the exception of the void expanses of dead earth which are able to support zero life. You know on those nature shows in Africa where there’s miles of cracked, dry earth, and a single, muddy puddle in the middle? And there’s just a couple exhausted, pathetic looking animals laying by it, waiting to die? That’s what the trail looked like. Except for the parts that were dense, humid, insect-infested poison ivy jungle. There was no middle ground. Thanks, hares.
After dragging themselves through these extremes, the hounds rewarded themselves by pulling ticks off every square inch of skin at the ONIN. Poopy the Fruit Dick Slayer had a tick crawling on her face. The hounds were amazed, but then remembered that she had lived with scabies, and realized this wasn’t her first rodeo.
As if we didn’t have enough parasites among us, a couple of ducks waddled over and mooched on free chips and beer. Unfazed by circle, they stayed, and may possibly be joining us for the next hash. They ended up being the most civilized hashers in TAH3.
It was decided to name NNChris, being that he has done 5+ hashes. There is the option to name a no-name hasher if the hasher does something stupid enough to warrant it. However, he’s been a constant stream of stupidity since he started hashing, so it’s hard to pick out a specific instance of stupidity from the cloud of idiocy that surrounds him. Questioning led to answers that gave us an even lower level of respect for him than we had started with, with wasn’t much in the first place. But after much deliberation, he will now, and forever be known as, Butt-Her-Finger. ONON!
Hares: BW and PBR
Hounds: Dip, Cumbag, Poopy, Puff, Tina, Sinnabar, NBA, PCP, Mary Tyler Whore, nnChris
It's hard to screw up a Chishom Creek Park trail, but it seems to have been done by the Dynamic Doodoo, oops, Duo. We should have known we were doomed when, during chalk talk, we were introduced to a DOLN, which stood for Dumb Odiferous Licking Near, or Disgustingly Odd Licentiousness Near, or Dead Oompa Loompa Near, or something like that. We were also informed that the first half of trail would be laid by PBR, and the second half by BW. Two half-minds laying a half-assed trail.
PBR did a so-so job on the first half of trail, with the highlight of his accomplishments being leading us through a tick- and poison-ivy infested field. Beer Near was in the woods that inspired L. Frank Baum to write the Tin Woodsman scene from the "Wizard of Oz", with the gnarled trees throwing objects at us as we passed through the poison ivy. Only in the book it was tasty apples, and for us it was blood-sucking ticks.
BW took off to lay the second half of this shit-eating trail. The only problem with this was that this was BW's first time in the park, and he had no clue how to get through this part of the park and end up back at the start. The first 100 feet were done very well; however, we soon entered the Crap Phase of the trail. We came to the banks of the stagnant creek where we can only assume the hare got lost. Trail turned back around and wound through parts of the park that only rodents have been in, since the overgrowth was too thick even for deer. We managed to hack our way out of this jungle only to find out that we were only about 10 feet from where we entered the trail to begin with.
#1292 Kid "Friendly" Hash
PCP's Pawnee Prairie Park Pedo Path:
Hounds: PBR, Dipstick, Dipshit, BP, NBA, BTK, nnPCP's wife, nnDakota, nnMaria, a bunch of other tiny hash-children
On a glorious Sunday noon, Tornado Alley congregated at Pawnee Prairie Park for what was advertised as a kid friendly hash. The day started out in a sad, gray parking lot with Dip playing a clown in short shorts and giving any children unfortunate enough to show up their very own used "water balloon". Our resident schoolmarm NBA then took them away from the children and rapped the knuckles of any who cried with her ever-present ruler.
The hare, in an attempt to liven the mood, called for chalk talk. In a truly inspired moment of dim-wittedness, PCP introduced a new low for trail markings: the BJ Near... Which is exactly what it sounds like. The hounds, appalled to a man, protested this disgusting display in front of the children, but PCP was adamant that his dream trail be realized. Thus, the Beer/Juice Near was born. The hare took off into the park before the hounds could talk him out of it.
Following close on the heels of the hare, the hounds crashed through branch, root and vine carrying children in strollers and papooses, picking up strange children of passersby along the way. Dip Shit, in a moment of lucidity, realized that instead of the Wee Baby Cornelius he thought he was carrying in his Baby Bjorn, he was actually toting a stolen sixer of Miller Lite. And Dip Shit rejoiced.
At the BJ Near, hashers had their B and kids had their J and all were refreshed. PCP picked up an honorary hare in the form of nnDakota, who quickly outpaced the named hasher, bringing disgrace yet again upon our beleaguered kennel.
Trail led the hounds through several patches of horse shit, giving several harriers and harriettes the misguided notion to find the clod-droppers and hitch a ride to the ONIN. BTK and BP thought they'd found the trail horses and tried mounting them to ride 'em on home. Alas, obese parkgoers can look so much like horses to our poor drunk hashers.
ONIN was a wasp infested pavilion next to the gray parking lot where trail started. Dip administered circle for the adults and gave out free "hash hugs" to all the children. The adults drank to forget, but the kids never will.
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!
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!
Hare: Deb’s Dipstick
Hounds: Anything Goes, Caught in Action, Butthole Whisperer, Power Bottom Redding, NN Chris, Tina Eat the Piss, Boathouse Pussy, No Blow Angel, Poopy the Fruit Dick Slayer, Cumbag Shitpants, Puff
Trail started off at the finest of Andover’s drinking establishments, Timbuktu. Upon arriving, the hares noticed a seated gentleman in suit and tie, and they realized they had finally arrived in a bar where they belonged. NN Chris in a genuine effort to show goodwill towards his hash brethren bought a pitcher of the golden nectar and shared it with the hash. Upon receiving such a generous gift, the hashers berated him, demanded more, and generally proved to him that becoming a named hasher is but one step down on a long, sad regression.
At the first intersection, the hounds scattered for at least 5 minutes in all directions from Timbuktu in order to find trail. It seemed that the hare was actually trying to have us find the city of Timbuktu. Silly hare, Timbuktu was a center of knowledge in the ancient world—Andover is a place you drive through to get to Butler Community College because you can’t afford to go to Wichita State.
Trail was finally found, and the hounds were on their way to discover more and more poorly marked trail.
Near a school, trail went through an incredibly clean set of drainage tunnels. In fact, the cleanest set of tunnels the hounds had ever seen. Which makes one wonder: Are these some sort of perverse transit point for the hare to reach his observation post near the school? Are the tunnels spotless because the hare takes such good care of these tunnels during his 36-hour child-watching taping sessions? Do they serve as his emergency bivouac when chased off the property, yet again, by the school security? We’ll never know.
In a wooded area, presumably a victim drop-off point, Dip left his trademark Turkey/Eagle split. This is a Dip trademark because the Eagle points to some random coordinate and never again meets trail.
The trail passed near Timbuktu again, and some of the hounds, so disturbed by the earlier tunnel experience which the Butler County Sheriff’s Department calls “the Tunnel of Tears”, decided to jump in their cars and auto-hash to the ONIN—and possibly to shower before circle in an attempt to rid themselves of what they had witnessed.
Trail continued on, with the markings becoming poorer and poorer, when it ran into a child’s playground (is there a recurring theme here?). This was the first redeeming act of the hare. The playground had equipment far too fun to be wasted on children, so the hounds acted accordingly and played on everything like a bunch of buffoons.
Trail continued on, and on… despite it being a Wednesday and many of the hounds having a lot of sleeping in to catch up on the next morning. Finally, the hounds arrived at ONIN at Dip’s house, to take in this wiener feast that had been advertised. It was a wiener feast indeed, with more than enough for everyone to cram into their waiting mouths. Poopy and NBA discovered a new culinary delight—the Cheeseball Hoagie. Rather than eat the unhealthy pork in the hot dogs, they preferred to fill their bellies with cheeseballs, made from ground corn husks, baked with recycled construction equipment motor oil, and preserved with whatever seeps out of Wolf Creek Nuclear Power Plant.
The hounds trashed the patio, drank the beer, gagged down the wieners, and left the mess for the hare to clean up, as a punishment for his pathetic trail. ONON!
Hares: Tina Eat the Piss and Cumbag Shitpants
Hounds: Dipstick, Dipshit (for a second), BP, Power Bottom Redding, Sinnabar, Poopy the Fruitdick Slayer, Anything Goes, nn Chris, nnKim,
Hash started from the Tropics on north Broadway where the chollos fry chicharrones and mingle with the railyard meth heads. The hares took the hounds under not just a scenic bridge, but two to a familiar site from last year's May 4th debacle. Here, the hounds guzzled cans of margarita flavored ale, right before being raped in a shack. It was here that BP stumbled upon her new coolest friend ever who like totally plays bass in a local reggae band-Jose. You could say that Jose became the windtalker for this trail as he showed the hounds where the trail actually lead, instead of aimlessly through a boneyard and some people stripping wire out of a building (This is true, it was on the news, there were totally some people who were busted stealing scrap from a building south of the rape shack on Sunday)
The trail took off towards the Nomar Market place where the hounds were provided opportunities for tortas de lengua y barbacoa as well as pairs of lyvis and air gordans. The pack passed a newsworthy mural that was recently defaced and gained nationwide coverage-NBA was that you?
The pack continued to weave through the barrio getting teardrop tattoos and even participated in spray-painted the hood of a random person's car. The Beer Near! was located in a wooded area where Cumbag found...himself as a small child. Evidence of a transgender dog cage party and a Game of Thrones scene were found on this bad ass trail.
The hounds ran through some parks, an antennae field, a bowling alley-turned Mexican flea market, a Dia de Los Muertos mural and through some trashy fields and streets-oh sorry that was Cumbag's childhood home. Yes that explains the Star Trek graffiti on the fence.
ONIN was at the Tropics where the hounds bitched and moaned about the +100 degree temperatures that day, needless to say the eventually stopped bitching.
A recap of bygone hashes.