For the post-Thanksgiving hash this year the pack gathers at the Over the Hill Gang Saloon on Portola in the Pleasure Point area of Santa Cruz at the very humane time of 3:30.  Last year apparently there was some conflict about the opening time of the saloon, so this year we well avoided that and were welcome to purchase our favorite bevies from the start. Let me say that I personally love this place, although it is all the way ‘over there’ on the other side of town. It has a charming, museum-like quality complete with swinging doors. Wow…..

We had quite a sizeable post-holiday pack including Accuprick, Broke Bench Mtn, Broken Shaft, Butt Balls, Capt Jack Swallows, Choka Cola (HC), Cumz Out My Nose (co-BM), Dr. Nappy Headed Ho (HS), Finger Nips, Hairy Potter (RA), Hugh Heifer, Last Call Norm, Lil’Anal Annie, My Lil’ Boney, Pearl Necklace, Piss ‘n Booths, Puff MDQ, Ralph-U-Crammed In, Rod Lover, Serial Box, Six of Nine, Vince Lamblowme, and Just Alana (Six’s victim). Please forgive the alphabetical recalling, but we now have a new order to things and a list is provided by HC – that’s right, you don’t pay, you weren’t here – and alphabetizing things just makes sense. I may mix names up from time to time just to keep it interesting, but now it’s late and I’m on my third glass of wine, so keeping things in order seems to make sense or else I might miss someone.

As mentioned previously, we met at this museum in the Pleasure Point area that also happens to serve alcohol and allow smoking. The pack was in high, bloated spirits and seemed quite smiley and content. I begin to make my rounds and get the good turkey-day scoop for fodder for down-downs. There turns out to be a lot, just continue to read.

This is a pick-up hare hash, so we are only supposed to give a five minute lead, right? Well, in typical Surf City fashion, that is more like 12 minutes before we begin to circle up, and another five before we actually start on trail. Even without Goatie’s refreshments we are challenged by the clock. Hey, man……. Rod Lover is given the Hash-shit, now with the added helmet for road hazard protection. The dismay on his face was well worth every second. Sorry you had to smash you perfect hairdo, Rod. Don’t worry, if you buy good enough product it will bounce back quickly.

After circle-up, where Serial Box decides to put on her make-up, the pack takes off for a lovely walk / r*n toward the beautiful Pleasure Point while meandering through the neighborhoods. However, someone neglected to tell the new mismanagement team that they are required to provide chalk to the pack for marking checks. While flour was well placed (thank goodness that shortage ended, whew), arrows were nonexistent…until we came upon one cleverly crafted out of palm leaves. Hail to the bohemian creativity of the SCH3!!!! Following said arrow toward the cliffs, we found our way struggling to look for flour versus the eye candy of the surfers casually jogging along with their buff bodies toward the beach. Oh wait, I digress….. Yes, we find ourselves at beer check at the Pleasure Point parking lot where our kind hare, Nips, has provided us with good beers (as usual) and a hot dog stand!

After filling our tanks with yummy beer, the pack heads back to point A for religion. Last year we met at the same local dive and had religion next door at some community service place that was closed. However, this year the business had changed and we find ourselves facing angry tenants of some insurance agency – eek! Thanks to the quick thinking of Butt Balls, we decide to go across the street to the auto parts store, but we must be under a strict 20 minute rule because we are visible from the street and we all know how those cops are looking for trouble over the holiday weekend.

After about a 15 point turn in her giant truck, Cumz, the Beer Meister of the week makes it to the designated parking lot and we begin religion. Ralphie has decided he has had enough of us and is spotted at the bus stop waiting for his buddy to pick him up on the shame train, Rod Lover is anointed beer Fairy because he ditched his helmet and gave it to Hugh Heifer (I told you your hair would not be permanently damaged, Rod). Again, the chagrin on his face is more amusing than the act itself.

First up for turkey day sins is Vince Lamblowme. While chatting at prelube he was quite proud of himself for his sins and told me how he went to a divinity school and had post-Thanksgiving libations with a bunch of nuns in the form of shots of Wild Turkey. OK Vince, you win the award for the most potentially debaucherous holiday being surrounded by a bunch of drunk, single women. I’m sure that you were the perfect gentleman, right?  Oh wait, you are a hasher…..

Next up were Pearl and Norm who apparently attended a high-class orgy in the Carmel Highlands. Whoo hoo! I’m sure the food was good. Hopefully the wine was even better. Is there anything left in that cellar?

There were many analversaries to celebrate on this happy, gobbly hash. First was Chocka Cola for 50, then Hugh Heifer for 50 without a single haring. C’mon, Hugh, team up with Goatie and spin merrily in your tie dye while flinging flour. Our RA Hairy Potter was awarded his 69^th patch. Hmmmm…Hairy at the altar with two beautiful women…..

Next up was 6 of 9 who just kept blurting out random songs, so Hairy figured he needed to be in the spotlight for a minute. Plus Six brought his beautiful visitor, Alana, who many were cheering on as a virgin. Sorry guys, she’s been here before. Even though you drank too much beer to remember the facts don’t change.

We then had a couple of virgins. Virgins, you say? We didn’t see them in the list of attendees? No, that’s because Boney picked them up at Frenchy’s. First up was Alan who gave us some horrible knock-knock joke. Even after much jeering and letting him know that he needed a bit more, he just wouldn’t show us his joke. Next up was virgin Dave, who promised to show us the hairiest nipples we’d ever see. Drawn by the potential carnival show, he had our attention. But, when he flashed, someone in the crowd simply replied “those have nothing on Serial’s!” Ouch. And Finger Nips swears she took care of that!

Finger Nips was called up next. Not for trimming Serial’s nipples, but for not providing the pack with chalk. Even without chalk we all managed to find our way to the beery destination, thanks to the survival skills of Pearl and Puff who crafted the arrows out of palm leaves. They were called up to the altar for their brilliance.

We also had one overachiever, Broke Bench Mtn, who decided that trail was just too short so he continued to run around for a bit before returning to the beer check. By the time he returned, sadly the beer was all gone. Well, now he gets to drink his fill in warm fizzy beer out of a dirty chalice.

A few of the pack got a bit bored and hungry, I suppose, so Choka, Cumz, and Broken Shaft decided to hit up the hot dog stand at beer check. They were given down-downs for a threesome on trail. I would like to say they should be awarded a medal of bravery too for eating from that hot dog stand. I wonder how they felt later, and I’m sure it had nothing to do with the lack of cleanliness of our religion vessels.

Somehow no one noticed that Serial Box and Piss ‘n Booths were late to religion because they had to take a detour into Frenchy’s. So, as Scribe, I will take it as my personal responsibility to bring it up. I don’t know whose idea it was, maybe both of their drunken brains working in collusion, but they decided to return to the scene of the crime of Piss ‘n Booth’s naming. Serial was astounded because there was not a ceramic bowl but just a chair and some tissues. Um…okay…. More than I want to know about those booths! However, it does bring up the question about where PnB did her business.

On on on was agreed to continue at both Brady’s and Seabright Brewery, and the pack dispersed to more familiar, safe territory.   

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We had two virgins, and they were given a very clean and thorough chalk talk, with every standard hash marking scratched into the pavement outside the Poet & Patriot in a neat row. Unfortunately, all that education was for nothing, because Piss & Daddy decided to set a trail that didn't use any markings other than "keep going" and "turn left" and "drink this shitty wine."

We had dBased, Banana, Puff, Finger, Flaccid, Take It Like A Manatee, Mrs. Groper, PCP, Timmy!!!, Ralph, Pixie, Norm, Goat Blower, Vince, Cum Lord, Pearl, Cheek-n-Dong, Inspector Scab (visitor), Virgin Jurgen, Choka, PG, Cap'n Jack, Hugh Heifer, Just Sheila (for now), Teeny Tiny Itty Bitty Microscopic Whining Bitch, O Holy Nutz, Broke Bench, Cumz Out My Nose, Virgin Nikki, Just Dana, CSI, Snatch.cum, the hares, DR. NAPPY-HEADED 'HO and moi.

Finger Nips informs me that she is constructing foundation garments for Goat Blower. When I point out that she's got quite a foundation to work with, she says, "Oh yes, it requires steel boning." I bring up the steel boning later with Goatie, and she smiles and squeezes her horn so hard it toots. Being fashion unconscious myself, I have no idea what any of this is about, but I'm pretty sure Goat Blower's getting porked by a robot.

Hairy Potter expresses concern that Vince Lanblowme has two profiles on sch3.net, and two profiles on Hash Space. We eye Vince warily, wondering if it's him or his evil twin who has showed up to the hash tonight. You know the evil Vince, because he has a goatee. "He also drinks Steel Reserve," Mr. Potter observes.

At circle-up, a helpful hasher labels Finger Nips the Grand Moron and draws some feet for her to stand in. The My Fucking Helmet is given to Pussy Galore, who immediately has difficulty putting it on her head. "How does it stay on?" she asks. Apparently, PG only wears the kind with a chinstrap. And steel boning? The Hashit vest goes to noted backslider Snatch.cum, who has skipped exactly one hash. Cheek-n-Dong stands nearby wondering how long he has to stay away before he's granted a snazzy garment. 

Almost immediately, trail sucks. We run down Laurel. That's nice. Then we run uphill to Mission. That's nice. Then we run in another straight line, and another, and another. No back checks. No false trails. Just plenty of flour and a few sharp turns. Broke Bench complains, "What happened to short and flat? Daddy must have been talking about Piss." 

As we run by the sewage treatment plant, the RA stops to jack off out of boredom. It doesn't take long.

dBased's magic trail map. (Click on it for notes and shit.)

We finally arrive at the home of a certain unnamed city council member (let's just say it's the one who appreciates r*nning, and is old enough to "appreciate" Daddy's "charms") for a cooler of refreshment. Vince makes sure I know how to spell 'boring' -- it's V-I-N-C-E, right? Snatch claims she could be having sex instead of doing trail. Six male hashers volunteer. Cheek-n-Dong models his gorgeous "running in Christmas lights" apparel, which keeps him from getting hit by cars, and also from getting any tail from Snatch. Piss, however, is attracted to the lights and flutters around him like a moth.

Banana points out that every time Dog Breath goes missing, a war starts somewhere. Norm asks if he was just in Mumbai. Thankfully, our nation deployed My Fucking Precious to keep an eye on him.

Finger Nips starts blathering about buying beer as a 16-year-old (she opted for Michelob, since it was the only beer in existence back then), and claims she's going to write a book called "Ales are Men, Lagers are Women." Snatch immediately wishes she was having sex with an ale. Six male hashers volunteer to give her a Steel Reserve boning.

Sensing that our continued presence might get our host unelected, the hash undertakes the death march back from the belly of the Westside to the parking lot of the tire store. Instead of using my brain, I follow the return trail our "square hares" set, which meant blocks and blocks of learning what has pissed off Ralph-U-Crammed-In lately. Just as we approach religion, he runs out of things to be annoyed by, and goes home.

We circle up in the cozy piss-smelling nook of the building and Pixie jumps in to kickstart religion. Her outfit of woolly hat and woolly blanket make BBM think she's a homeless RA, but she immediately turns the tables and calls Broke Bench up for his infamous "poinsettia exchange" on the mailing list, and presents him with his hash hat, all covered in glitter, so he can such a pretty boy. Hairy Potter tops him off with a tiara, and the night's beer fairy is born ... briefly. (As per tradition, BBM pours approximately one beer, takes a piss in the corner, then forgets what he's doing and wanders off to look for butterflies and yell at his dog.)

Jordass (for men) gets a patch for showing up 69 times. What a loser. But also! Goat Blower celebrates her 69th hash! Ah, it seems like just yesterday we were singing and dancing for her 50th, doesn't it?

Take it Like a Man gets an award for "creepiest costume" as some party I wasn't invited to, where he dressed up like a Jawa from Star Wars. If you don't remember what those look like, imagine a short gay man in a brown bathrobe -- no, not Obi Wan Kenobe -- with beady red eyes and a big black stick. Say, that is kind of creepy. I'm pretty sure that's what Anita Bryant was afraid of seeing in a dark alley, anyway.

Cheek-n-Dong is called up for being a visitor, which just goes to show how often he drags his ass to the hash. Inspector Scab, a bona fide visitor, shares the story of his name: he's an inspector, and he had a scab that day. Wow. Hashers can be so creative.

Speaking of names, Just Sheila gets dragged up for her fifth hash, and is treated to the nominations of Whore're You? Where's Protection? Frigid Bitch (though that was probably just dBased's Tourettes acting up again) and Quarterly Booty Call (QBC). Hearing that last name, Snatch looks at her watch and realizes it's time for sex. Six male hashers cower in the corner from exhaustion.

Sheila gets tabled briefly so we can call the virgin up. Who made Nikki cum? It was nameless Just Dana. Bold move, rookie. We get a gander at Nikki's hip tattoo then make fun of Dana's bluetooth (unlike Snatch, she literally keeps her man meat on speed dial), then BBM gets a beer bath. And there was much rejoicing.

Just Sheila comes back up, and this time the pack is armed with the knowledge that she works in tech, just like EVERY OTHER WANKER IN THE WORLD. So she becomes Mass Storage Device. Tiny Whiny Bitch gets all excited and prances around shouting "MSD! MSD!" which means it's time for his helmet with a chinstrap. It also brings the attention of Officer Friendly, who rolls through the lot to let us know that no amount of screaming could possibly punish Daddy Warbucks and Piss N Booths adequately for the hellish trail they set, so we might as well not bother.

On on on to Tampico, where Snatch finally got some sex. The end.

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My apologies for the delay in the trash. While I could bore you all with lame excuses, I’ll just confess that I have been slacking hard enough to make any hasher proud. Drink, sleep, eat, drink some more. What else does one need to do? But those days are coming to an end. I am once again joining the ranks of the gainfully employed starting Monday 12/8. Ironically, due to some strange laws of nature, this will mean that the trashes will be written in a more timely manner. So, without further ado…..

The pack gathered at Tony and Alba’s pizza place in Scott’s Valley (aka Cop’s Alley). Hungry hounds munched on pizza while the rest of us just drank the over-priced, crappy beers that they sold. The family ambience of the place must have gotten to the pack because we were unusually mellow and quiet. Those in attendance were Mother’s Little Felcher and Sausage Slam (hares), Banana (HR), Serial Box, Flaccid Capacitor (HC), Puff MDQ, TIMMY!, Choka Cola (also HC), Broke Bench Mountain (BM), Tiny Whiney Bitch, Hairy Potter, Vince Lamblowme, PCP, dBased, Hugh Heiffer, Captain Jack Swallows, Cumz out my Nose (also BM), Pussy Galore, Goat Blower, snatch.cum, CSI, Finger Nips, Aunt Cummima, Daddy Warbucks, Dr. Nappy (HS), Just Sheila, and Virgin Dana.

While sipping on our fizzy, American macrobrew beers, there is some discussion about A to B trails. OK, I know we’re half minds, but I guess it’s time that this was spelled out for some of us. It’s like this: if the trail starts and ends in the same place, it’s A to A, if it starts in one place and ends in another it’s A to B. If the end is close to A, that is, if the end is close enough that a hound could run back to their car, grab a sweatshirt, and run back to religion in a reasonable time, then the trail is A to A’. If trail is A to B, a B-wagon should be established to bring sweatshirts and such to the end. Since Felcher was unclear on these rules and because my ankle still hurts and swells if it senses that I might exercise, I offered to be the B-wagon.

The pack takes off into the darkness and suburban scariness of Scott’s Valley, and PG hangs back with me to wait for Just Sheila to arrive (and to keep me company). While we’re catching up on things, Banana calls and is lost. You see, he had overheard this A to B discussion between Felcher and myself and therefore knew that I knew where beer check was. After a little discussion, he decides to go into the Shell station and grab a beer. Walking across the street must have made him thirsty. Just Sheila arrives, and I tell her and PG how to get to BC and depart for it myself. Felcher apparently can’t give directions any better than he can obey them, and I got lost. I find Banana behind a laundrymat sipping on his 20 ounce Bud in a paper bag and looking kinda homeless (although well-fed and with clean, brightly flowered board shorts).

Eventually, me, Banana, PG, and Sheila find the beer check. Felcher has apparently been here for quite some time and is getting worried about the pack. A few minutes later some of the pack starts trickling in, but clearly many are missing. What has happened? Well, one kind hound comes to find us and tells us that the rest of the pack spotted the beer wagon with the trough, so they all stopped there – why go all the way to the beer check? So we all wander down to the end-of-trial: Felcher and Sausage Slam’s condo.

The altar is set up, we begin to gather around, and Tiny Whiney Bitch is named Beer Fairy tried to forget his name at circle-up.

First up for a down-down is Banana for getting lost on trail (apparently he was never on trail, he just started wandering). Next up is Just Sheila. We’re not sure quite how many hashes she has been to since she rarely cums. She must be due for a naming soon…whenever we see her again.

Virgin Dana is called up next. She has not been prepared for the virgin experience, so she stammers a bit, almost flashes, but suddenly hit by inspiration breaks into “I Like Big Butts…”

At this point, Tiny Whiney Bitch, notorious for his impatience at Religion, can’t hold his tiny tank any longer and steps over to the bushes and to relieve himself. Someone from the pack notices (since he’s only BF and right in front of us) and yells “Tiny’s whipping it out”. The obvious reply: “whipping what out?”

Flaccid almost drinks for new shoes, but he adamantly swears that they are not new, he just has nice shoes. BBM starts bitching about something, no one cares, but he drinks a down-down for it.

Suddenly the pack is swallowed by a smelly cloud of smoke. We all turn around to see Felcher, Captain Jack, and Goatie all coughing and belching up puffs of smoke after imbibing in what Goatie is famous for. This is the obvious point to call up our bleary-eyed hare and his co-hare after calling on Goatie to sing a new song. The hares saunter up to a round of “Don’t Bogart that Joint, My Friend”.

At this point, before the pack leaves, we have a toast to Penisssss, who tragically ended his life that week. Although he was only with our pack once, we named him and will always remember him for the one time we almost got busted for nudity rather than drinking in public.

There is a little discussion about where on on on is to be, but the fear of Scott’s Valley’s police force must have jumbled our brains, so we all scatter off in different directions.

May the hash get a piece.     

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Leave it to dBased to drag us all into the mid-county minefield for a jaunt in circles. The Tour de Soquel was as meaningless as it was dark. I believe we were meant to take pity on his children -- who supposedly helped hare -- and think more kindly of the effort, but since we already pity anyone with dBased as a father, this backfired.

The evening began innocently enough at JJ's Saloon (motto: "nothing innocently happens here"), congregating along the long sawdust-covered shuffleboard table complete with electric scoreboard. Attendance was taken by Floppy Capacitor, and I'm still waiting on that list as well as last week's, so if you were there, pretend you see your name somewhere in this paragraph and maybe it will come true. Floppy also brought a gaggle of female companions (and a gargle of Take It Like A Man), but we'll get to that later.

I challenged Snatch.cum to a friendly game of Ms. Pac-Man, and it turns out she's not too bad at manipulating a joystick in order to eat little balls. "The ghosts gang raped me!" she cried at one wrong turn. I told her that sort of nonsense doesn't happen in Pac-Man. "It does in Ms. Pac-Man." None of this would be happening if Hillary won.

The big news of the night is that Jizz Bollah managed to find Cum-N-Go's cave, and sent several million of his sleeper cells in there, and now they're going to have a baby. The Department of Homeland Security is aware of the situation, and monitoring it carefully. Several re-naming ideas are floated for Cum-N-Go: Cum-N-Stay, Cum-N-Pop, and Cum-N-What-Just-Happened. The fetus shall be called "The Hasher Formerly Known As Just Jizz." 

We circle up, and Finger Nips stubbornly avoids the upstanding example of brevity that Last Call Norm brought to the job of GM, yammering endlessly about something or other before finally giving the hallowed Hashit vest to Cum Lord, who says he's been "on the road again." This is a euphemism for "recovering in the hospital from Pussy Galore's bizarre and possibly illegal sexual proclivities." For the half-minds out there, a 'proclivity' is when you try to 'prove' there's a 'clit'.

The My Fucking Precious Memorial Helmet (hereafter known as My Fucking Helmet) was donned by Jizz Bollah, who obviously needs to wear more protection. Banana peddles chalk, but as we all know dBased likes to take us on trips that would make a centerfold for Field & Stream, there are few takers.

Given my missing sense of direction, my propensity to forget what's happening to me when I'm drinking, and the sheer magnitude of my laziness, I will not be able to recount each twist and turn of trail as scribes of yore. Fortunately, dBased has blithely ignored traditions about tech on trail to map a GPS picture of each route we take, so amateur cartographers and obsessive diarists may consult that if they want to know where we fucking went. Suffice to say, there were streets, there were fields, there were eerie sandy mountains that looked like snowcapped peaks in the dark, and there were innumerable complaints on trail. Only one (dry) riverbed crossing, however, so ... I don't know, maybe dBased has earned his semi-annual hand job. It's not my turn, though. I'm just saying.

Beer check is at Mrs. Groper's brand new, under construction Groping Palace in the finest trailer park this side of the Pecos. After giving several male hashers a tour of her boudoir (tastefully appointed with a fur-lined handcuff mobile dangling over the bed and several posters ripped from the pages of Tiger Beat duct taped to the walls), we repaired to her spacious concrete yard to listen to her drone on about remodeling issues. Butt Balls and Vince Lanblowme were fascinated. By her tits.

Remember Flaccid and his pussy posse? They gave up on trail 20 feet from the Beer Near mark, and absconded back to JJ's with the hash cash tube in order to "experiment like it's college again." The Just Ladies tried to lead Flaccid and TILM on a guided tour of the habitat of the elusive Santa Cruz Beaver, but by all accounts the boys just gripped the necks of each other's beer bottles and swallowed all night.

The rest of us drank for free, and then moved on to religion, where Broke Bench Mountain provided a smart variety of adult beverages for our connoisseurship. Hairy Potter assumed the position, and as befits his sparkling new duties as RA, allowed the pack to fuck him over for a good 25 minutes.

First up was Cum Lord, for wearing the Cal Transvestite. Banana accuses him of hooking. 

PCP proceeds to be an asshole, thinking that he's at the Comedy Store instead of the hash, and being furthermore mistaken about our desire to hear his half-assed heckling. The pack pushes him up, Mr. Potter has Beer-and-Baby Fairy Jizz Bollah pour him a heap of Big Daddy, and PCP, like the true asshole he is, pours several ounces of precious golden fluid on the ground. He can't take Big Daddy.

Last Call Norm and Pearl Necklace are called up for painting their iconic Santa Cruz landmark home. It used to a faded shade of "nursing home bathroom hand towel" but is now being transformed into a palace of pure goldenrod. Harry "Beatrix" Potter claims Pearl is painting with mustard, but I believe that anyone who's been in the jewelry business as long as Pearl must squirt 24k gold from his rotting penis by now, and that cum is cheaper than semi-gloss. The job will take a while, but it will be worth it. Call it the House a Thousand Blow Jobs Built.

Yours truly takes it like a man for ignorantly explaining the absence of Take It Like a Man and Flaccid (have they been pilloried enough yet? No? Carry on we must.) and so I enjoy a song and a free beverage.

Broke Bench is called up for not bringing his flashlight on the darkest trail of the year, even though his six-year-old brain is fond of blinding people with it at every other hash event. 

Puff is called on for wearing OP shorts. Harry Potter must have just had his prescription updated in his glasses, because rumor has it that Puff's been wearing that outfit for quite some time. Upon further inspection, it's not actually Puff but Hogazm in another one of her wily disguises, which explains why he/she was taking pictures of himself/herself all night. 

And the hares. The children are sacrificed on the altar -- for being snared, and dBased claims they threw all the flour -- and so we end another Thursday night in the traditional manner: calling a dBased trail a piece of shit.

Next week: a free-for-all at the Over the Hill Gang, and it's on Friday, and it's at 3:30. I'll be in Tahoe hobnobbing with the rich and famous in my endless quest to find someone with enough money to spirit me away from this godforsaken county, so go back to enjoying the fruits of Dr. Nappy-Headed Ho's verbiage. Until then, on-on.

Legal disclaimer: the above account may not be entirely accurate, but it's all true.

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