Hare Hugh Heifer kicked off trail at Tampico downtown this week. If you thought Hugh started in SC because she wanted to spare us from criss-crossing Highway 9 in the dark woods of SLV, you’d be totally wrong, man. There was a rumor that Hugh has a thing for a certain caliente bartender at Tampico. That was bogus, too. The real reason was so Hugh would be close to the Catalyst, where hippie jam band Grandpa’s Chili was gonna noodle their way straight into her heart (and pants).
The pack was a mix of ragamuffins. We had CAN’d hashers Phantom Fluffer, Anthrax Asshole, Ghetto Man, and pooch PB & Vajayjay. We had young nubile girls, crusty old codgers and everything in between. We had virgins! We had namings! We had major backsliders! There was trouble to be had. Of this we were certain because our hare was already drunk and disorderly.
The bag of chalk was being passed around as usual at circle-up. I was carefully picking out a chalk stick like it was a cucumber at the market. It had to be, like, totally choice, ya know? Introductions suddenly ended and the pack took off. I was the sucker left holding the chalk bag. I could’ve stuffed it down my sports bra or something—I even had a free pocket! But instead, I let it flop around like a bag of swinging dildos and headed for the first check at Pacific and Laurel. Trail took us past the new Warriors arena and up the Beach Hill stairs. Then it was down to the bowling alley and onto the beach. Trying to find flour on the sand in the dark is no bueno, especially when the hare is stingy with it. Trail went cold halfway through the volleyball courts. The front of the pack went to higher ground to scout around the wharf entrance. After much bumbling and no flour to be found, I came across a crude arrow pointing towards under the wharf that looked suspiciously like it was frantically scratched in the sand by a dirt-loving hippie hopped up on the vodka. BINGO!!!
The beach trail popped out at the Dream Inn and we hustled up the hill to West Cliff Dr. The sound of the waves and the lights of the wharf were lovely as we made way towards the lighthouse. Trail took a turn on-right at Lighthouse Field, where there was a big commotion. Some wack job was coming towards Puff, Timmy!!! and me on trail hollering nonsense at the top of his lungs like, “YOU’RE TRACKING ME AND IT’S BEEN CONFIRMED!!!” Uh, we’re actually tracking beer, dude. And you’re our biggest obstacle, so fuck off. I might’ve thought it was just a fake diversion our hare schemed up, but Thmp-Thmp found Hugh waiting for us nearby at the beer check wielding a big stick to defend herself against the raving crazy.
At beer check, the best way to “chug” a jello shot was up for debate. My favorite technique is to gently squeeze the bottom while sucking it from the top. Deep Stroke totally vetoed that demonstration, but the guys didn’t seem to mind it. 😉 Hugh was showing jello shot rookies Just Sarah and Cumcerto how to tear open the paper cup and snarf at its innards.
It became evident that this would be the one and only booze check. WTH? We were about a mile and a half from the on-in and this was the END??? Well, Hugh got a bunny earful from Timmy!!! about that. Hugh was in such a hurry to get her some of Grandpa’s Chili, she only laid half a trail (as half-minds will do). We took a nice stroll along the water back to downtown.
Religion was at the Silver Bullet (Oswald) garage and dBASED was our do-it-all RA/beer fairy. Everybody was freezing and doing the pee-pee dance, so it was straight down-down to bizness and only the shortest of songs. Serious backslider Vince Lamblowme has finally returned to our little ragtag bunch, where he belongs. News flash! Deep Stroke still has not left the building! This week, the flu and her RV’s leaky exhaust manifold sabotaged her escape.
We played a little game of “find the foot patch” with Thmp-Thmp to reward him for his 69th hash. He managed to find it deep within my massive heaving boob cleavage and pulled it out with his teeth. Virgin Shannon sang a song about how she’s “got a good feelin’”. I’m pretty sure some of the hasher guys would be more than happy to give her a good feelin’…if you know what I mean. Virgin Jerri told the longest, but not necessarily lamest, blonde joke ever.
At long last, it was time for Just Andrea to be named. Does anybody know if she’s ever actually done trail? Or has she just paid off Puff 5 times over the course of a year? No matter, she’s legit now. She’s naughty and she’s Greek, so from this day forward she is Dirty Dolmas! Apparently Just Sarah learned to appreciate our unsophisticated sense of humor. For lowering her standards, she was rewarded with a new name: Pink Cherry Licker! ‘Cuz she loves them fancy girlie drinks, even though she’s never had classy beer without a twist-off cap. Welcome to the kennel, bitches!!!
As if on cue after the namings, our little shit show was shut down by rain. The pack scattered in all directions and hopefully all roads leaded to a toilet and warm shelter. On on on was back at Tampico and then to the Catalyst, but Thmp and I headed home. We didn’t need no frijoles or Grandpa’s Chili because we’d already survived a case of the r*ns tonight.
Next week we’ll be sporting hottt legs galore! Occasional Rapist will be haring a mini skirt/kilt hash that meets up at Brady’s Yacht Club in Seabright. Panties are optional.
