I’m finally ready.

I waited an extra long time this week to concoct the Trash for Hash 593. While this hare is deserving of a good thrashing, physically as well as verbally, I wanted to have at least one or two good things to say about her trail. I was unsuccessful.

We started, as is the standard fare for Hugh Heifer’s harings, at Henfling’s Firehouse Tavern in Ben Lomond. As a matter of fact you could make a good argument for Henfling’s BEING Ben Lomond but we’ll say that drunken debate for another Thursday. Our traveling kennel was assembled on the rear deck area for two reasons. One, we had almost as many four-legged hounds as  the two-legged variety (hence the title of this week’s Trash) and secondly, no one from Santa Cruz wishes to be seen at Henfling’s by anyone for whom they care. That may sound harsh but I know many of you are sitting there nodding at your screen. The Boulder Creek Crowd commandeered the table closest to the door to the bar because that’s just the kind of people they are. The Clowns from the Cruz manned the one closest the exit in case a barroom brawl broke out. In keeping with his lackadaisical attitude, Waxi-Pad chose neither but rather took a chair where he could keep an eye on both Tables of Trouble. When no one would buy her another drink, hare Hugh Heifer rose to her full stooped-over height to deliver Instructions of Trail. Though I paid no attention to what she said, I closely inspected her attire. At first I thought it was very ‘green’ of her to be recycling a bag from the Gap for her flour bag. After finishing trail though I decided she was forewarning us about the large “gaps” in this trail that would be sadly lacking in trail marker. As I watched Hugh shaking her flame-red hair, it dawned on me she looks like a kitchen match that refuses to ignite.  She hopped on-out and we returned to drinking beer and petting dogs.

Fifteen minutes later, Banana Basher called to order the five hundred and ninety-third installment of this madness. The troops trotted to Highway 9 and found flour pointing the pod on-left. At the intersection with Love Creek Road a check was viewed. This check provided all the time Hugh would require to make a safe getaway. Chaos reigned supreme as most hounds headed for Glen Arbor Road. They were rewarded with an on-two soon but then nothing else. A dejected (isn’t he always though?) Ralph Crammed-In returned empty-pawed. After the two roads leading off Glen Arbor were sniffed one-and-all returned to the check. Too Drunk To Fuck took Highway 9 towards Hugh’s hovel but he too soon returned. A jaunt on Mill Street into town proved fruitless as well. More by the process of elimination than intuitive trail traipsing, the drove decided Love Creek Road may be worth a viewing. Soon enough, on-on was sounded and the flock finally flew away on true trail. Flour soon turned the tribe on-left onto Sunnyside Avenue.  Along Sunnyside, I noticed a claw-footed bathtub in a field. Either the owner used it as a water trough for farm animals or this person is a bonafide exhibitionist. (the Flash provides proof) Further along was a table and box beside the road with a sign stating Free Pears. Mass Storage Device and Broke Bench Mountain screeched to a halt. MSD said she like to try one and Broke Bench dejectedly said, Oh, THAT kind of pear. He filled his pockets anyway.

Sunnyside soon curved onto Fairview Avenue and one block later we were directed onto Fillmore Avenue which one block later dropped us back onto Highway 9. Here a hare arrow pointed the pod on-right. Soon, and for the second time in her lack-luster career, Hugh led the litter past the Tyrolean Inn and the glorious sign saying, Beer Garden! There is no excuse for not holding a Beer Check here in my opinion.

However, we continued dragging-butt along Highway 9, past the end of sidewalks and onto a (very) narrow bike lane. A check near St. Peter and St. Paul Orthodox Church struck fear into hounds’ hearts. None of us wish to trespass on holy ground. Saint Paul was beheaded and poor Saint Peter was crucified…upside down! Doesn’t sound like a place I wish to spend much time so the squad sent Ralph sniffing for trail in THAT direction. He scurried back as on-on was sounded continuing on Highway 9. Soon flour fed the flock on-right onto Middle Drive followed by an immediate on-left onto Riverside Drive. (Even though there is no river even close) Riverside makes a ninety-degree on-right and morphs into California Drive (gee, what an original name) and a (very) long block later turns back into Riverside. How drunk was the person that did THAT street naming?!? Just as Riverside appears to be ending, our highly-favored Beer Near marker was observed and we soon discovered our hare complacently slurping away on Beer Check beer and gobbling (non-vegetarian) Jello shots in someone’s front yard. I can only hope she knows the owners. Business concluded here, a long on-in was undertaken back along treacherous Highway 9 to Hugh’s house for Religion. Meet ya back there, I’m calling a friggin’ cab.

Here’s a brief sampling of the mistakes made by Broke Bench Mountain after being appointed Religious Adviser: appointing Hairy Fuck 2.5 as Beer Fairy; Shallow Hole for texting Waxi-Pad the location of Beer Check, he accompanied her to the altar; Dog Breath for throwing an empty porn movie box at Broke Bench and almost beheading him; Hairy Fuck 2.5 for skipping trail to go home and bleed his brakes; Broke Bench for calling Hairy Fuck Hairy Potter; 25th trail honors for Occasional Rapist and Hairy Fuck; Virgin Linda was welcomed, Occasional Rapist for bragging that she’s never had to flash and Dog Breath (who DID flash) for ratting her out; TIMMY for being too quiet; Get Up & Run,Bitch for calling Banana Basher a liar (what’s new about THAT?); Cumz Out My Nose as a backslider and Dog Breath and Banana for inquiring about the Bikini Hash and then not going.

Oh, yeah. The hare. How could I possibly forget him? Her? Who the hell was it? Rationally, I knew every trail Hugh laid could not be bad. Equally as rationally I asked myself, Why not?  Hugh reminds me of another woman I once knew. I went to her house one night to pick her up. We were attending the grand opening of a new bar on Pacific Avenue. The advertisement said there would be drink specials. Now as a hasher, I’ve always believed ALL drinks are special if not downright sacred. She then told me they probably meant special PRICES rather than special DRINKS. When I walked in she was feeding her cat. I said, Pretty cat. She said she didn’t really like cats. Although I feared a trap and knew I’d regret asking, I asked anyway, Why then do you have a cat? She responded: Who’s got the time to walk a dog?

As per the recommendation of many of my kennel mates, I am going to close with this last statement: Hugh Heifer, YOU STUPID COW!!!

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 at Santa Cruz, Ca., or elsewhere if need be, on this, the third day of September in the year of our Hash two-thousand eleven.

On-out,

Puff the Magic Drag Queen