OMG, a long lost hash trash by Hogazm.  This one is for trail 382, which was held the first week of November 2007.

Hash #382 “I’m hiding from the Creekers”

Last week I conducted trash in a backwards fashion. This week I’d like to confuse you even more by installing the evening’s down-downs randomly throughout the course of the story.

PCP gets down-down for 100th hash.

We met at the shady Jury Room – the “new” Jury Room that is (“new” as in “new cigarette smoke trails every minute” and “new mold on the bathroom toilet” and “new puke smell in the back”). The one bar I have yet to hash out of and it was clearly the selection of Vince; they served nice cold cans of PBR for $2 a piece. By the time I had cracked open my second one I had been heckled  by at least four hashers for having mentioned on the email how creepy it was that one of the men responsible for putting Santa Cruz on the map as the murder capital was known for drinking with members of the police at the same bar while he had hacked up body parts in his car. Vince saw the crime as being totally over-played; “So he screwed his mother after he decapitated her. It’s not like he was a bank robber or something!”

Lady Godive Onit who just returned to the hash from a long absence – she’s an f’ing snitch; “somebody’s cell went off” she announced during religion and gets a down-down with DBased who finally forgot his kids at home.

We circled up out front, across from the Jack In the Box. That’s different than Dick in the box, but not by much. They both smell like cheese.

Myself and Glazed – down-downs with limited word count descriptions, capping off our years worth of mismanagement duties. My 6 words were, “Oh My God, This Sucked Ass.”  Sarcasm people; sheesh!

According to the hares there would be a turkey-turkey split on trail. We were off in search of the dark vs. light meat trails (I wanted the dark meat) and circled the court house, wandered through heavy traffic in the dark, and quickly ended up at beer check. That’s how I remember it now. Because if humans could remember pain, women would never have more than one baby. And the hash would never survive. I really do think it was easy though.

Down-down is given to Auntie C and Jiz – something about smelling like “muff juice”.

Beer check was shared pitchers of beer with shared drinking glasses (a very intelligent bartender helping us as always) at Callahans. By definition I should claim this bar as my own as it is a Santa Cruz bar, they sell cheap beer, and there’s designated Harley parking out back. Unfortunately this is far from being the case – this “biker bar” is better identified as a “I just got out of jail and am going back in next week” bar. No joke. And it was the ONLY time I’ve stood witness to some dude walking in and giving us a very disgusted, territorial scowl. Usually bars where we are unwelcome we are so massive and cheery that the patrons are more stunned by our presence than annoyed. This bar did not enjoy our joyful obnoxiousness and we shuffled along after inhaling the beer provided courtesy of the hares (Green Peace and Vince.)

Ralphy got a down-down for leading hashers to a false beer check.

We walked over to the medical center where I have fond memories of marriage counseling, the place where I paid for hours of having our therapist talk right over my exhusband’s head and where I learned how to not fight and get “my needs met.” Apparently what I “needed” was a divorce. Moving on …

Banana and Puff get down-downs for an atrocious amount of surf city hashes.

We circled up and witnessed or suffered the series of down-downs, such as Loose Stool for being a dodger fan (again) and we then commented on our hares’ trail (“Too short! What are you guys, disabled?!” – Lady Godive Onit) and we sang the days of the week song to piss off the neighbors before we left.

On-on-on was at the Crepe Place where the hashers split into 2 neat groups – those there to eat food and those there to eat liquor. Guess which one I was in. What I remember of the evening was Puff making fun of my beer selection again, Choka licking her fingers of the last morsels of sour cream smothered nachos, Rod Lover wondering the age of Just John as Choka and Serial Box wrestled over his attention (I tried to be sneaky about asking to see his drivers lisense but I’ll bet I was pretty transparent), us all gazing at the bartenders cleavage, Just Jason lying to everyone about his love of Tom Petty which made me look like the bad guy, and Hugh Heffer sticking her fingers in the small coffin of soggy oreo pieces as she was “hiding from the Creekers.”

Next hash is the AGM where I will (finally!) be relieved of scribe duty and, weather permitting, we will all be soaked in pheromones so that the brown apple moth males won’t want to mate with us. Bring your gas masks. I’m hoping that will be what I recieve as a “special prize” because I’m smart enough to write, but too stupid to read.