Hello and welcome to Trail 1171.

The darkness shielded our eyes from unpleasant sights along trail but not from trail itself. It is a fact proven many times over: Too many cooks spoil the stew. To extrapolate from that: Too many hares spoil the trail. In this instance, three hares put the pack in a stew as we attempted to solve the many riddles presented by this trail.

Your Scribe has every intention of supporting this assertion with incontrovertible proof thereof.

Beginning at New Bohemia Brewery, NuBo in the colloquial vernacular, was a wise move on the part of our hare trio, and sadly, possibly the only wise one they made the entire evening.

The hares were witnessed hastily conferring making last minute trail adjustments. This is a kind way of saying more hounds had appeared than anticipated so certain ‘refinements’ were necessary to insure they were not trapped by those pursuing them.

The most significant event prior to on-out was International House of Pussy passing around a petition. She would not divulge how much she was being paid but I’m certain it more than paid for her Hash tonight. That illustrates how entrancing the pack found Instructions of Trail. They were forgotten as soon as the hares hopped on-out. After the passage of another beer(maybe 2 if your name is TIMMY!!) Broke Bench Mountain called for circleup for Introductions and heard responding barks from the following hounds: Dicky Wacker(soon to become lost), Princess Di(arrhea), Wicked Retahted, TIMMY!!, Just Holly, Snake Me Anywhere, Cum You Will Not, Fap Jack, Steamy Baanorrhea, Fucked-Over Fest, dBASED, Cold Smegma Kamikaze, Clearly Not a Hooker, Jizziki, International House of Pussy, Occasional Rapist, Cumz Out My Nose, Broke Bench Mountain and Puff the Magic Drag Queen.

By virtue of the fact it was dark and your Scribe is unfamiliar with the terrain here, trail description will be rather brief. Well, that plus the fact it was on the whole rather boring.

So, we headed on-right from NuBo on to discover false markings. Next we tried on-left and soon found maker turning us on-left onto Bain Avenue which we traversed to an on-right onto Nova Drive and then a brief on-left onto Portola Drive. Portola is quite busy but mercifully we quickly made an on-left onto 47th Avenue. We were then directed on-right onto Opal Street and observed the promised Turkey/Eagle split at 49th Avenue. Let’s see what our hares have in store for the Eagles, shall we?

The Eagles took Opal to Prospect Avenue and across to stairs leading on-down to the railroad tracks and Cliff Drive beyond. There was some confusion here.  Fucked-Over Fest went on-left down the tracks but encountered false markings. All other avenues of exit were broached with no success. When inquired about the mark he saw, Fucked-Over Fest said the three lines he saw across trail were through an arrow. Hmmm, says Steamy Baanorrhea, sort of sounds like a hare arrow to me. How long since you last hashed?!? Trotting down the tracks, we found Fucked-Over Fest’s false markings and determined they were really a skewed hare arrow. Down the tracks we went. Just prior to the trestle, we encountered a chain link fence preventing the use of said trestle. Utilizing our typical tenacity, hashers breached the defenses of the fences and scurried on-down the stairs to Capitola Road. A check here was solved turning the troops on-left and on-up to make and then an on-left onto Prospect Avenue. 

Not far along Prospect, marker made the members of the Eagle clan on-right onto Garnet Street. We’re deep into what is colloquially called the Jewel Box section of Capitola. Garnet was taken across 49th, 47th and 45th avenues. Once across 45th, things got a bit dicey. The next section of trail, now rejoined with the Turkeys, became a mix of public streets and apartment complex driveways. Eventually, via Diamond Street and 42nd Avenue, we found our feet on Jade Street and then on-right back to 41st Avenue. Here was the second(and hopefully last) Turkey/Eagle split.  Seeing as how we did the first Eagle, let’s continue being foolhardy and attempt the second as well.

Eagles crossed 41st Avenue and continued along what is now Brommer Street. Your Scribe was trotting with Fucked-Over Fest(he of false marking/hare arrow fame) and we went a very long way until the next mark…which was an arrow FACING us! Somewhere we obviously missed an on-right arrow which was the prelude to a circle jerk. We did not shed tears over missing such though. By some devious means I am unable to remember, the hares funneled us onto Star Lane, 35th Avenue and then to Portola using a secret passage which I hope no one ever finds again. It was unsettling at best and most likely illegal at worst.

Once back to Portola we went on-left and then using 37th Avenue and Madrone Avenue(little more than an alley) we found ourselves on East Cliff Drive and pointed on-left and to the overlook area at The Hook at the bottom of 41st Avenue for Beer Check.    

But where is Dicky Wacker? No one knew. We presumed he was lost or possibly incarcerated by Capitola PD on a charge of vagrancy.

After concluding our business here we migrated north on 41st to the parking lot on the corner of Portola. While heading there, the pack stumbled across Dicky Wacker who probably ended up hashing a trail longer than anyone. After moving a few times to avoid a vehicle that appeared as if it wished to move, we stettled in for Religion with two reluctant RA’s, Pink Cherry Licker and Dung-Fu Grip. Neither thought they should be made to RA after haring but dBASED said he was only backup RA to be abused when no duly elected RA’s were present. In other words, he told them to fuck-off and do their job!

A brief sampling of the down-downs awarded are: the hares for trying to worm out of RAing; backslider down-downs; analversary down-downs; couple of crimes-on-trail down-downs and lastly, the hare-trio.

On-on-on was staged at Taqueria Vallarta and was well attended though cliquey. We had Occasional Rapist and dBASED romancing at a table for two, TIMMY!! and Dicky Wacker communing at another table and our COVID-paranoids, International House of Pussy and Dung-Fu Grip, freezing outside.

That puts a cap on this Hash and on this Trash as well.

The preceding was a factual accounting of actual events though possibly not as they actually occurred. One should never allow the facts to stand in the way of a good story. 

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 eighteenth day of January in the year of our Hash two-thousand twenty-two.

Submitted with all respect due,

Puff

the

Magic Drag Queen

Surf City H3 Scribe

Salutations,

We entered the second Hash of 2022 much as we completed the first one, dismayed and disappointed. I see no reason to rehash last week’s Hash, let’s rather attempt to rationalize this week’s outing.

 Winter is truly here. The palm tree in your front yard no longer flowers, one of the Japanese Maples on Pacific planted a discarded leaf on your head. It’s dark at your favorite watering hole when you arrive after work.

This brings us to this week’s trail and, more specifically, lead hare Courtesy Flush. Courtesy Flush, in his multitude of physical manifestations, has been with Surf City almost seven years. He has settled into our Hash much the same way as would an unemployed cousin who visits without a fixed departure date settles in. You will remember Courtesy Flush’s last excursion onto the sand, we almost lost dBASED(not a great loss) and Junk Puncher(a truly great loss). So now, in his steadfast refusal to learn from previous grievous errors, even when he was the one to commit them, he again saw fit to drag the gang through the sand. Maybe, in his warped little half-mind, he envisioned events transpiring differently in the dark. On that note, he WAS correct, most of us were unable to even find the WATER, let alone the damn trail.

But let us examine events in the order in which they occurred, there will be plenty of opportunity the thrash the hare in the future.

We started pleasantly enough at old friend the Boardwalk Bowl, albeit outside this time rather than in the warm interior. It wasn’t that cold(yet) so everyone was fine with that.  

After an unsatisfying bout with Snake Me Anywhere and her unsettling version of Instructions of Trail, the pack settled back into socializing and pondering the enigmatic question: Where the hell was Courtesy Flush? The general consensus was the cheeky hare was pre-laying but, as evidenced by later events, this extra time did not enhance trail quality one iota.

After the passage of the preordained time allotment, Broke Bench Mountain issued a call for Circleup for Introductions and heard from: TIMMY!!, dBASED, Occasional Rapist, Dicky Wacker, Ska-Skank Redemption, Cold Smegma Kamikaze, Steamy Baanorrhea, Cum You Will Not, Chippin’ Ballz, Cumz Out My Nose, Dung-Fu Grip, Puff the Magic Drag Queen and the usual compliment of four-legged hounds, that being Junk Puncher and Spot’d Dick. On-out!

The pack progressed on-right down Beach Street to our first stop at a Song Check outside the bathrooms at the foot of the Wharf. That proved serendipitous as our singing voices sent more than one tourist to the toilet. Then the trail took the troops down the steps to the Main Beach and here is where the true mystery began. Courtesy Flush had stated marks would be placed in the sand keeping the clan on the straight and narrow along the beach. Well, when it’s too dark to see brilliant white flour, it’s way too damn dark to see flimsy little sticks protruding a scant few inches above the sand. Long story short, the presence of the San Lorenzo River eventually funneled everyone on-up and over the river on the pedestrian bridge. No one drowned or was washed out to sea in other words. 

Okay, now we’re on-up to East Cliff Drive and are heading down to Three Princes Park, the perfect setting for a scenic Beer Check. Alas, it was not to be, we curved on-left bypassing the park and took off for the Museum of Natural History, colloquially called the Whale Museum due to the large concrete whale in the yard. We of course were not allowed to play on it, the cruel hare-pair turned us away from the whale and then on-right on Forbes Street, on-right onto Seabright and then on-left onto Atlantic Avenue.  Not far along, a Turkey/Eagle split sent the less-stupid amongst us on-right. I admit a morbid curiosity in what the e-vile hare-pair planned for the Eagles so I foolishly forged ahead.

The Eagles took Atlantic until it died at the former location of Aldo’s and were then pointed on-right onto the harbor jetty. Partway out to the lighthouse, what proved to be the last mark of the evening, a large hare arrow pointed the pod on-right onto Seabright Beach. That proved to basically be the end of this trail. If there truly were any more of the small markers placed by the hares, no one I spoke with ever saw them. Flour was non-existent. Many of the Eagles, yours truly included, were saved by hashers who saw their ghostly flashlights scouring the beach in search of anything recognizable or, at the very least, some way to get the hell off this desert wasteland of sand. I was rescued by Dung-Fu Grip and escorted to safety. Beer Check was staged at what is colloquially called the Third Avenue Stairs.

 

After the conclusion of our business here, we meandered farther along Seabright Beach, mercifully on East Cliff Drive rather than on the sand, and planted ourselves at a fire provided by our hares. It was here Dung-Fu Grip convened Religion. I spent most of Religion stuffing pizza down my pipes and became highly disinterested in talking notes pertaining to down-downs awarded. I didn’t really cared what happened to any of those people anyway. The only one I truly remember is the awarding of a patch to Snake Me Anywhere for the (somewhat) successful completion of her tenth haring for us and I only remember that one because I had to hand the patch to the RA. Oh, yeah, the hares were called up as a pair as well but I’m certain I need not tell you their trail was thoroughly reviled. After this, the RA dismissed the pack but, as the Beermeister had not gotten around the closing the trough yet, the mob loitered for as long as they could mooch off the the trough. I will tarry no longer though and call for an end to this Trash.

 

The preceding was a factual accounting of actual events though possibly not as they actually occurred. One should never allow the facts to stand in the way of a good story.

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 eleventh day of January in the year of our Hash two-thousand twenty-two.

Submitted with all respect due,

Puff

the

Magic Drag Queen

Surf City H3 Scribe

Happy New Year!

As we ended 2021 on a sour note, it’s a blessing to be ensconced within 2022. I will not review the entirety of 2021, it would be too depressing. Our retrospective of Hash Eleven-69 will be a sad enough excursion into one of the numerous haring failures of the past twelve months. So, let’s get started, the quicker we jump into this thing the sooner we will be able to return to real life.

Things began as would a real Hash with hounds engaging in intercourse with each other. Admittedly, most of the pack were far more finely attired as would normally be acceptable for hashers. There were a few notable exceptions of course. (there’s always that 4% of nonconformists and contrarians) Banana Basher crashes into our thoughts immediately, he was as slovenly attired as ever, Fucked-Over Fest was so brightly attired he resembled a banana slug, dBASED inside so many clothes he could have qualified as a quail, (or should that be a turkey?). Ska-Skank Redemption’s lengthy regal robes swept and cleaned many a block in Santa Cruz this night. Cum You Will Not appeared as would have a war widow during the War of the Roses in fifteenth century England. Let’s not forget Virgin Eric smartly attired in a flower print dress and accompanied by his sponsor, Just Holly, who donned enough layers of black to easily pass for a Hasidic Rabbi. Hallowe’en is long gone, guys.

I trust no one wishes to mock the attire of our kennel mates who made an effort, feeble though it was, to adhere to this week’s Hash theme of Dress to the (eleven) 69’s. So, bearing that in mind, let’s move forward. Dung-Fu Grip delivered his usual cryptic Instructions of Trail standing on a bench and clinging to a tree enabling him to remain erect.

After allowing the mandated lead time, Broke Bench Mountain signaled for Circleup for Introductions for Surf City’s final Hash for the year two thousand and twenty-one.

From Seabright Social, the pack plodded on-right onto Seabright. Sadly, we were not invited in at Brady’s Yacht Club but instead made an on-left and paraded Marine Parade and then on-right onto 4th Avenue.

 

Not far along 4th Avenue, we encroached onto the private property of Santa Cruz Yacht Club. Now while the vast majority of us have never set foot in this fine club since it moved here in 1964, I guarantee none of you would ever mistake it for Brady’s Yacht Club. We gingerly traipsed on-down stairs the club has kindly installed and emptied ourselves into the boat yard beside the harbor. On-left was indicated here and at the base of the Murray Street bridge, the promised Turkey/ Eagle split was encountered. The Turkeys are most likely bound for Arana Gulch Greenbelt via the most direct route, let’s fly with the Eagles and see what obscenities they will be subjected to.

The Eagles headed on-up the steps on-left and then on-right onto the Murray Street bridge and once across the harbor, on-right on the first street, Lake Avenue. You may wonder why a road beside a harbor is named Lake Avenue. Well, once upon a time, in a previous life, the harbor was a lagoon before the Army Corps of Engineers transformed it into the current Santa Cruz Small Craft Harbor. This should also help you understand why this area is called Twin Lakes when you can only find one lake. As you can see, originally there WERE two lakes here.

Soon an on-left onto Carmel Street was dictated and this was utilized across dangerous 7th Avenue followed by an on-left onto 9th Avenue followed by an on-left on Eaton Street. This was an unnecessary circle jerk that brought us back to 7th where we were turned on-right. This eventually deposited the Eagles at Brommer to make an on-left and head on-down into the Upper Harbor and on-right into Arana Gulch where we rejoined the Turkeys. The mob circled on-left through Arana Gulch to exit into the rear of Santa Cruz Bible Church. We desecrated these holy grounds by parading right through the middle of the property. I shouldn’t fail to mention I encountered Ska-Skank Redemption sitting on a bench facing the church deep in thought. Though she would neither confirm nor deny it, I feel certain she was praying for a swift and painless end to this trail. I left her lost in her own thoughts.

In keeping with this theme, we crossed Fredrick Street and ventured into the space occupied by Star of the Sea Catholic Church and were ejected out it’s rear. This expelled us onto Effey Street and then on-right onto Sumner Street. Bacon Queef and Just Foot Pussy, if they were home, refused to acknowledge the pack’s presence as we passed. Here we were turned on-left to Seabright, on-right to Soquel and on-left until just past Cayuga where we ventured onto private property in order to shortcut our weary way to Pennsylvania and on-left there to the abode of Dung-Fu Grip.  

 

Once we gained the safety of Dung-Fu Grip’s carport, the bar was open. There was a short but potent menu: vodka, gin or beer. Slip the bartender and extra few bucks and you could suck up all there I heard.

Upon the conclusion of our business here, on-out was down Pennsylvania to Broadway, on-right to Ocean View Avenue, on-left there(past quiet Seabright Railroad) to Ocean View Park for Religion. Here, amongst the towering trees and the increasing wind velocity, RA Pink Cherry Licker convened Religion. Here is a sample of the down-downs, both justified and unjustified, she dispensed wielding her wand: dBASED for a lousy selection of ales in the beer trough, the crime of auto-hashing for Broke Bench Mountain, Wicked Retahted, Princess Di(arrhea) and Thmp-Thmp, Dicky Wacker for walking around asking, Who can touch who and where can they be touched?, Rubik’s Pube for celebrating her 125th Hash with us. The highlight of the evening was of course the naming of Just Jennie. As do many half-minds, Jennie inadvertently named herself. She mentioned COVID has been unkind to her love life and she ‘dreams of weenie’. There already is an I Dream of Weenie so that was tossed out. There was an episode ending with Don’t Sweat On Me. Sounded good but then Jennie mentioned walking to the start and wanting people to know she was Clearly Not A Hooker. Done deal! Just Jennie has forever morphed into Clearly Not A Hooker.

 

The Naming Ceremony was followed by the downer of having to deal with the hare-trio. They were universally condemned by being such cheap bastards as to combine Liquor Check and Beer Check.

Once the RA dispensed with our hideous hares, Pink Cherry Licker declared an end to Hash Eleven-69 and I also hereby declare an end to this Hash Trash.

The preceding was a factual accounting of actual events though possibly not as they actually occurred. One should never allow the facts to stand in the way of a good story.

By Special Permission 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 fourth day of January in the year of our Hash two-thousand twenty-two.

Submitted with all respect due,

Puff

the

Magic Drag Queen

Surf City H3 Scribe

Greetings,

In preparation for another Dung-Fu/Dozen’t debacle, we will revisit Trail 1168, the annual Picture Hash.

We again began from the abode of dBASED and (second) wife Occasional Rapist. dBASED did his best to confuse us with Instructions of Trail. 

The only treat we were treated to this week was Shallow Hole who braved Highway 17 to join us from Silicon Valley and (extreme) backslider Snapping Twat who braved an airline flight to fly in from Austin for a visit. Other than that….well, you’ll understand as this recap proceeds.

The hare-trio consisting of Occasional Rapist, Shallow Hole and dBASED requested but a ten minute lead time. After the passage of such, the execution of trail began as Broke Bench Mountain revealed the picture given him by the hares. As in years past, our first destination was just across Park Avenue at the office of Women Care which, as you no doubt know, is the recipient of our Red Dress Run proceeds. 

Once at Women Care, dBASED was encountered and a picture exchange transpired. Our second destination was Mount Calvary Lutheran Church. Hashers, frightfully wary of trespassing on holy ground, did not know where this building was located. Saved by our cells, we trotted south on Park Avenue to Cabrillo College Drive and executed an on-right. Once there, another picture exchange occurred and we viewed a viewing of the intersection of Park Avenue and McGregor Drive. We staggered back to Park Avenue and turned on-right, crawled beneath Highway 1 and arrived at the designated location.  

While this exchange went well, it pointed the pod into the darkness of New Brighton Beach State Park. This did not bode well, it’s dark and wet this evening and the Rangers would not be happy if we caused any trouble. That being said, stupidity has always been our strong suit so off we went.

After the dangerous on-down from Park Avenue into the parking lot was successfully completed, marker turned us towards the beach along the access road towards the rest rooms. Once there, dBASED informed us a recent mudslide had closed the path on-up to the campground and rendered it impassable to any animal of lesser skills than a Russian Yak or a creature capable of flying. He presented an alternative method of reaching camp site number eight which was our next destination. As we turned back, Dung-Fu Grip said, I saw the mudslide and as long as you don’t mind getting a little dirty or risking your life, I believe the slide area is not insurmountable. He said he was considering attempting to scale it’s height. Courtesy Flush chimed in, I’m a half-mind, I’m a half-mind too! And off they went. So that when necessary we could inform authorities how many people required rescuing, a few of us followed them.   

Dung-Fu Grip blazed a trail-to-the-top and Snapping Twat, Six of Nine, Broke Bench Mountain, Thmp-Thmp, Courtesy Flush and Cold Smegma Kamikaze foolishly followed.

Unbelievably, conquering the crest did not eliminate all our tribulations on this trail. Our next  quest was that of locating camp site eight where we would receive another picture, this time from the so far elusive Shallow Hole. It’s pitch black, we have no map and campers are rather wary of a group of mud-covered maniacs motivating past their camp sites in the darkness so they provided no help. Eventually, after a long and tiresome self-guided tour of the camp grounds, we discovered a dozing Shallow Hole. It took us so long to get here, she said she thought we’d forsaken trail and gone back to the start. This was also the promised Turkey/ Eagle split. 

Since we’ve already handled Mudslide Mountain, nothing could surpass it’s precariousness so we may as well go with the Eagles.

Shallow Hole said the picture of the next destination had already been snagged so exit the campground and look for the ‘Christmas house’. Cold Smegma Kamikaze and Courtesy Flush so did but there was no picture to be found at the ‘Christmas house’ but thankfully those that came before us kindly marked trail. Trail proceeded along New Brighton Road until reaching the railroad tracks where, and I bet you can see this coming, an arrow pointed on-left onto the tracks. Thus began a boring and dangerous jaunt  along the tracks. Eventually the tracks intersected with Oak Trail which delivered us to the access road to the campground, past the (thankfully) closed Ranger station and on-up to McGregor Drive where an on-left was made. Now I’m not accusing Cold Smegma Kamikaze of the act but he told us partway along McGregor Drive we would find a hole cut in the chain link fence that would enable us to shortcut back to the start. It truly existed too and we used such.

Upon reaching Park Avenue and Cabrillo College Drive for a second time, an arrow directed us across Park Avenue and on-right. We passed the start and continued to where the first picture exchange occurred and there, in the darkened parking lot behind Women Care, Beer Check was staged. Upon completion of our business here, the festivities were moved back to the start where Religion was to be but not until Occasional Rapist treated us to her excellent tamales.

 

.

Religion was mercifully short. Here’s a partial listing of down-downs awarded: Snapping Twat as a backslider; Six of Nine for collecting a pine tree branch with two large cones hanging down mimicking his idea of a penis, Cum You Will Not for getting lost, Shallow Hole celebrating her 425th Hash with us and lastly the accursed hare-trio. Upon the completion of the grilling of the hares, RA Dung-Fu Grip called an end to Hash 1168 and your Scribe hereby calls an end to this Hash Trash as well.

Lastly, as I will not visit with you again prior to the dawn of 2022, I believe I can speak for everyone in Surf City H3 in wishing you and yours a Happy New Year and look forward to a vastly improved 2022.

The preceding was a factual accounting of actual events though possibly not as they actually occurred. One should never allow the facts to stand in the way of a good story.

By Special Permission 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 twenty-ninth day of December in the year of our Hash two-thousand twenty-one.

Submitted with all respect due,

Puff

the

Magic Drag Queen

Surf City H3 Scribe

In preparation,

For what promises to be an extremely wet outing for this year’s edition of the Picture Hash, we’ll revisit last week’s hash which is one you’ll truly not wish to visit with a second time. I am unable to promise this will lessen the pain you will feel tomorrow but, hopefully, it will lessen your anxiety about attending as it would be extremely difficult to surpass the pain inflicted on us last week.

Things began pleasantly enough, mounds of delicious food(there was even a turkey!) waltzed in the door followed by the Beermeister who dragged copious quantities of various types of alcoholic bevvies along. This boded well for a successful hash. At least until Whorebraham Lincoln strode in saying she’d just completed laying trail. Worse yet, she said she wasn’t sure how long it was, maybe around three miles. We wondered, Is that the ENTIRE trail or just to Beer Check? Most of us had forgotten there was even going to BE a trail. Be that as it may, the walkers soon left leaving the runners to 1) Have our way with the drinks and 2) Raid the face-feed first. Sadly, Ramrod soon said to get our butts outside for the Chalk Talk. 

The marks all appeared standard Bay Area issue except for an arrow with the digit ‘2’ above on the right side. Apparently, sections of trail would be geographically close and the ‘2’ designated the on-in trail. So, if you were stumbling along and came upon a arrow ‘squared’ mark, you’d missed Beer Check, you loser, go back and try to find it. I assume this was Whorebraham Lincoln’s solution to her having simply laid a lousy trail.

My memories of this trail are vague because 1) I do not live even close to wherever-the-hell we were and 2) I did not find this trail very interesting. So, here’s as close an approximation as I can surmise.

We motored along Villa Avenue and were turned on-left on East Main Street and then on-left at the next street, that being Pageant Way.  Pageant Way actually consists of a mild on-up which was way-the-hell more than I signed up for. The next intersection, that being one with College Avenue, we were taken on-right this time which brought us back to East Main where arrow pointed the pod on-left, over Highway 17, onto West Main and to the middle of town at the intersection of Santa Cruz Avenue. The Town Square has been a godsend for heavily-indebted PG&E. Many of us had to put sunglasses on to navigate trail.     

 

Once past the blinding lights, an on-right was made onto North Santa Cruz Avenue. By this juncture, our destination was clear, The Black Watch. And it was so done. We waited in the outdoor drinkin’ area as the bartender did not want us to commandeer the inside as we did when last we visited.  Then, upon learning we were hashers, he did not want us outside with glasses as he believed we would steal the ones we did not break. So, we were allowed inside. After enough kamikazes, Chopped Liver broke down into song and the regulars were treated to a couple of hash tunes. That was pretty much the end of the bartender’s patience and we were given the bums rush back out onto the streets.  

By this stage of the game, all bets were off as to how the pack would fare from this point forward. Hounds headed in every direction from the Black Watch. The majority appear to be going on-left, let’s follow them. They went but a short distance before crossing Santa Cruz Avenue and taking off on Elm Street. When Elm junctioned with University, a check was observed. The pack splintered further as trail was sniffed for. Eventually it was on-left onto University and then on-right at the next street, Mullen Avenue. This was a short but brightly lit block that ended at Edelen Avenue where an on-right was dictated. The residents on the left side of Edelen have placed barricades preventing vehicular traffic from turning in that direction and then dressed them in Christmas attire. This is very crafty of them but I would imagine also highly illegal. They are apparently employing Hash reasoning: Nothing is illegal until you are caught! 

Not far along Edelen, the street dumps into a parking lot. We continued through the parking lot, down a series of long ramps, past an outdoor amphitheater and on-left onto Los Gatos Greek Trail and back across Highway 17. Once across we were led on-right and on-up a series of rickety, dangerous, wet steps leading back up to East Main Street. From there we used on-out trail back to the abode of Worm’s. Once there, the face-feed was undertaken.

After no one could stuff anything else down their gullet, the White Elephant Gift Exchange was initiated. This is always good fun and, contrary to what you may be prone to believing, there are actually some ingenious and worthwhile presents present. 

As sad as it is, that pretty much put the lid on this year’s FHAC-U Christmas Party. That also caps off this week’s Hash Trash. As I will not be visiting with you again prior to Christmas, I feel certain I can speak for everyone in the Surf City H3 in wishing everyone out there in voyeur land a great Holiday Season. May you get what’s coming to you, so to speak, and may you stay well through these trying times.

The preceding was a factual accounting of actual events though possibly not as they actually occurred. One should never allow the facts to stand in the way of a good story.

By Special Permission 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 twenty-second day of December in the year of our Hash two-thousand twenty-one.

Submitted with all respect due,

Puff

the

Magic Drag Queen

Surf City H3 Scribe

Greetings,

       You’ve survived another Monday and are probably feeling pretty good about yourself. Or maybe you’re just good at feeling yourself. Whatever. Even if both the above are true, you still must survive this visitation with Dung-Fu Grip and Trail 1165 one final time. I apologize in advance for the stress this will subject you to but, hey, you knew Hashing was a tough vocation when you applied for the job.   

Festivities began pleasant enough at Steel Bonnet Brewing in Scotts Valley just down the hill from Shallow Hole and Waxi-pad’s palace and, oh, sorry, they were kicked out a while back, weren’t they? Must have been due to the raucous parties the neighbors said they hosted, and on a weekday night as well. Well, at least Shallow Hole and Shitty Cat were able to make it over-the-hill for this Hash. Socializing was it’s normal virulent self and regulars huddled together believing in the old adage that there’s safety in numbers. Much to their dismay, WE had more numbers than THEY. 

Our announced hair-pair had been cleaved by half. Baker’s Dozen’t, in his infinite masculine arrogance, assumed he could overpower his COVID booster shot and hare tonight. He came up short, so to speak. The sole surviving hare, Dung-Fu Grip, decided his only hope was to make the pack ill with his appearance and consequently attired himself accordingly.

Dung-Fu’s attire proved more of a distraction to the regulars ensconced at their favorite watering hole than it did to the pack though as we’ve grown accustomed to Dung-Fu’s bizarre behavior. As a matter of fact, were he ever to appear dressed like a normal person, THAT is when we would become concerned chicanery was afoot.

Eventually, after being chided for the late hour, Instructions of Trail were delivered from on high and our lone hare outed himself. Seeing him leave was, possibly, the most pleasant aspect of this trail. Socializing returned to it’s previous dull roar, Thmp-Thmp handled the proverbial Chalk Talk for the Virgins and all awaited the passage of the (unnecessary) fifteen minute lead time for our hare.

Fifteen minutes and a few more beers passed and the pack circled-up as per Accuprick’s direction and he heard responding barks from: Cum You Will Not, TIMMY!!, Banana Basher, Pretty Fly for a Pi Guy, Rubik’s Pube, Hugh Heifer, Wicked Retahted, Underwhere?, Dicky Wacker, Steamy Baanorrhea, Thmp-Thmp, Princess Di(arrhea), Cuntjungle, Occasional Rapist, dBASED, Snake Me Anywhere, Just Jennie, Shallow Hole, Just Holly, Accuprick, My Sister’s Dildo, Womb With A View, Cold Smegma Kamikaze, Virgin Kamryn, Just Kathleen, Virgin Kristine, Lumber Party, International House of Pussy and Puff the Magic Drag Queen. We then outed through the parking lot and made an on-right to Scotts Valley Drive and an on-left there brought us to Butler Lane where some hashers waited for the safe-to-cross signal while the others made a mad dash for the opposite side of the street. Remarkably, everyone made it across unscathed. After executing an on-left, we were soon directed to on-right onto private property through an apartment complex. Owing to the fact it was a cold Thursday evening, all the residents were safely tucked away in their homes and no one came out to challenge us. After meandering amongst the trees and the cars, we found ourselves making an on-right onto San Augustine Way (who named these streets?!?), an on-right onto Hacienda Way and short-cutting through a gas station and back to Scotts Valley Drive. We were now close enough to Steel Bonnet Brewing again we could hear the party. If we weren’t such half-minds, we’d have returned to Steel Bonnet and let Dung-Fu run willy-nilly through the darkness all alone. But, and precisely because we ARE such half-minds, we didn’t.    

By now our course was of course clear; take Granite Creek over Highway 17 and ascend into the darkness contained beyond. And so we did. Once we achieved the intersection with Santa’s Village Road, it being December and all, we crossed over onto Santa’s Village Road, were directed on-left and then soon on-right onto Club Drive.

Not far along Club Drive, we deviated on-left into the parking lot previously home to Borland International, formerly a large producer of PC software, one of which was named dBase. Make of that what you will. Anyway, that folded and the monstrosity building is now home to a number of small businesses. We wove our weary way through the complex layout, past ponds and a recreation of Stonehenge and eventually exited onto a road, of sorts, that dives over a creek and heads into a metropolis of under-construction homes. Formerly, these barely discernible roads were trails known as Orchard Run. I assume the developers will give them labels designed to make home buyers, all of whom will spend seven digits on these econo-boxes, believe they are living in the lap of luxury. As of right now though, they are darkened paths of dirt and rocks, coyote crap and disemboweled bunnies. Eventually we came to the cul-de-sac, soon to be a major thoroughfare, of Sucinto Lane followed by an on-right onto Navarra Drive. Navarra eventually comes back to Granite Creek Road where an on-right was dictated and soon followed by the highly regarded BN mark.

It will cause me compunction but I feel it incumbent upon me to mention Beer Check location was riddled with droppings from some type of beast. I do not wish to believe this was intentional by our hare but it’s impossible to discount that possibility. Upon completing our duty here, we undertook on-in duplicating a portion of trail and assembling for Religion behind the start on Victor Square. Victor Square isn’t really a square but a dead end road, another somewhat misleading Scotts Valley street naming. 

Once the gang was supplied with the appropriate drugs, Religious Adviser Accuprick called Religion to order and the following is a sampling of down-downs he deemed necessary: the Virgins were accosted, Analversaries were recognized and, lastly, the hare was honored for harrowing trail.

Upon completion of his charge, Accuprick declared an end to Hash 1165 and by the same token I hereby declared an end to this Trash.

The preceding was a factual accounting of actual events though possibly not as they actually occurred. One should never allow the facts to stand in the way of a good story.

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 seventh day of December in the year of our Hash two-thousand twenty-one.

Submitted with all respect due,

Puff

the

Magic Drag Queen

Surf City H3 Scribe