We’ve all been freezing our nipples off with the latest cold snap, right? Cuff My Muff’s sign on the door beckoned the pack to enter Pono Grill and The Reef Bar. It was just the first of many of our hare’s odd scribbles of the night. Luckily, this one was a good sign. Inside Pono was warm, drinks were flowing and there was a Cubano band doing their thing and making us all do a little cha cha. Hugh Heifer sipped her peach vodka and went to “hang with the cool kids” like she was at luau for cheerleaders. The party got into full swing when little Shallow Hole arrived and Banana Basher picked her up and gave her a spin while My Little Bony cheered him on. TIMMY!!! barely managed to not get his martini glass kicked out of his hand. I shit you not. Wicked Retahted just keeps on living up to his name. This week he was bragging to Deep Stroke about the new shoes he was wearing. We know Deep Stroke loves her Chelada clam beer, so let’s hope he’ll like his filet o’ sole beer when he drinks from that new shoe!

Thmp-Thmp greeted Virgin Jeanne from Meetup.com and walked her over to chalk talk. She had no idea what she was in for, so she’d brought two dogs along to her first hash for extra protection. Too bad dogs can’t really save you from the real threats: shitty beer and frostbite. Before we knew it, we were all kicked off the island. Time had come to circle up outside and shiver. Puff the Magic Drag Queen was braving the cold like a man bitch by foregoing the usual ponytail and wearing his luscious lad locks like a scarf.

The first check at the corner of Union St. and Center St. was a bit of a stumper, but soon enough the pack was trotting on trail past the firehouse and turning up Walnut St. There was another check quandary awaiting us at the YWCA, then it was up Chestnut St. to the stairs that lead to upper Locust St. The liquor check at the top of the stairs had us all scrounging in the ivy for the loot. Dog Breath and Schlong Division were pulling all kinds of empty bottles out of the foliage. Finally…a full bottle! Sweet Malibu rum gave our night another little taste of the tropics.

Back on trail, we headed to Mission St. where a cryptic trail marker across from Mission Hill Middle School hinted that we should jaywalk. Gawd, I hope our mom does not read this! Cumcerto and I spent our snot-nosed kid years on the Westside with our mom always warning us to NEVER EVER go near Mission St. Those were the days of yore when kids roamed the neighborhood and played outside—pretty much what us hashers do now, except sans beer (perish the thought). Like jumping in and out of a crazy double dutch jump rope session, we all scrambled across Mission St. and hopped out alive on the other side. Trail then cut down an alley next to the school that also serves as an underground railroad of sorts for student escapees from Mission Hill “Penitentiary”. Students have been known to sneak out through a hole in the fence there to buy candy at the gas station across Mission St. (we never did this, Mom–we’ve just heard stories). 😉

 Trail ascended to a check at High St. and everyone was a little nervous that we were gonna be upward bound. Luckily, Hare Cuff was merciful and led us on right downhill. At the end of High St. was a pretty bullshit double arrow trail mark that must’ve meant “this-a-way or that-a-way???” Doggie and I headed this-a-way toward Harvey West and soon came across another mysterious mark that said “DBS”. We turned around, shrugged it off and followed the pack that-a-way instead across the pedestrian bridge to Holy Cross. Next stop was beer check in the Sash Mill neighborhood. There was a very nice selection of Kona beers, but we were kinda hoping for for a flaming volcano bowl to cozy up to. The frosty beers only made the night frostier, so we got moving again and headed to religion at the parking garage where the Silver Bullet once stood (R.I.P).

Deep Stroke was our RA and Thmp-Thmp was our beer fairy. There were no analversaries to celebrate this week, but there were plenty of other reasons to drink crap beer. Backsliders Banana and Mrs. Groper were the first to have the honors. Soon enough, Wicked was busted for bragging about his new shoes but he refused to drink out of them because they were too clean. Banana and his own stinky shoe came to the rescue! Wicked chugged out of it like a champ. Virgin Jeanne told a joke that started, “why did the hashers cross Mission St.?” and had a clean punch line. It’s OK, she’ll learn… Doggie, most of the pack, and I got a lesson of our own when everybody who didn’t know what “DBS” meant had to drink. Apparently, it’s another version of YBF that means Don’t Be Stupid, coined by former SCH3 hasher Ho Chi Min Clitty.

We had at least four dogs at religion and a couple of ‘em started getting a little testy with each other. Well, except for portly Porter who was too busy begging Puff for treats to be bothered with the fracas. Broke Bench Mountain has been staying out of trouble lately, too ‘cause he’s clean livin’! …for now. It was revealed that Just Sarah couldn’t figure out how to open her beer at beer check because she’s never had a beer without a twist-off before. TIMMY!!! was punished for never hooking his adult kid up with a decent beer. Schlong had the most valid trail complaint this week: not enough boobs. Because it was nipple-shatteringly cold! The hare drank, we drank to the hare, and we quickly scattered to the warmth of El Palomar Taco Bar for on on on. Puff was foolish enough to announce he had an open tab. I’m pretty sure a few gallons of margaritas made their way to his bill.

Next hash will be sexxxy #669! See you at Castaways in Pleasure Point. Take it sleazy, wankers!