We’re back from the undead…Thmp-Thmp and I barely escaped Saturday’s Can’d Zombie Hash and its ensuing hangover that limped after us well into the next day…
And now I shall recount tales from SCH3’s last trail where we met up at The Pocket on Portola. Actually, the place seems way less sketchy than I remembered it. But I probably wasn’t remembering too well due to carousing at Castaways and Over the Hill Gang immediately before that time. The Pocket is wallpapered with corrugated tin that totally amplified dBASED’s black death pneumonia cough so it sounded like a broken bagpipe serenading a donkey rape. Speaking of rapists and donkeys, Occasional Rapist, Wicked Retahted and dBASED were our hares. This hash was a gathering to celebrate the full “hunter’s” moon and the 24th analversary of the Loma Prieta quake. At that rate, it sounded like a naked pagan ritual would also be in the cards somewhere tonight.
Circle-up for our small-ish pack was uneventful. And so was the trail. From Portola we went towards the water, over a block, we went away from the water, over a block. Then we repeated repeatedly. It was one “ziggy-zaggy, ziggy-zaggy, hoi, hoi, hoi!” kinda trail. One you could scribble on a map like a Richter scale. There was a quick break for a liquor check in an alley near the cliffs between 36th and 37th. Glazed donut vodka. Pink Cherry Licker loves this kind of stuff. I figured she was gonna come along and want to guzzle it clear down to the backwash, so I skipped my swig to leave more for her. Plus the thought of it reminded me of a shitty motel mai tai I recently had that tasted just like rock candy. I didn’t want to relive that cruel punch to my pancreas.
One true trail mark after another snaked us back and forth. Around Point Market, a random lady told Timmy!!! and I that we were going the wrong way. She’d seen people running over by Jack O’Neill’s house (by liquor check) and said we should go that way. Her attempt to slide us back to the start like a Sorry game failed and we forged forward towards Rockview Point where we hoped to find beer check. Nope. Trail went through Moran Lake’s parking lot and cut through the neighborhood over to 26th Avenue. Timmy!!! finally ended his pissing and moaning about too many true trail arrows when we got to beer check on the beach. Some of us would never complain about easy trail markings that lead directly to beer on the beach. I will complain about one thing, however…there was plenty of beer, but ya know what we didn’t have that goes great with said beer? Kong’s egg rolls. Just sayin’.
We chugged it and headed over to Wicked’s yard. Seats around the fire were a hot commodity, so Banana Basher was kind to be the bouncer and protector of my chair while I checked out the trough. After bravely securing the chair from interlopers, Banana Basher stepped up to the altar to co-RA with Cuff My Muff. Shallow Hole’s newly-named partner in hash crime, Cum Pumper, was beer fairy. The RAs’ theme was generations. Generations of mismanagers and generations of half-minded hashers. Banana did a li’l tribute toast to our long-suffering GM, Timmy!!! and announced that AGM is cumming soon (November 14th). Ask your favorite willing wankers if they want to give us their Mismanagement services and then send Timmy!!! an email nominating them. Or nominate yourself. It’s all fair game: GM, Religious Advisors, Hash Scribes, Haberdasher, Hash Flash, Beer Meister, and On-Sec. We are also looking for nominations for Best Trail, Worst Trail, Best Beer Check, Stupidest Act on Trail, and anything else you think worthy of an award. So get those nominations in, y’all!
A break from tradition, the hares were called up early before the pack got too drunk. Doesn’t matter how much we drink, trail still sucked! Dog Bref lapped from his bowl because he didn’t have a single stupid down-down accusation this week. The young and exuberant Just Christine was welcomed. Her stepdad is New Kids On My Cock. Ugh, that is the most unfortunate stepdad name ever in the history of EVER. Virgin Erik’s mom AND grandma, Sierra Madre, were hashers. That’s some third generation shit right there.
Occasional Rapist drank for mistaking the 24th analversary of the Loma Prieta earthquake for the 14th in her trail announcement. Number nerd Six O’Nine caught the math error, but Certified Public Accountant Cumcerto did not because she claims to still have PTSD from the quake. Thmp-Thmp was shamed for cumming 100 times and Banana was celebrated for cheating death to survive 625 Surf City hashes. Virgin Erik said Google made him cum and he showed us his full moon. Pinky was rightfully disappointed that she didn’t get called up for being a next gen hasher. But I suppose that’s what she gets for stealing her senior citizen father’s seat at the fire. On-on-on was over at The Point Chop House. Sounded fun, but I had shit to do—like be a quitter.
Next week’s hashathon will be at Next Door Bar in Scotts Valley where Shallow Hole will captain Cum Pumper’s maiden haring. These racists will be sure to wear us (and our livers) out.
The Halloweenie Hash is cumming up! If you’d like a special costume suggestion, email me for deets: princessdiarrhea@hotmail.com.
On-on,
Princess Di(arrhea)