Trail # 1306 Pub Crawl for 1000th Eve
Hare: Little Red Dipshit
Hounds: Whoa, who knows!
What can one say about a pub crawl? I sure don't know because I think I consumed too many tasty beverages. We started at a bar, then we went to another one, then maybe another one. Many hashers took part, large quantities of beverages were consumed, and plenty of wankers did things that they probably would not have done had they been sober. All this done just to get lubed up before the Big Event. On on!
Trail #1305 - BP's Death March
Hounds: Dip, NBA, Puff, Tina, Butthole Whisperer, CIA, nnAmanda, nnCollin, Anything Goes, PQuad, ButtHerFinger, nnKim
The pack is beginning to believe that BP has it in for us. This trail is just one more piece of evidence that she's trying to kill us off by way of crappy trails. The pack gathered at Fat Ernie's in the Dirty South, a brand-newly-opened beer dive on S. Hydraulic, and the hare led us all-the-fuck over and around the side streets of that gawd-forsaken area. We were mostly successful in following trail until we reached the bike path by the river, where the marks disappeared. This seems to be the Bermuda Triangle of Ta-Town. We would have given up at this point, but we could sense that the beer near was somewhere near, and when beer is involved, this pack does not give up. Besides, nnCollin knew where the BN was, so we followed him (although he neglected to mention that he knew where he was going nor did he know how to use his whistle at this point). The beer was found on a lovely broken-glass-and-dead-fish-strewn sandbar in the middle of the river. Beverages were thankfully consumed, and the pack was on its way to locate trail. We ended up being led through a field of cockleburs that covered our legs, feet and other body parts. I believe we are still discovering hiding places for the little buggers. Thinking we were close to the end, we stumbled, weeping from exhaustion, down Hydraulic for another mile. The hare pulled up to this hasher and offered a ride when the on-in was 50 feet away. Sheesh. Beer and food were consumed, songs were sung, and all was right with the world. Except for the memories of the shitty trail. On on.
Trail # 1304
Hounds: Who the Hell Knows At This Late Date, oh, let's see, I'll give it a shot: Puff, Anything Goes, Tina, Phi Pee Licker, Sgt. Semen Sucker, NBA, Butthole Whisperer, Amanta, nndaughter and friend, Sinnabar, ButtHerFinger, nnKim, PBR, LSD, BP, nnCollin
Dip chose the original setting of Mort's in Old Town to begin trail. He took the pack all-the-hell-over the previously uncharted Old Town region. The hounds marveled at the scenery, the architecture and the originality of the trail. Beer Near was located at Rain, Dip's favorite bar because of cheap well drinks on certain nights. Beverages were consumed and friends were made among the regular bar patrons, especially with the tranny at the next table. Trail then continued on to the south over by the Arena and then eventually (trouser)snaked back to the on-in which turned out to be the Brickyard, an impromptu last-minute decision by the hare. Delighting our neighbors on the patio with our lovely singing voices, and even lovelier songs, we endured circle with the highlight being helping nnKim with breaking in her new running shoes as only hashers know how. Dip's lovely wife, LSD, actually sat through a real circle and was rewarded with a tandem dead-bug, thanks to screw-ups by her husband. Sadly, we may never see LSD at a circle again.... On on!
Hounds: Puff, Shit, nnRachel, PCP, PQuad, Poopy
This time we gathered at the student parking lot of North High School, hoping there might be some underage recruits that we could share beverages with. Sadly, none showed up.
The hare took off in a circuitous route to the north and then doubled back to the south, eventually ending up at the Riverside Pervert Park (a.k.a. Oak Park) at our "usual" spot. Once the hounds were in, they all exclaimed how wonderful the trail was, and moreover, would the hare please, please, please impart some wisdom to the pack on how to lay such an amazing trail. Chips were chewed, beverages were downed, and the packed dispersed, still in awe of the fabulous trail. On on!
Hare: Tina Eat the Piss
Hounds: Cumbag Shitpants, Poopy the Slayer, Piss Car Poor, NBA, BP, nnCollin, PPL, Sgt. Semen Sucker, Butt Tickling Ken, Dipstick, BDub, Butt Her Finger, nnKim
Our beloved hare, Tina, is finally close to perfecting his technique of dead-laying trail. Soon he will have it down so well that he doesn't have to bother with trail at all; he will have trained some child or a trained monkey to lay trail for the payment of a Coke or a banana.
Starting from Whiskey Dick's on Seneca by the Kellogg overpass, the pack took off and were halted by a nearly inscrutable check about a half block from the start. The hare tested the limits of the meaning of 359 degrees and took us back almost to where we started to find the next mark. Trail then took us to the east toward West High School (passing a woman who desperately needed a beer and started running barefooted after the FRB). We eventually found a mysterious Llama Near, which turned out to just be Tina. For some unknown reason, we were required to wait under a bridge with the hare until he enigmatically decided to lead us to the beer near which was waiting for us under the next bridge to the north.
After re-hydrating, the pack took off along the river (with the hare tagging along with us) and we followed marks through Delano and then under yet another overpass where the inscrutable mark BB promised us some sort of undrinkable liquid. Fortunately for us, the hare forgot to stash the beverage, thus saving us from the experience. We then found ourselves back at Whiskey Dick's, and after several pitchers of golden nectar, we bid a fond "Fuck Off" to our baby boy, Cumbag Shitpants, who decided to grow up and abandon his Mother Hash. Sniff, sniff, waaaah! On on!
Hares: Power Bottom Redding, Poopy the Fruit Dick Slayer, Cumbag Shitpants
Hounds: Dip, Puff, NBA, PQuad, Anything Goes, Dipshit, Tina, BTK, Hell Raiser (from Ankara H3)
Once again, the hares lied, lied, lied to the poor hounds.To begin with, this miserable excuse for a trail was advertised as a 1.31 shiggy level. No way was it less than a 3. Who knows how many cases of raging poison ivy rashes are raging at this very moment in Doodah due to the lack of forewarning to wear shiggy socks. Additionally, we were promised two, yes, two, hares, but lo, and behold, when the wankers took off, there were three. On top of these egregious sins, there was a boot located on trail that was strategically placed on the first intersection mark. The hounds were sooo confused by this because this mark was not covered in chalk talk.
Trail then took the pack through weeds so high that we were only able to be sure we still had PQuad with us by the periodic glimpses of her scarlet red hair. Yes, she is a midget, but still....we could have lost that cute little homunculus. Soon after entering the shiggy level 2 of hell, we discovered the BBBN. What, you ask might that be? We don't know. But it turned out to be a Boiling Bad Bourbon Near. The hare responsible for procuring beverages for the pack specifically requested the cheapest, most rot-gut bourbon the liquor store had. And this hare specifically asked for bourbon because he claims this particular beverage makes him ralph. Plus it appeared that he pre-heated it in the microwave to ensure that it was especially undrinkable by the time we reached it.
Soon after, we discovered the beer near which was hidden in a healthy patch of poison ivy by some railroad tracks. But it was worthwhile because it was Rolling Rock beer, and after the bourbon, we were very thankful to have something that didn't cause our faces to hideously squinch up in distaste upon drinking it and trigger our gag reflexes.
As we left the BN, we had about a half mile (it seemed) of traversing the railroad tracks, with the accompanying aromas of dead cows that were obviously being transported in the train cars that we were passing. We sincerely wanted to believe it was dead cows, or otherwise we would have had to come to terms with the fact that we were smelling the decomposing bodies of homeless people that the hares had murdered while laying trail.
Some "highlights" of the remaining portion of the trail: marks leading into a drainage culvert which eventually led to a barred outlet; the Dead Cow airfield (this is absolutely true); trail leading by X-Citement Videos; and finally trail ending at the on-in in a junk yard. We introduced Hell Raiser to the delights of dead-bugs, so it will be interesting to see if he shows back up after getting to drink his beer from a supine position. The usual accusations were flung, there was a pitiful number of beers for such a thirst-producing trail, and all was right with the world. On after was at Joe's with the pack sitting with glazed looks on their faces, not believing that they had actually survived that ordeal. On on!
Hare: Butthole Whisperer
Hounds: Boathouse Pussy, Tongues A Cunt Occasionally, Power Bottom Redding, Butt Tickling Ken, nnJohn, Sinnabar, Neaux Bleaux Ange, Caught In Action, Cumbag Shitpants, nnCollin, Tina Eat the Piss, Piss Car Poor
How does that little ditty go.......? S-H-I-T-T-Y, T-R-A-I-L........Yeah, that's it. It's funny how this song was written long before this trail was perpetrated on our pack, because it describes the trail to a T. Starting from AJ's (good pizza, btw), the hare took us on a lovely rectangular path to the west, through a very boring neighborhood, then 90 degree-ed us to the south, through this same endless, coma-inducing subdivision until he led us to the beer near. This is where events took an interesting turn, thanks to nnJohn. As the pack was gathering for the sacred nectar, nnJohn decided it would be funny to chuck a beer to BTK, who was walking to the gathering. Except nnJohn forgot to say "heads up", or "here ya go, BTK", or "think fast, asshole, there's a beer cumming toward your head at 90 mph". No, BTK first was made aware of the gift of beer by experiencing a one-inch gash on his forehead, accompanied by blinding pain and gushing blood. I guess that will teach him. Something. Not sure what, though.
Trail then took us through a hitherto unknown-to-the-hashing-community shiggy strip, which was easily bypassed by following alongside it on the concrete. Trail led us across Rock Road, by the megachurch. Once we found trail through the parking lot we discovered an intersection mark on 29th Street. The group of not-so-bright wankers then located marks which took them east to Heartspring. The hashers who were slightly more intelligent noticed that the on-in was a few hundred feet to the north, and so decided to look for trail in that direction. They did not find marks but they did find the on-in and the hare and got to the beverages way before the racists.
So after the blood-letting debacle at the beer near, most of the pack spent their time pondering an appropriate name for nnJohn. Some of the more popular suggestions were: Sergeant Dildo Head, Sergeant Bitch Tits, Sergeant Cum Cake, Sergeant Mud Crab Dildo Bitch, and Sergeant Cock Gobbler. But for now and forevermore in the hashing community, or until he does something even more stupid, nnJohn will be known as Sergeant Semen Sucker, or SSS (with accompanying hand flip). On on!
Hare: Cumbag Shitpants
Hounds: Dip Shit, Boathouse Pussy, Pee Phi Licker, Anything Goes, Piss Car Poor, Power Bottom Redding, Gooey Spin Job, Poopy the Fruit Dick Slayer, Puff the Magic Ass Grabber
This Trash is a guest contribution from a backsliding asshole.
Dear TAH3 Forum-
I was a hard-working shoe salesman by trade and never thought I would have the guts to write trash. But after the shytti trail we jut ran, I finally have the nerve to tell my story.
One of my regular customers at the shoe store came in all the time. She is a professional cook and housekeeper. “nnAlice” is a real looker. She comes in the store wearing her little house dress. I have fancied nnAlice for a long time. I am a little shy though, so at first I would just make sure she got the best running shoes in my store for cost. It wasn’t much but if I saw a great New Balance come through I would save it for my nnAlice.
Finally, one day I got the courage to ask nnAlice on a date. It was nice. I was really nervous so I wore my best suit and arrived at the house where she lived. She lived with a family of 8. It was a little uncomfortable meeting them all but I got through it OK. Our date went just swell and I finished by kissing nnAlice on the cheek. I was really smitten. nnAlice was a nice girl and I was happy to be her sweetheart.
One day nnAlice came in to the store and told me the family was out of town all week. "Could you bring over a six-pack of tube socks and a single serving of tube steak?" Boy, could I ever.
After work on Friday I put on my bell-bottom jeans and my favorite plaid shirt and headed over. When I arrived nnAlice was wearing only her bloomers. She told me that she had a plan while her boss was away. Seeing her wearing next to nothing I was ready for anything.
nnAlice’s plan involved doing it in all of the beds in the house. We started with the bunk beds in the girls room, then we moved to the bunk beds in the boys room. Next we went in to her boss’s bedroom. They had an enormous bed. nnAlice said in her years working there she didn’t think they had ever used it for anything but reading and sleep. Alice thought her boss might be Unsullied.
After we had soiled the sheets in the master bedroom we moved to the couch in the den. Making love in a two story room has always been a fantasy of mine. I told nnAlice it was just like being outside. nnAlice said she had more plans. Before I knew it, we were outside trying to fit in Tiger the dog’s house. nnAlice got down on all fours and tried to fit inside but I wouldn’t fit too. We had to settle for her sweet ass sticking out the door while I plugged her. Good thing they had a big fence around the back yard.
A couple of days later the Bradys returned home and I haven’t seen that kind of action since.
Gooey Spin Job
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!
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!