[First, an amendment to Hash #479: Rod Lover and Sausage Slam were left out of the pack count. They were in fact, present. I talked with Rod Lover, and ran with Sausage Slam for a portion of the trail.
~ O’ Holy Mis-Counter]

Introducing, THE PACK: Cumz Out My Nose; Take it Like a Man; Nice, But; Rod Lover; Puff the Magic Drag Queen; CSI; Banana Basher; Cervix With A Smile; Hot Wheels; Jack Off On The Pot; Hot Wheels; PCP; Timmy!; Hugh Heiffer; Goldie Cocks; Tiny Whiny Bitch; Hairy Potter; FingerNips; Men’s Trail Cycle; Mother’s Little Felcher; Cereal Box; Snatch.Com; Dog Breath; BMX; Piss Pile.
Starring THE HARES: Zipper Lips and d-Based.
Co Starring: Just Rick and Just Will
With a Walk-On Cameo By: Virgin Jim

I arrived in the vicinity of where we were meeting, left my car parked on the corner of Sir Francis and Magellan Streets, and made my way to 146 Magellan.
Along the way, I passed a couple (man and woman , relationship unknown)  standing outside of the house,  in the street, where I overheard one explaining to the other what the Surf City Hashers  was all about.
I remembered that I had some Surf City business cards that I had left in my car. I ran back, got them, and handed the couple a surf city card for each of them. “Oh, how cool!” the woman commented. I directed them to our website, and said that they were more than welcome to join us. Maybe we’ll see them, soon.

Leaving the couple, I wandered through a side gate and found myself in ZipperLip’s backyard. Guitar music was cranking and hashers were enjoying adult beverages while relaxing by a fire in the middle of the patio.  Banana Basher was telling people to sign up to lay trail. After paying hash cash, I began my duties as scribe, and before I knew, it was time to circle up.

Circle Up!

FingerNips called the circle up. Because everyone was in a very mellow mood, we just stayed where we happened to be. Hash shit went to Men’s Trail Cycle, who earned it by being a backslider (actually, Cycle gave us a story of how he was injured and couldn’t make it to hash. He also stated that the injury wasn’t due to bending over. Maybe it was because he was on his knees, instead?).

Introductions were commenced, and were going fine when we got to the Virgin. He introduced himself as “Jimmy Olson, reporter for the Daily Planet and friend to Superman.” From my left, I could hear a hasher say,”I don’t think this guy’s gonna fair so well.”
 Apparently, Virgin Jim violated an unspoken rule of hash:  The Virgin has no sense of humor, nor wit,  until the hash is kind enough to bestow it on him or her. That is, unless the virgin has a nice set of tits or a tight ass, then we really don’t give a shit about what they say.

After the introductions, everyone grabbed beverages for the road, and kind of meandered out onto trail. At first, the pack really didn’t want to leave because it was so nice at ZipperLips backyard. Nice or not, that’s how the game works: Hare leaves, pack follows.

On-On!

We followed the length of Magellan Street, and took a right at Columbus Drive. This is where Hot Wheels and Nice,But started to pull away from the pack, followed by BMX and Piss Pile. There was some confusion as to where true trail headed, but after a brief search and ruling out a false trail, we all turned right at Cortez Park. On-On!

The pack passed by an onlooker who wondered who we were and what we were doing. I handed him a SCH3 card. I doubt we’ll ever see him again.

Going through Cortez Park, Cervix told me that the house that we had started from was, in fact, next door to where her old high school principal lived. Cervix had talked to her and her husband earlier in the evening when her (Cervix’s) sweatpants suddenly fell down around her ankles. Cervix admitted that she wasn’t wearing underwear at the time. The incident kind of begs the question: Landing strip? Full Brazillian? Any upkeep at all?  And why is Cervix so willing to share these things with mere acquaintances, and not with the hash?    
Anyway, we continued through Cortez Park until we hit Coronado Street again. I stopped to write the above incident down, when Broken Shaft came running up. He had joined the hash late.
When I finished writing, I discovered that I really was DFL, so I closed up the book and started jogging until I caught up with Banana Basher.

The rest of the pack had gone down a trail that would lead to New Brighton Camp Grounds. Banana immediately nixed that idea.
“Never go down when you don’t have to,” he advised.
Instead, Banana stopped, strategized, then said, “I think they’re gonna go this way.” We turned left onto a set of train tracks that ran parallel to Park Avenue.
This particular set of train tracks has an interesting history, Banana explained. Some years ago, we ran this very same train tracks 7-times in a row during a 12-week period in the summer. The trails got to be so predictable that Hares were banned from using the tracks when they set trail.
Concluding his story, Banana asked if I saw any flour. By this time, the pack was long gone, and I couldn’t see any flour or markings of any kind. Neither could he. We had lost the trail, and the pack.

Banana and I strolled through New Brighton Camp Grounds while trying to find trail. We eventually ran into Cereal Box and her virgin, Jim, on the trail.  Cereal was giving an improvised chalk-talk (Jim never received one before we hit trail, neither did he get a bunny) whenever we came to a trail marking.

About 10-minutes after that, all four of us were about to make a right onto a field,  towards the ocean, when we ran into Phyllis Driller, who had just come from Sir Froggy’s Pub.

After a brief exchange between Driller and Banana, we all ended up at Beer Check. It overlooked  New Brighton Beach, and had a beautiful view of Monterey Bay (nice job, hares). It was around this time that virgin Jim asked Banana if he could borrow his phone to call his wife.

After enjoying the view of the ocean, and the mass of birds that were circling while feeding on fish,  we finished with beer check, and progressed down to the beach. It should be noted that, Nice, But carried the ice chest, full of empties, all the way back to ZipperLips house.

Religion

It was getting dark by the time religion was started. The lovely FingerNips was appointed Beer Fairy, and received a down-down for her efforts. Let that be a lesson for her

Banana Basher was called up for Hare-Raising. Lots of folks signed up.

CSI was recognized for volunteering to be hare for next Thursday’s hash. Time and location will be determined.

Rod Lover was called up for a down-down, and ragged on for being frightened about being hare-snared.

Phyllis Driller and Broken Shaft were called up for showing up late for the hash, and attempting to not pay the $5 dues. This was never proven, but there are strong suspicions.

Just Will was brought up to be named. During this process we found out that his favorite spank poster is Charlie’s Angels, that he has sex with anonymous women, he lost his cherry when he was 15 (she was 14 at the time). Just Will inadvertently named himself: He is now, “I’m Not Puerto Rican.”

Just Rick was brought up to be named next. We discovered that he was a big Star Trek fan, is a member of E-Clampus Vitus, and is, also, a mechanic. He has been christened, “Lube Me Up, Scotty!”

Virgin Jim was up next in order to lose his virginity. When asked his name, he again tried with the Jimmy Olson introduction. He then took off his shirt, tried to tell a joke, which received the response of “Faster, Funnier” from the pack.  He then tried to remove his belt, and perform a strip tease.  This is the only time I’ve seen a Virgin actually get stopped for removing clothes.

Fingernips was trying to get him to take a down-down, but Jim looked very wary. Finally, Jim was dismissed, and Cereal Box was admonished for not training her virgin properly.

O’ Holy Nutz earned himself a down-down for scribing (or is that scribbling?). If you want to ensure that your name never appears in “trash”, he does accept bribes. If you have any embarrassing, or incriminating information about other hashers that you’d like to appear in “trash”, let him know. All sources will remain anonymous.
For example, one anonymous source told him that Cereal Box met Virgin Jim during a Pub Crawl after she had attended a funeral. Can we pinpoint what bar she picked up Virgin Jim at? No, but neither can Cereal.
However, maybe Virgin Jim can borrow a phone from someone and call his wife. Maybe she knows!  See? Mr. Nutz just passed on valuable information and protected the identity of his source. What a scribe!

Jack Off On the Pot and Rod Lover were brought up for following Cervix With a Smile on trail. The phrase “Woodies on Trail” was mentioned.  Apparently Cervix went horse riding while naked, and that fueled the lad’s imaginations. (Not that there’s anything wrong with that.)

Men’s Trail Cycle was called up for hash shit. He ended up with a toddler’s sweatshirt. On a related topic, a 12-year-old girl confessed her love to Hairy Potter while he was strolling down New Brighton Beach  (Where was Choka?!).

Finally, be sure to catch GoatBlower and Maple Muff at The Poet and the Patriot this Saturday from 6 pm to 8 pm.

That’s all I have for now. I’ll see you all at tomorrow’s hash.

~O’ Holy Nutz

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Hash # 477

The Pack: Flaccid Capacitor, Winds of Yer anus, Golden Showers, Puff the Magic Drag Queen, Nice…But, Zipper Lips, Daddy’s Little Felcher, Cereal Box, Timmy!, Snatch.Com, Cum Lord, Jack Off On the Pot, Take It Like a Man, Broke Bench Mountain, Mass Storage Device, Ralph RU Crammed In, Hugh Heifer, d-Based, CSI, Pixellated *%^^##!!!, Goldie Cox, Tiny Whiny Bitch, VinceLamBlowMe, FingerNips, Hairy Potter, CuffMyMuff, PCP, Cervix WithaSmile, Cumz Out My Nose,  and a late appearance by Dog Breath.
Also: Derek the Just, Rick the Just, and Will the Just.
Finally, Da Virgins (Yeah, right) : Virgin Jason, Virgin Sam, and Virgin Kaylan.
And now, the story:

I’d Like to Buy a Vowel, Pat
I was driving into Santa Cruz and had just turned onto High Street when I began consulting the directions that I had downloaded from the website.  I certainly hoped that I was going to find the start of trail with the aid of the directions, because I had never been to the north remote parking lot at UCSC (University of California, Smokin’ Crack) before.
Ahead of me was a dark colored convertible with the top down. My attention was caught by the vanity license plate which I began attempting to decipher (Jeopardy theme goes here). I don’t recall the exact letters on it, but I was trying to solve it using a brute-force algorithm (more commonly known as blindly guessing.)  Was it CURMUDGEON? RUDE CURMUDGEON?! RECRUDESCENT?!!  Just what the hell was this guy trying to say?
I took a break from trying to solve the license plate, when I observed an emblem to the left of it:  there was a fish with two legs, holding a beer mug. Glancing back to the license plate, I finally became aware of the holder surrounding it: SURF CITY HASH HOUSE HARRIERS. Hey, I was following a hasher! Small world, huh?  Still baffled as who it could be, I happened to look into the driver’s side mirror, and caught a reflection of the driver. He looked oddly familiar. Using my brilliant powers of deduction, I put the three clues together (Fish, Licence Plate Holder, Driver of the Car) Then the license plate made perfect sense: RUCRMDIN. Mystery solved: I was following RalphRUCrammedIn.
Sweet! Now all I had to do was follow him to the start of trail. Hopefully, he knew where the hell he was going.
By the way, I’m the absolute shits at solving crossword puzzles.

Faster, Funnier,  Asshole!

(Ok, Ok, Sorry!)—Ralph did lead the way to the north parking lot (Thanks, Ralph). Hashers and Harriets were already gathering around, waiting for festivities to begin. I found my way over to Flaccid Capacitor who was hash cash for the night.

Grand Theft Auto, Flaccid Style

Flaccid was standing with WindsOfYerAnus next to a white BMW  Z3 convertible. Another hasher asked if it was Flaccid’s. No, he said, it belonged to his downstairs neighbor who had one broken foot with a metal plate in it, and her other foot is paralyzed. According to Flaccid, since the neighbor can’t drive due to her bad feet, she basically told him to drive the car whenever he wants to.
I call bullshit (as scribe, it’s my prerogative). I think the real story is that Flaccid burst into her apartment, swiped the keys from the countertop, screamed “Try and stop me, bitch!”, gave her the finger, then took off in the car.
Trust me; I’ve worked with the guy. That sounds just like him.

Circle Up!

We had to circle up out of sight of the parking lot, because Banana (who was hare) didn’t want UCSC’s crack security staff to hassle us.
We trekked a little ways up a trail, where Banana gave last minute instructions regarding the difference between bicycle trail markings and hash markings. It didn’t make a bit of difference. Then, Banana went on his merry way, flour in hand.
While we were in circle, Hairy Potter passed out the stuffed bunnys to the virgins, and gave them instructions not to lose, surrender, or sodomize ‘em. I say this only because upon being handed their bunny, one of the virgins immediately stuck his finger up its dress (hey, at least it was his finger).
FingerNips was going to pass out the Hash Shit, but declared that she had forgotten it (doesn’t that merit a down-down?)
Snatch.com introduced herself as O’ Holy Snatch ( I have nothing to do with this, even if I do appreciate the possibilities). Upon hearing this stated, several people (men and women) genuflected.
Tiny Whiny Bitch prepared for trail, not by running in place and stretching, but by cracking a beer, and lighting up a cigarette. A shining example for all.

On-On!
 
Fingernips pointed us in the right direction, which was further up the mountain. It was either that, or back to the parking lot. Then the pack was off and running (walking, etc.).
Immediately, Snatch.com and either Goldicox or Zipperlips ( I don’t remember who, sorry) took off like shots, sprinting up the trail. Then Snatch put on the afterburners and really took off.
I wanted to see what the rush was, so I sprinted after her.

“Hey, Snatch, what’s the rush?” I politely asked when I had caught up to her.
“I’m running for sex,” was the answer.

We came upon the first check. I went left, and hit a false trail. The rest of the pack went straight, and I found myself three-fourths of the way towards the back when I rejoined them.
Soon, however, the pack was confused. It appears that there was a fork in the road, and nobody heeded Banana’s advice about the difference between the bike markings and the hash markings.
Someone way down the true trail called, On-On! and the pack course-corrected.
While on the new leg of the trail, I had fallen in, more or less, with the merry lads from the Naval Postgraduate School where I picked up this bit of conversation:

“ I had the bunny, but I didn’t want to hurt anybody over it,” said Just Derek, referring to Last Thursdays hash.
“ Yeah, it’s always good to keep the bunny and not do damage,” Golden Showers replied.
Great advice. We really don’t need anybody getting maimed or killed over a stuffed bunny. That just might merit a down-down.

A little farther up the trail, Just Jason played chicken with a guy flying by on a mountain bike. Just Derek dared him to do it.
“I would have done more, dude,” Just Jason said.” You know how I get when I’m drinking.”

After two checks, we were lead on a nice, winding trail through a little bit of shiggy. Sausage Slam, who was running in front of me, damn near took a tumble, but recovered.
We broke out of the winding trail, hit a check, made a left turn, and were freewheelin’ it down a steep hill when Snatch busted out from the bushes on the left. My first thought was:  sex on trail?
“Hey Snatch, still running for sex?”
“Yup.”
“Found it yet?”
“Nope, but I want to finish trail. There’s someone waiting for me at the end of this.”

Beer Check

Of course, everyone ended up at beer check. People were really sweating from the humidity. Just Derek cut his leg, again. Broke Bench and Just Jason engaged in a little alcohol abuse, spilling their beers while roughhousing. After a while, we were ready to head toward religion, but nobody knew where the hell it was.  The all-knowing Banana Basher pointed us in the right direction. We had done a full circle, and were within 100 feet of where we started from.

Religion

Kegs and ice chests were dragged/ carried from the parking lot to where religion would ultimately be held. There was a big gate at the start of the trail that listed a variety of things that weren’t allowed on the trail. Alcohol consumption and bong hits were conspicuously missing from the list.
Snatch left the party early before religion even got underway. She stated that she was employed with UCSC, and that she didn’t want to risk being caught by campus authorities, so she was leaving.
 A more truthful scenario is that there was 10 hard inches waiting for her somewhere in Santa Cruz, and she just couldn’t wait to pull an Edmund Hillary and climb all over it.

Pixellated Obscenity was the beer fairy for the evening. Hairy Potter kindly explained to the virgins the protocol they should follow when they were called up, either: #1. Tell a Joke, #2. Sing a Song, #3. Please, please, please, don’t wag your dicks at us.

The first to get called up was Virgin Jason, who was taking a piss when he was summoned. He had kept his bunny through the run (good virgin!).  Then, he attempted to tell a joke about Michael Jackson and a plastic bag, but fucked it all up. He got a down-down, but not before Fingernips pulled down his pants, thereby breaking Virgin Protocol #3.

Virgin Kaylan was next. She allowed her bunny to get stolen by Zipper Lips (bad virgin!), and earned herself a down-down. She told a joke about a battery and a potato chip.  Or related a story about how her batteries in her vibrator died while she was eating potato chips. I really wasn’t paying attention. Anyway, she refused to show any T&A, even when members of the crowd encouraged her to do so by shouting  “Whip ‘em Out!”

Virgin Sam was the last at the altar. He did keep his bunny (good virgin!). Then, gripping his beer in his teeth, dropped Trou’ and wagged his woody at the crowd. At which point, Jackoff On the Pot declared a point of lager and demanded, “What the fuck is it with these NPS guys having hard-on’s when they drop their pants?”
“What’s the matter Jackoff, you jealous?” a Harriet retorted.

PCP, Cervix, Dog Breath and VinceLamBlowMe all got down-downs for back sliding. Mr. BlowMe earned another one for wearing a hat at the altar.

Just Will was called up. A few questions were asked to provide information for his naming that should be coming up, soon.

CrashTestCumming was called up and thanked for having a relative flash us at Wharf to Barf. Awfully nice of him.

Just Rick was called up for the third times. JackOff stepped up to join him for a down-down. “It’s not a punishment, it’s a privilege” he stated.

Banana Basher was called up and thanked for setting trail and for being the founder of Surf City Hash.. Some body tried to say that it was his birthday, whether it truly was or not is still undecided. However, everyone did get to see Banana’s banana when Dog Breath pantsed him.

The night ended on kind of a sour note, as Hairy Potter lost control of the group. They were bound and determined not to hear him out. After a hash hush was called, and everybody temporarily calmed down, Banana suggested that in the future, if people don’t shut up and pay attention by the 4th time hash hush is called, that religion should be disbanded (I’m kinda leaning toward only 2 times myself).
We’ll see how things go this Thursday.

That’s enough of my dissertation on Hash 477. May the hash get a piece.

O’Holy Nutz

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By the time I arrived at Pearl and Norm’s house, I could plainly see that everyone was pretty well demolished from the night before. Hashers and Harriets were  lounging in lawn chairs of various designs, plastic cups still half-filled with remnants of Bloody Mary’s littered the ground. Those who were still conscious (barely) were nursing either cups of plain orange juice, mimosas, or recharging themselves on champagne. Chairs were arranged in a loose amoeba, the either ends of which were completed by a group of tables, where you could find BBQ’d hot dogs and snacks. Kegs of beer were close by.
IcyJackass was lying in a fetal position on a recliner in the middle of the circle, more or less, performing the time-honored tradition of refusing-to-fully-regain-consciousness, because-if-I-do, this-hangover-is-going-to-fully-kick-my-ass. Hard.

Cruel and Unusual

Voices were kept low, for the most part of the morning that is, until Broke Bench Mountain decided to fling his nasty, sweat-soaked  shorts at Serial Box, who was kindly minding her own business. I didn’t see the moment of impact, but it caused poor Serial to practically gag, wail to the gods above about her misfortune, then sprint—still gagging and retching—into Pearl and Norm’s house, where she set about decontaminating herself in their shower.
A few minutes later, Serial—traumatized—came out of the house, and sat down where she was before.
At which point, Broke Bench snuck up behind her, wrapped his nasty, sweaty shorts around her head, and held it there for a full 10-count, all the while laughing maniacally.
Once released from this cruel and unusual punishment, Cereal again wailed, bolted into the house, and attempted to decontaminate herself once again. However, there is not enough Citpro (used to counteract anthrax poisoning) in the world that could possibly counteract Broke Bench’s shorts. Even the Centers for Disease Control (CDC) in Atlanta, Georgia hasn’t a cure for that.

Revenge on Broke Bench was attempted by Sunday Semen. When Pussy Galore asked Broke Bench to pull up his shirt, Sunday Semen slapped a 1 foot length piece of duct tape on Broke Bench’s chest and stomach, hoping to rip off some hair. The entire incident was instigated by Tiny Whiny Bitch, who later confessed to me about his involvement.  The "revenge" was short lived as Broke Bench was "pre-lubed" with sunscreen and the duct tape slide off.

Circle Up!

Choka-Cola and Hairy Potter were the hares for this, the final trail of Wharf to Barf. The important point to remember here is that they both were laying trail while wearing flip-flops. The second most important point to remember is that they walked while laying trail. You’ll see the significance of this, soon.

Father “Circle Up You Fuckers, And Show Some Hash Respect! ” Abraham

While Choka and Hairy were on their way, Wet Toe Job declared that it was time to perform a round of “Father Abraham.” Apparently, this is a tradition of the Monterey Bay Hash, and is done as a warm-up before hitting the trail. Equally apparent is that hung-over hashers really don’t give a shit about Father Abraham, his seven sons, nor performing calisthenics.
Oh, sure, there were those of us who participated, but when Wet Toe Job threatened major down-downs to those who refused to get out of their chairs, the overall response from those folks was a tacit “Blow it Out Yer Ass!”

Circle Jerk

Finished with the exercises, or lack thereof, we hit the trail at about 8-minutes after the hares departed. Final provisions were made ( i.e. beers were grabbed, drinks topped off, puffs puffed, etc.), after which the group ran into the first hurdle of the trail: a check.
Some of us turned left and walked down towards Ocean Street (myself included), others turned right and headed towards Branciforte Avenue. Still, others—the Front Running Bastards (FRB)—bawled “On,On!” and sprinted down to the corner of Soquel and Ocean Street, thoroughly missing  a false trail mark set halfway between the check and Ocean Street. It’s rumored that Hot Wheels and d-Based were responsible for this...like father, like son is all I'm saying.

Like all good lemmings, the group followed.  It wasn’t until we heard shouts of “False trail!” coming from behind us that we turned around, located  the false trail marking ( I happened to be standing right next to it), and headed in the correct direction, which was toward Branciforte.  
It’s because of situations like this, that FRB shouldn’t stand for Front-Running-Bastards, but Fucking-Retarded-Boneheads, instead.


How To Make Friends, and Influence People

We were now travelling up Soquel Avenue towards Branciforte Ave, and Broke Bench was thoroughly enjoying himself. So much, in fact, that he was doing trail in his underwear! But wait, there’s more! An innocent passerby, walking in the opposite direction, happened to glance down at precisely the wrong moment.

“Dude, your friend’s ball is hanging out,” the shocked passerby informed other hashers within earshot.  Way to go, Broke Bench!  For the record: we saw Broke Bench's balls way too often.

Two Blocks Up, and Go Left

Beer check was only about 2 blocks from where we started. It really only took about 10-minutes, if that, before we found the hares waiting for us behind Branciforte Plaza.

The final turn leading into the parking lot was marked with about 15 blobs of flour, spaced about 2 feet apart from one to the next –how dumb do they think we are (See Circle Jerk, above)?!. Adult beverages were passed out and consumed. Broke Bench found a bicycle seat, and was using it to play catch with Sunday Semen’s dog, Cheerio.

Hairy Potter and Fingernips were discussing Planter’s warts, when a brief, but vicious titty-twisting fight broke out between the two of them.

It was a gorgeous, perfect day that everyone was enjoying, when someone commented, “Hey, where’s everybody else? Weren’t there more people back at the house?”  About 15-minutes after that, the lost tribe of Hashers finally made it to beer check.

All Who Wander Are Not Lost…Just Clusterfucked

Now, the trail that was set for this day was never intended to be difficult, nor even challenging. However, during this simple 2-block trail, we did, indeed, lose a contingent of hashers.
Leading the pack was Cum Lord, followed by Jism-Me Cricket, D-Based, Hot Wheels, and Broken Shaft.
Here’s what happened:
The trail set by Choka and Hairy accidentally intersected another unrelated trail. Cum Lord thought that the unrelated trail was the original trail, possibly some kind of trick, and began to follow it. The other three hashers, of course, followed him.  After what must have seemed like a really bad case of Déjà vu, Cum Lord had an epiphany: It was his own trail! Furthermore, it was the trail that he set three days before on Thursday! To top it off, he was following it backwards!  Thanks to Hot Wheels and the GPS unit he was carrying at the time, the hapless hashers figured that it took them 1.6 miles to discover their mistake and turn around.  What a cluster!

Gimme that Ole Time Religion

When it was discovered that we had spent more time at beer check than we had on trail, we decided to head back to Pearl and Norm’s place for religion.  When we arrived, Wet Toe Job and Just Terry were waiting for us; they had never left.

Gism-me Cricket was volunteered as the beer fairy.

Down-Downs

The first to get called up for Down-Downs was members of the Monterey Bay Hash (D-Based, Hot Wheels, Last Call Norm , Puff).

Broken Shaft, Sunday Semen and O’Holy Nutz were next for various crimes from Saturday.

Winds of Uranus was called because it was his birthday. Hairy Potter gave a “clean” down-down song without dirty words. At the conclusion, he said, “Thank You Very Fucking Much.”

Broke Bench and Mass Storage Device were both called for having sex on trail, at religion, on the alter, etc. Pearl Necklace tried to cool down the couple with a supersoaker, but to no avail.  They were the unofficial, like we care, "Get a room already" couple.

Hot Wheels accused Broken Shaft of Tech on Trail. In the process, Hot Wheels pointed the same GPS device he used to calculate Cum Lord’s fuck up. Therefore, Hot Wheels earned a Tech on Trail down- down for himself.

People who barfed today (because, after all, it is Wharf to Barf): Broken Shaft, Wet Toe Job, and Jailhouse Twat.

People who ran the Actual Wharf to Wharf: Hot Wheels, Goldicocks, Cumz Out My Nose, Snatch.cum, d-Based, Cum Lord, Broke Bench.

Pearl Necklace and Last Call Norm: for cooking hot dogs, and hosting the party.

Festivities ended at 3:12 p.m. and that concluded the Trash for the HangOver Hash of Wharf to Barf 2009.

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Greetings and Salavations,
       Let me set the stage for your next anxiety attack: I intend to take you on a verbal tour of Saturday Wharf to Barf, Surf City Hash #477. Now while in and of itself, that may sound like a good thing, let me remind you Surf City's half-minded Mismanagers chose Creme-Filed Twinkie and Pixilated Obscenity as your hare-pair. While they both HAVE a nice pair, they do not MAKE a nice pair. While you ruminate over that, let's see what's up with our kennel mates.

       I will make it known now that I will not complicate this Hash Trash with facts. This will allow me to extract almost any end I desire. It is with this motive in mind that I will now recount the events that comprised Surf City Hash #477. What follows is a true accounting even if this is not precisely the events that actually occurred.  

      I pulled into the parking lot around 12:15 and was promptly greeted with the collective moaning and lowing the pack. It seems the Beermeister had not made a guest appearance yet. Ten minutes of their pathetic whining and I remounted my car and headed to the nearest business dealing in alcohol. I got back around 12:40 and the Beermeister had just arrived. Why was I told the Beermeister was still in Boulder Creek at 12:20?!?      

     I looked around and everyone was happy now. Well, except for GM Finger Nips. The announced hare-out time was 12:30. It was now 12:45 and the hares weren't even THERE yet, let alone having spit-up their Instructions of Trail and outed themselves. As a personal aside to this, as I drove back up Branciforte Drive towards the park with the beer delivery, I saw Creme-Filled Twinkie parked right beside the road obviously setting Beer Check. It's pretty difficult to miss a giraffe crawling out of a Miata pushing a twelve-pack in front of her.

       So the hares slithered into the park about 12:45, a mere fifteen minutes after they should have outed themselves. As they walked around looking dazed, never a auspicious beginning, I avoided confronting them about their tardiness by injecting myself into a conversation Banana was having concerning one of his recent business fiascoes. His new(est) scam concerns online teaching. I listened to a few of his points, barely able to contain my mirth, and finally arrived at one immutable conclusion. He referred to the program as 'interactive teaching' but I'm afraid where the big Banana is concerned the term 'inactive learning' would be more applicable. I moved on.

        Next group of losers I encountered contained 3 1/2" Floppy.  Floppy was asking if anyone else had seen the unmarked police car that cruised through the parking lot. Not that I spent a great deal of time in the parking lot, as Floppy apparently did, but neither I nor anyone else seems to have had this sighting. Then he continued on by saying he knew the officer would be back now that he'd seem us. I nominate this hasher's me be changed to 3 1/2 Inches of Paranoia.

      Before I began believing in alien abductions, I backed away from Floppy and moved on. As I walked by one of the picnic tables I overheard Goldie Coxxx bemoaning the fact she had to sleep alone Friday night. A harriete beside her commiserated with her and asked what happened to Tiny Whiny Bitch. Goldie said he'd spent the night with Broken Shaft. I felt this conversation would soon begin discussing things my old heart may not be able to withstand so I left them to discuss the issue. While many of you may be offended by such behavior, please bear in mind that being able to take such 'action' immediately doubles your chances of getting a date for Saturday night.

       I heard loud voices a few tables away so I moved in that direction being careful to make sure to keep a tree nearby in case objects began flying through the air. It was Serial Box and Mr. Bone Jangles and they were calling each other names in a foreign language. I never determined what started their intercourse but as words got longer and louder I decided there were other places I'd rather be so I moved my little butt along.

       I passed the hare-pair, still looking dazed and confused, and overheard Pixilated saying, Let's give it till 1:15 in case some hashers are running late. LATE? Forty-five minutes after the 12:30 on-out time printed in the schedule?! What does she think this is, a Monterrey Bay hash? Considering how agitated she appeared, I opted not to confront her on this issue though.

       Thankfully, I was able to find one group looking more confused than our hare-pair, the Virgins. Hairy Potter was giving them the proverbial Chalk Talk off to the side and I swear Tim and Tina were on the verge of tears by the time he was done with them and Dave had the proverbial deer-caught-in-headlights look in his glazed eyes.

       Chalk Talk completed and hares harassed by the GM enough, Instructions of Trail were delivered. I listened to them intently. After they were done, I decided I knew less about trail AFTER Pixilated was done than I did before she spoke. Even more unsettling was that I also knew less about HASHING in general after Twinkie was done blabbering. It was a rather disturbing experience. The only good thing about the hare-pair's completing IoT is they were now the hell out of my sight.

      There was a serious discussion between Surf City Manglers as to whether or not to risk losing any good people today by actually doing trail. The hares had been overheard at various times today singing the praises of their trail. They claimed to have scouted it numerous times. I even heard the ridiculous rumor Twinkie flew her father in from somewhere back East to get HIS opinion of the trail. I've heard blatant self-promotions before but never have hares touted themselves so highly in human history than this dangerous duo. As our theme today was 70's stuff, allow me to quote a few lines from a song by Johnny Rivers: Be careful of pretty faces that you find, a pretty face can hide an evil mind. How prophetic was that man.

       Consequently, a disclaimer was issued by the GM prior to circleup. Those with more than half a mind heeded her warning. I too wished to stay behind but due to Finger Nips promise of certain 'special' benefits for me, I had reluctantly agreed to Scribe today so on-out I (foolishly) went.

       Trail started out pleasantly enough through the park back towards town. It was short-lived pleasantness though. Once we came to the end of the park, we realized there was no more flour. The 'Last Mark' cry was uttered on this trail far too early for my tastes. Back-tracking, flour was eventually noticed in a patch of ivy heading on-down to Branciforte Creek. I call this cesspool Branciforte Creek only because it is so designated on maps. In actuality it's the sewer outfall for the homeless living upstream. It is so rank even mosquitoes are unable to breed in it. Thank you, hare-pair, for the most inauspicious trail beginning in recent memory.

       Once across Sludge Stream, trail turned on-left and vanished into the woods. The first portion of trail was scenic and well-traveled. Then the obligatory checks began followed by a number of revolting developments. First, we emerged from the shade of the redwoods and the temperature consequently rose ten to fifteen degrees. Secondly,the formerly flat trail began to rise at an alarming rate. If I leaned forward on my toes and stuck my tongue out, it almost touched the ground. Oh, don't start gagging yet, I'm not done. The third and final insult was taking us through was simply has to be an experiment being conducted by the Santa Cruz County Agricultural Commission. I haven't seen this much poison oak since my camera malfunctioned a while back and took two pictures on one frame. PO towered over me reminding me of that old classic horror movie Day of the Triffids. Crafty tendrils of terror hid among blackberry bushes to trap an unsuspecting hasher as he reached to grab a berry. They crept along the ground like a snake to nibble unprotected ankles and transform them into places of pain by evening. Again, my commendations to our hare-pair.

       We now began climbing an escarpment of monumental stature. Parts were so steep hashers were literally using all four appendages to gain purchase anywhere possible. Male hounds that still had any energy were taking advantage of the situation to lay their forepaws on harriete butts ostensibly to 'help them up the hill'. The hills weren't the only things getting 'up' at this stage of trail. Not far past the scaling of that rock-faced cliff, a bench was encountered. (Your tax dollars at work!) Soon after that, the Turkey/Eagle split came into view. What? We had not found it before now? I overheard the Turkey hounds say they were already thinking of roasting their cruel hare. I took a moment to ponder my options. My first thought, as well as being my personal favorite, was to turn around and get the hell out of there. I was still able to heard those that never left camp partying it up back at Point A. Then I remembered Finger Nips would drop the kind proposition she'd made me to get me to Scribe. At my age you never refuse such offers from female girls of the opposite sex so I sadly threw that option into the nearest patch of PO. Obviously, the Turkey trail was my next consideration. However, after having hashed with Creme-Filled Twinkie for over ten months, she's just a little bit too scary for this old boy. Twinkie makes Darth Vader look like a Wal-Mart greeter. Sadly, I was left with but one way to get Finger Nips where I want her and hopefully survive this trail as well. Yes, friends, Romans and country bumpkins, I foolishly put my hind paws onto the Eagle trail. While Twinkie scares me, I at least know what types of torture to expect from the Pixie as a hare after all these years. She's pushed me into streams, tripped me both going up hill as well as going down, dragged me over fences, (and under them) coerced me into climbing trees to try and figure out where the hell I was, provided lousy beer at her Beer Checks, taken me through quiet family neighborhoods, disrupted evening church services and thrashed me innumerable times in her role as Grand Inquisitor. Sorry, I meant Religious Adviser. As a matter of fact, the only thing I can think of that Pixie HASN'T done to me since she began hashing with us over half a decade ago is tie me to her bed and tickle me with a feather. (For my sake, I so hope she doesn't read this Hash Trash)

       Therefore it was with much trepidation that I took a turn for the worse and headed on-left onto the Eagle trail. Less than a hundred yards later, a mere hundred yards I say, the Eagles saw the first threat made again their lives. It was a sign warning us of a bee nest in a tree so close to trail that we were warned to walk slowly and quietly past it lest they attack and kill us. Again, thanks to our hare. So, in true hasher fashion, how did we handle this? Upon reading the warning, the FRB's began screaming out a warning and running as fast as they could past the hive. They blew by the nest so rapidly the limbs on the tree bent as they passed. I wish Giant Athletic Supporter had been there to belt out a few hundred Hail Mary's for us. Amazingly, all Eagles survived unscathed. I believe the bees were buzzing around our campsite waiting for the leftovers from the Watermelon Head Award.

       Trail continued in a circuitous route around the hill colloquially called Top of the World. It's logical to assume that to be our eventual destination but why not just take us there rather than running us to death circling the place like a spiral staircase in a lighthouse? Oh, sorry. I forgot for a moment who our spiteful hare was. More on-up was encountered followed by some more followed by tree roots so far above the ground they could have been limbs for all the hell I know. I did more ducking and jumping today than I did on the playground in third grade. Eventually we came to some pavement and a hare arrow pointed the pod on-left onto a narrow, seldom if ever used dirt road. Now I've spent some time in this area mountain biking and have been down this road before. It leads to a nice, isolated house where they do not like company. Unless Pixie has found a path leading back into the woods, this road leads to the house and then circles right back to where we are now. Well, Pixie's reputation as being a vindictive hare will remain intact again. This was a pointless half-mile circle jerk. As the poor bastards that fell for it returned to the main road, they met up with the DFL Eagles.

       There ensued a discussion of what to do next. Pixie had just led us into a 'closed loop' trail. No one volunteered to go back towards the house in case we'd missed a mark. Also, no one wanted to go back to camp and have to risk passing the death-dealing bee nest again. We were trapped by the Pixie. Very crafty there, hare. Pretty friggin' cruel but crafty nonetheless. We had but one option, try and find the key to this mysterious trail and hopefully persevere. Marker was soon found on the paved road leading on-down towards the disc golf course and the real world beyond. Sadly, halfway down the hill trail was lost. No one wanted to go back on-up and fall into Pixie's closed loop/circle jerk again so hounds scoured both side of the road hoping we missed another of Pixie's poorly-place trail markings. Sure enough, a mark was found indicating we should (again) get down on all four and clamber up a hill which would again point our snouts in the direction of Top of the World.

       Basically, as there was no flour visible, we were operating on little more than instinct and primal fear. Part way up this hill, the J. S. mark was encountered. The promised Jello Shot Check had finally been stumbled across. The goodies were distributed and, being good Santa Cruzans all, we disassembled and carried the pieces of the check away with us. (More on that later) O Holy Nutz, one of the few of us possessing more than half a mind, bypassed the feeding frenzy and began sniffing for trail as there was no indication from the hare as to what the hell we should do next. Soon, Nutz fond marker leading on-up and, no surprise here, continuing towards Top of the World. Sure enough, we reached the plateau locally called Top of the World and proceeded along it towards the view afforded by it's south-facing rim. Our visual joy was short-lived though. We were forced to plunge over the edge and enter the realm of the dangerous Flying Disc Golf Course. Ever see the James Bond movie Goldfinger? Remember Goldfinger's hit man Odd Job and his 'special' hat? That's what these disc guys were thinking of themselves as when we invaded their space blowing whistles and yelling On-on! all over the place.

       Once we got to the parking lot at the base of the hill, things went to hell in a handbasket pretty quickly. Cum Lord asked a discer if he'd seen any flour around. The guy said, Sure, there's some very pretty yellow ones beside that pine tree over there. Hmmm. We were not getting the responses we were hoping for. I handed one of our calling cards to a guy. He looked at it, measured it's weight and said, Too light, not aerodynamic enough, it'll never fly. I think we're taking the wrong approach with these people. Squats In A Bush asked a guy if he'd seen a single woman running through the area. He said he didn't know. Squats stared at him for a few seconds and asked how could he not know if he'd seen a single woman running through here. He replied she was moving too fast for him to see if she had a ring on her finger. Before she could slap this mental midget, Konchi-Twat pulled her away. Broke Bench Mountain tried his luck with this simpleton next. Alright, Broke Bench said, Have you perchance seen a woman ALONE running through here? The guy stared into space for a few seconds, his eyes lit up and he cried, Yes, I have. How long ago?, Broke Bench asked. Why, just last Saturday, was the reply. At this point even Broke Bench threw his hands up in disgust.

       Left to our own devices, the mob moved through the parking lot after finding minimal marker and began to on-down the road leading into the bowels of DeLaveaga Park. Soon though, Squats spied a cryptic writing on the road with an arrow pointing into the woods. The writing was almost illegible but appeared to have the word 'running' in it. As the FRB's checked further down the road, Nutz headed off into the shiggy to do a visual. Soon the FRB's returned saying there was nothing further on-down the road. The most frequently uttered hash phrase heard on a Pixilated trail was soon heard again: Last Mark! The clan did an on-up back through the parking lot and, seeing no other option, did an on-left onto the main road through the park. There was an unofficial trail leading out of the parking lot but a sign had been put at the trailhead saying Area Closed so we did not bother scouting it. Not far down the road, marker was discovered.

       The on-on was sounded and the pride lit out again. Fifty feet further though marker made the mob on-left off the road into the trail that had been closed off. Maybe our spiteful hare wanted us to get ticketed for trespassing. The cops would love to get some money in the city coffers. Anyway, the troops jumped on this trail and soon discovered why it had been closed. It was dangerous! Tree limbs and roots ran rampant and invaded both sides of trail in a haphazard manner. Soon a deep ravine was encountered. Konchi-Twat was grabbed by an exposed root and pulled to the ground. Everyone scrambled from this would-be grave. This section of trail weaved it's weary way into and out of the woods, onto and off of the road. As we neared the golf course, trail crossed the road and went to the edge of the hill overlooking the park where we started this abortion. Again, we could hear those that stayed in camp partying away. We felt certain their laughter was directed at we idiots which, needless to say, perturbed us even more. But by far the worst aspect of this is that it turned out to be (yet) another small-minded, vindictive circle jerk as it brought us right back to the main road. Faced with fairways on both side of the road, even the resourceful Pixie was coerced into taking us along the road and off the fairways. I'm certain it would make her multi-orgasmic though to know that even this 'easy' section of trail was hard. It was long, boring and hot not to mention we were asked slightly over a hundred times, What the hell are you people doing? and expended considerable energy dodging both golf carts and Cadillac SUV's. I swear I saw Vince Lamblowme piloting one of those golf carts too.

       Just past the club house, marker led the litter on-right onto the golf cart path. As soon as the hare was able to find a large patch of PO, she took us on-right and on-down through it and onto a small path that skirts around the edge of the golf course. That of course only lasted a short while though. Trail alternated between the edge of the fairway and a upper trail and sometimes a lower trail. This continued for a considerable distance and will not be considered the high point of anyone's Wharf to Barf experience I guarantee you. Eventually, trail took a sharp on-right and began a steep on-down. Soon, one was able to hear traffic in the distance though the street it came from was a mystery as one and all were quite lost by this point in time. When the road became visible, it was obviously Branciforte Drive near where I'd seen co-hare Twinkie setting Beer Check earlier. As one final insult to the flock, there was a steep descent from trail past a cliff that is so under-cut even a 2.5 earthquake will bring it down.

       Beer Check was appreciated though I did not seeing anyone shaking her hares' hand. Also, I soon noticed we were one hare short of a full family. Where was Twinkie the Turkey I wondered. Soon I saw her driving up in Pixie's car. Seems that Twinkie had gone back up to Jello Check to collect the litter. I wonder how long she wandered aimlessly, as she has much of her life anyway, before figuring out eco-minded Surf City hashers had carted the trash on-in with them? dBASED led the litter on-in from Beer Check. I took note of the fact Icy Jackass and Puff took a trail by themselves and arrived back at the camp LONG after everyone else. Hmmm. Make of that what you will.

      Personally, I'd prefer to stop this Trash right here and would except for two compelling reasons. First, I'm still hoping to collect that 'special' favor promised me by Finger Nips and I'd dying to visualize one more time how this evil hare-pair got what they deserved...in the end. So, against my better judgment I'm going to forge ahead and recount the debauchery that occurs when Pixilated Obscenity and Hairy Potter co-RA Religion for us. Four chairs had been appropriately attired with ice blocks for the discomfort of the RA's victims. They were soon out to use.

       First on the RAs hit list were dBASED and DuuHHH. It seems they were unable to set Beer Check by the time the hounds arrived on Thursday nights trail. Park it on the ice, incompetents! They were joined by Cumz Out My Nose and Broken Shaft, the Beermeister pair that arrived today forty minutes late.

       Icy Jackass was next to the altar. She was awarded a sympathy down-down for the foolish completion of her twenty-fifth hash with us.

       Cum Lord was called up next to answer for a crime of fashion. He found somewhere, probably the dumpster behind the homeless shelter, the most hideous 70's suit I have ever beheld. I was around in the 70's and believe me, I saw some atrocious ones too.

       Next was the days only skit. Little Shit and Wet Toe Job serenaded Arabian Goggler with a rousing rendition of Has Anybody Seen His Cock? I could say more but it was a spectacle that had to be seen to be appreciated. Or NOT appreciated, depends on which side of his cock you were on I guess. For his gracious participation in this fiasco, he was allowed to drop trou and plant his arse on the ice.

       As a perennial trouble-maker, Mr. Bone Jangles joined Goggler on the ice.

       Next was the seemingly endless elimination process for this year's Watermelon Head Award. First on the ice was Broken Shaft due to his getting so drunk Friday night he went running through his yard firing his pellet gun at an imaginary raccoon.

       Goggler was soon set free and was replaced by Tiny Whiny Bitch. There were some issues with his conduct Friday night as well.

       BJ was now released to be replaced by the nefarious Serial Box.

       Jackoff was soon released due to not being bad enough this year.

       The remaining three were sent away to allow the herd to ruminate on their fate.

       Pixilated put on her Grand Inquisitor's outfit and began the torture known as Fact or Crap? Mrs. Groper, Jizz 'em Me Cricket and Virgin Tim were put on trial today. Only Mrs. Groper was not up to the challenge, Cricket and Tim answered correctly and escaped their down-downs.

       Finally, it was time for Just Joe to become a full-fledged hasher. There were a number of names suggest, many of which referenced his ten-year stint as a Marine aviator. But it in the end it was his receiving special favors from a female friend while driving that necessitated his becoming: Crash Test Cuming.

       The Virgins were next on the hit parade. Virgins Tim, Tina and Dave all exposed intimate body parts to various ohh!, ahh! and Please, No More! cat calls from the assembled congregation.

       Okay, back to the Watermelon Head Award. Broken Shaft, Tiny Whiny Bitch and Serial Box were back on the ice for the finals. The next round saw TW Bitch sent home. The final outcome was the yarmulke was awarded to...Serial Box. Broken Shaft became Watermelon Head '09.

       Next, and by far the high point of the evening for the men, was the seating of the hares. Maybe that should be the 'seats' of the hares. These harrietes dropped their pants quicker than the Titanic went down. As Scribe, I am charged with recounting the events of the hash and not with injecting editorial pertaining to any specific occurrence or hasher. However, as there are only traditions and no rules, I feel compelled by the events of the day to commit certain observations to the collective memory of Surf City H3. I attacked this trail with the zeal of an Egyptologist deciphering hieroglyphics found inside the Great Pyramid at Gaza. Sadly, I feel certain I experienced significantly less pleasure than he. As a general observation, the Eagle trail reeked of pre-lay to High Hades. Now a few observations, which is more than they deserve, about the individual hares. Remember Creme-Filled Twinkie's last (attempt at) haring? It was the only trail in Surf City history where the Turkey AND the Eagle hares were snared. And by the SAME hound too! Today, even trying to be a Turkey, this Twinkie-thing was unable to shine. As for her partner in crime, Pixilated Obscenity, I make a motion that we drop the first word from her name. These two clowns gave birth to the title of our Trash for today: Meet The Obscene Creme-Team.

       As soon as the hares were sent back to the hell-hole from which they bubbled forth, Jackoff On The Pot was summoned forth. Jackoff had made some lame-ass nomination towards Pixie because he thought she was exposing a 'garlic knuckle'. That's new-speak for a camel toe for those of you over forty. Anyway, it was determined the males were happy with the situation and the females did not really care, especially since it kept Jackoff centered on Pixie and the hell away from them. Jack parked it on the ice.

       He was soon joined by Batteries Not Included for being an extreme backslider.
       As soon as Batteries exposed herself, Arabian Goggler 'volunteered' to sit beside her. 
       Banana Basher volunteered to plant his ample bum on the ice on the other side of her as well.
       The RA's, sensing impending disaster, (Lost control, lost control lost control...) dismissed the hash with the standard admonition: May The Hash Go In Peace.
       So ended the official part of Surf City Hash #477. But the fun did not stop there kids. Thanks to Finger Nips, O Holy Nutz and the others that cleaned up the disaster area left by us. I can't forget to thank Broke Bench Mountain for stuffing everything he could in his mouth thereby reducing the amount of food that needed to be packed. He ate his entire 69 dollar rego fee  Saturday. I looked around and saw BJ petting Cheerio so hard her fur was coming off. Not being very accepting of animal abuse I looked the other way just in time to see Banana giving Choka-cola a Wet Willie. It was just about now I decided to put my Scribe's notebook away and head home. It was only a few hours until the pub crawl began and I was going to be very happy to don the guise of Hash Flash again and leave Scribing to those with a stronger stomach than I.
       In my seemingly-endless search for signs of intelligent life in Santa Cruz, Thursday the thirtieth will find me chasing hare tail through the mountain lion-infested wilds of the UC campus. At of this posting, North Remote is rumored to be Point A. Please assist me in this important endeavor.
       By special appointment of His Royal Majesty "G", this Hash Trash has been compiled and printed by permission of no one other than the author and editor at Santa Cruz, Ca., or elsewhere if need be, on this, the twenty-eighth day of July in the year of our Hash two-thousand nine.

                               Submitted with all respect due,
                               Puff the Magic Drag Queen
                               Acting Scribe, Surf City H3          
      

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