Obscene in Nisene

SCH3 Trash

Salutations,

       And I extend deepest sympathies to those of you that were suckered into attending Hash 1154 believing it was an anniversary of Occasional Rapist and dBASED’s M-Word Hash. It was, in actuality, another thinly-veiled attempt on the part of this dastardly duo to strike terror and desperation into the hearts of Surf City hashers.

Sadly, they were successful in their efforts.

These miscreants baited the hook by assigning The Mediterranean in Seacliff, an old favorite of ours, as the start for their next act of treachery. Then, to insure maximum damage, our hare-pair delayed their on-out time until 6:45 thereby insuring as many unsuspecting hounds as possible would be snared in their devious plot. So, sometime around 7PM, RA Accuprick called for Circleup for Introductions. Answering barks were heard from: Cum You Will Not, Steamy Baanorrhea, Wicked Retahted, Cumz Out My Nose, TIMMY!!, Broke Bench Mountain, Fine Young Cannibal, Cold Smegma Kamikaze, Dicky Wacker, Princess Di(arrhea), Thmp-Thmp, Rubik’s Pube, Bareback Unicrack and Puff the Magic Drag Queen. Off we went.  


False markings north on Broadway sent the clan careening south and peeling off into the parking lot for Seacliff State Beach. Continuing in that direction, one and all knew we were bound for the infamous steps leading on-down to the beach. They are, mercifully, far more bearable in THIS direction than in the on-up direction at least.

Dicky Wacker negotiates the one-hundred fifty-one steps on-down to Seacliff State Beach

Once safely on-down, arrows pointed the pod towards the sand. Very few, probably only notorious masochist Steamy Baanorrhea, followed them. Those of us more sensible paralled trail through the parking lot and rejoined true trail at the pedestrian bridge over what we euphemistically refer to as Aptos Creek but is little more than a stinky lagoon as this time of the year.

Aptos Creek(AKA Stinky Lagoon)

A check was discovered near the bathrooms at the foot of the steep Rio Del Mar Boulevard hill. Here masochistic Steamy Baanorrhea (foolishly) volunteered to on-up being of the mind cruel dBASED would undoubtedly take the troops there. He was wrong. 

After all other avenues of escape were mapped, trail was discovered on-left through the Rio Del Mar flats, past the sad remains of the Sea Breeze Tavern and on-right onto Moosehead Drive.

Steamy Baanorrhea and Fine Young Cannibal negotiate Moosehead Drive

Dreary Moosehead Drive was traversed to Spreckles Drive, under Highway 1 and to the junction with Soquel Drive. All-in-all, a dreary, featureless section of a dreary, featureless trail. A check was solved here pointing the pod on-right and then on-left onto Aptos Creek Road. Surely this will prove to be a backcheck, no one could possibly expect the pack to survive even the slightest of excursions into the Forest Of Nisene Marks in the dark. Just past the railroad tracks, a small group of deer were seen. Everyone knows where there’s deer, there’s puma. No concern to the hares though apparently, THEY were through here with the sun shining. On we plodded.

I will not detail greatly the treacherous trip through the forest. Not that I do not believe it worth chronicling, it’s just that it was so damn dark I could not see anything. I do remember Broke Bench Mountain giving a dissertation of the mechanical attributes of the old car lying upside down just prior to crossing Aptos Creek. Whether he truly cared or was just trying to take his mind off the potential of meeting a mountain lion, I do not know. While Aptos Creek is frightfully low, even for this time of the year, that did not stop many of us from coming away with dripping rear paws. While we have bridged this spot many times in the past, darkness lends  sinister shadows to the rocks used as stepping stones.  

After wading the creek, we connected with Aptos Rancho Trail and eventually stumbled onto, appropriately enough, Aptos Rancho Road. This brought us back to Soquel Drive. Smelling victory, the gang plunged ahead and made an on-left onto State Park Drive and crossed over Highway 1 and was soon to discover the promised Turkey-Eagle split at Hillcrest Drive. Only a few mildly insane souls, such as Steamy Baanorrhea, would engage the Eagle option. They would trot along Hillcrest to Beachgate Way and on-left and use the treacherous on-down dirt trail back down to the beach. They would then on-left onto Las Olas Drive, then State Park Drive, on-right onto Center Street and on-left onto Broadway where they would find both the Turkeys as well as Beer Check awaiting them. The Turkeys had made an on-left at the Turkey-Eagle split and moseyed along the railroad tracks and made an on-right and on-down off the tracks, almost stumbling over a person sleeping, and into Beer Check. An episode at Beer Check provided the most exciting and interesting section of this entire trail.

 


Junk Puncher engages felis catus

Above we see Junk Puncher interacting with a resident feline. I will not say Junk Puncher lost this engagement as the cat eventually moved on, but I WILL say I witnessed the cat chasing Junk Puncher more than once. King Pussy Rules!!

Eventually all hounds reassembled and the herd migrated to Santa Cruz Avenue to stage Religion. Once libations were dispensed, Religious Adviser Accuprick issued the following down-downs: Cum You Will Not for celebrating her 225th hash with us; Cold Smegma Kamikaze, Cum You Will Not and Bareback Unicrack for getting lost on trail; Dicky Wacker for falling on trail(as usual); Accuprick for relating a politically incorrect joke and Bareback Unicrack as a backslider. Saved for last, as that’s where we like them, were the hares.




Co-hares Occasional Rapist and dBASED were justifiably punished

On-on-on was just barely made before closing at Manuel’s Restaurant. That pretty much closed down Trail 1154 and that pretty much closes down this Hash Trash as well.

The preceding is 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 twenty-first day of September in the year of our Hash two-thousand twenty-one.

On-out,

Puff

the

Magic Drag Queen

Acting Scribe

Surf City H3


Trash 1152: Death Valley

SCH3 Trash

Greetings,

       Let’s delve deeply into Trail 1152…even though we shall dearly regret such.

       This trail began pleasantly enough(even though Banana Basher was there) at Mission West or Ye Olde Watering Hole if you are old(like TIMMY!!).


At the appropriate time, TIMMY!! delivered his usual disjointed Instructions of Trail. I would recount a portion of them, however, as did most of the pack, I did not listen as TIMMY!! seldom says anything that even could be remotely associated with events that are about to transpire.

After introductions, a check in the parking lot sent hounds scurrying in all directions like field mice. dBASED soon gave the on-on west on McPherson and across Swift Street. Not far past Swift and after the FIFTH mark, false trail markings were encountered. This shatters our tradition of no false trail markings after the second mark. In other words, once true trail is established with the third mark, you cannot have a ‘false’ true trail. This is a break with Surf City tradition TIMMY!! neglected to mention. 

Once back to the start, marking was found leading east on McPherson but, once again, false markings were soon discovered. In keeping with the optimistic euphemism, Third time’s the charm, hounds headed north to Mission Street and, after successfully completing the dangerous transition from the south side of Mission to the north, yet another true trail was discovered. 

The troops traipsed north on King to Mesa Lane and then on-left onto Escalona Drive. This led the litter to a check at Arroyo Seco. There’s a locals-only passageway beside a house that gives onto an entrance to Arroyo Seco Canyon. That’s where dBASED headed and did not return. Over a quarter of a mile up this path, a numbered backcheck with a double-digit of marks was found. I detect the malodorous stench of pre-lay!

The gang backtracked the appropriate number of marks and found themselves back at the entrance to Arroyo Seco Canyon. The path leading to Grandview Street proved correct where an on-right was taken. We traveled the entire length of Grandview to it’s culmination point past Western Drive.

Now began what we assumed would be the most dangerous section of trail: running along California Highway 1. Little did we know that the worst was yet to be encountered. TIMMY!! did not waste time and effort writing Don’t Get Killed as we entered Highway 1 as it would have been a pointless gesture. We were merely moving targets for RV’s piloted by people who normally drove nothing larger than a Prius or a Hyundai. They gyrated wildly along the highway at breakneck speeds trying to get to the next campground paying no attention to anything other than their gas gauge.

Remarkably, no one became a hood ornament and all safely reached Shaffer Road and then executed an on-left onto Mission Street. In the valley holding Moore Creek, a hare arrow pointed us on-up into a patch of woods normally associated with persons that are sleeping outdoors.


This would take us onto the private property of Pacific Shores Apartments. Eventually we’d wind our wicked way to the train trestle over Antonelli Pond. Trail proceeded south to Delaware. Here Scribe beheld a bizarre sight: co-hare Pink Cherry Licker playing ring-around-the-roses with dBASED. They alternately pursued each other circumnavigating a immense RV parked at the entrance to Antonelli Pond. It appeared to be the same one that barely missed taking out a group of hounds as they ran beside Highway 1 earlier on trail today. Mercifully, I was only subjected to this vision of insanity for a few minutes as late-cummer DungFu Grip pulled up beside me. We chose to ignore this, writing it off to an alcohol-induced hallucination. There was a strange marking here. It appeared to be an adulterated package check. So oddly shaped was it though that DungFu and Puff assumed it was intended only for circumcised males so we ignored it and proceeded west on Delaware and took the nice new path on-left towards Long Marine Lab. We were moving slowly, so slowing in fact Hugh Heifer was able to snare us. We three proceeded onto the grounds of Long Marine Lab and past the remains of two whales.

 

This trio rounded the horn and took off for De Anza Mobile Home Park. Mercifully, the gate into the park is not locked until 9PM so we transgressed through the entire width of the park and out the eastern side onto the escarpment overlooking Natural Bridges State Beach. Contrary to what we previously believed, trotting beside Highway 1 was NOT the most dangerous part of trail but the crossing of Death Valley proved our undoing. Hugh Heifer, DungFu Grip and Puff found trail most of the way across the beach but missed the on-left leading to the trail beside Moore Creek. We eventually discovered trail in the parking lot beside the welcoming center for the Monarch butterfly preserve. We were the lucky ones. The group behind us went directly across the beach to West Cliff Drive where the poor bastards intercepted the Eagle trail. Worse yet, they began to follow it in reverse further delegating themselves to a sad demise. Many of them soon surrendered and returned to the start, Accuprick among them who ran up a grand total of over 5 miles and STILL did not make Beer Check.

In the woods between Natural Bridges and Delaware, Hugh, DungFu and Puff tripped over the Turkey/Eagle split. While contemplating our next misstep, Hugh called Cum You Will Not who stated the Walkers were doing fine and were just exiting the the trailer park headed onto the beach. This is the last heard from those soon-to-be-lost-doggies for a very long time. Hugh and Puff opted for the Turkey and DungFu(of course) chose Eagle. His decision proved serendipitous for the Walkers as he was able to usher them into Beer Check after they, too, lost trail in Death Valley. 

Soon the herd migrated to the parking lot of the former Texas Instruments building which has now been confiscated by UC where only those souls with Top Secret security clearances know what dastardly deeds are done.

Once Religion was convened, a number of down-downs were issued: DungFu as a trail angel for shepherding the walkers into Beer Check; dBASED as an angel(how rare!) for assisting the Turkey hare, Pink Cherry Licker, with repairing her section of trail; Broke Bench Mountain for auto-hashing a section of trail in a stolen vehicle; Steamy Baanorrhea, DungFu and Cum You Will Not for resorting to technology on trail; hare-pair TIMMY!! and (offspring) Pink Cherry Licker for placing 5 marks and THEN throwing the false trail marking; Pink Cherry Licker celebrated 69 harings; Occasional Rapist celebrated 450 hashes with us and lastly(deservedly so too I might add) the hares were chided for leading the litter into Death Valley.

That pretty much covers the disaster we now refer to as Hash 1152 or TIMMY!! and his Trail of Terror.

By 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 fourteenth day of September in the year of our Hash Two-thousand twenty-one.

Puff

the

Magic Drag Queen

Acting Scribe

Surf City H3


Trash 1138

SCH3 Trash

Salutations,

       This will be a primitive Hash Trash apropos of the trail it will chronicle.  Why this trail as opposed to any of the exquisite trails your acting Scribe has provided for you over the past fifteen months or none of the previous rude and crude outings thrust upon us by DungFu Grip you may wonder? Because, this trail, my dear kennel mates both old and new, marks our emergence from our chrysalis; our government-mandated and our self-imposed isolation, the evade-the-virus mentality that seized the world’s mentality since March of twenty-twenty. Hashdom never had to face such an adverse occurrence prior. Now hashers have been 86’d, expelled, banned and physically ejected from numerous venues since December of 1938 but never in all those eighty-six years has every Hash everywhere been prohibited from plying our trade.

Now that we have resumed REAL Hashing, let’s proceed with a condensed overview of Trail 1138.

We were instructed to park in an (unauthorized) dirt parking lot beside Roaring Camp Railroad. The designated area was 90% full when Puff and Dicky Wacker arrived prior to 6PM. The situation would soon deteriorate even farther. Many hounds had to park so far away that getting to the start could count as a trail in and of itself. Soon co-hare DungFu Grip would arrive and direct us to an abandoned homeless encampment in nearby woods. The only remnants of this former camp was a half-full ashtray and an exemplary stand of poison oak.

After as many hounds as would brave the near one-hundred degree heat assembled, the hare-pair of DungFu Grip and his accomplice Baker’s Dozen’t were seen off to the side drawing patterns in the dust with their shoes, erasing them and then repeating the process a number of times. Some aspect of trail they had planned bothered them which proceeded to have the same affect on the pack. After settling upon a course of action, they relayed Instructions of Trail. They were so far off the mark I will not waste my time regurgitating them nor your valuable time reading them. They left informing us we would find the first trail marking in the (over-filled unauthorized) parking lot.

After passage of the appropriate lead time, dBASED assembled the crew for introductions. Everyone mumbled in muffled voices fearful of what was to follow. We exited the homeless campground leaving the ashtray behind but would see copious quantities of poison oak again soon. Less than a hundred feet from the first mark in the (over-filled unauthorized) parking lot, hasher down! Hugh Heifer managed to take a tumble due to gravel no larger than a grain of sand. By virtue of the fact it was past the first trail marking, it qualifies as Blood on Trail. This also set the tone for the remainder of trail for Hugh too.

The mob has now invaded the grounds of Roaring Camp Railroad. The pack began to thin out through here. The less stupid among us returned to the start while the more stupid forged ahead, a decision more than a few would come to regret. We passed a wedding reception in progress on the grounds and then took an on-left and began to leave civilization behind. Soon we entered the area where the nuptials had transpired, ignoring the sign requesting us not to do so.   

Civilization safely behind them, the hares began subjecting the pack to the terror and tedium told of in their Instructions of Trail. They warned us of a hill about one mile in but neglected to mention it’s angle of incline or of it’s longevity. We will speak no further of it.

Later, MUCH later, we reached the railroad tracks that would eventually take trains to the top of Bear Mountain. The Turkeys began cross-tie walking while the Eagles proceed to the next hill. We know where the tracks will take the Turkeys, let’s fly with the Eagles and see where they’re led.

Another series of hills, AKA mountains, would take this group to the top of Bear Mountain. 

Was this climb difficult? Well, the only way humans previously were able to attain this height was having to build a damn railroad to get up here. You make the call.

The Eagles left here and began a circuitous path on-down, and sometimes back on-up, as they make their weary way back towards the start. Eventually passing under the railroad trestle spanning the mighty San Lorenzo River, they then reentered Henry Cowell Park and found River Trail. Eventually, these tired pups transitioned to Meadow Trail, passed the Felton Diversion Dam and fish ladder and back to the start. There they discovered Turkeys swilling away and munching on munchies. This further made them question why they undertook the Eagle trail. 

As soon as a trio of DFL Eagles appeared; Just Holly, Under Where? and Puff, dBASED convened Religion. Chippin’ Ballz and dBASED were awarded congratulatory down-down for attending CAN’d H3’s Red Dress Run last weekend; Hugh Heifer was mocked for shedding Blood on Trail one-hundred feet from the start; a series of down-downs were assigned pertaining to missing/not stopping/ignoring Beer Check and the hares were justifiably roasted alive.

On-On-On was staged at Taqueria Vallarta in Felton for the few that had managed to retain enough energy to chew.

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 and editor at Santa Cruz, Ca., or elsewhere if need be, on this, the twentieth day of June in the year of our Hash Two-thousand twenty-one.

On-out,

Puff

the Magic Drag Queen

Acting Scribe

Surf City H3


Trail 1031: Blair Witch Trail

Uncategorized

I know it’s been a while since the hash trash has been written.  There hasn’t been much to talk about. Until now. Pull up a chair.  This one is worth a read.

Normally when I hare, I set the agenda. I like teaching the new kids how to hare, show them the ropes.  I like to map trail, scout it, plan it out, stay organized. It’s work. Rarely do I get the chance to sit back, just show up, and run around throwing flour on some else’s trail.    So I see Timmy is signed up to hare all by his lonesome. I’m thinking, he’s nothing if not experienced. He’s gotta have his shit together, right? I’ll co-hare with him. It’ll be a good idea, right?

Timmy will be the top.  I’ll be the bottom. I just gotta show up.  It’ll be easy.

Commitments kept me from scouting the trail until the Tuesday before, but hey, not my problem. Timmy is going to scout around in the woods above campus.  Not an area I know, but I figure it’s a good time to learn. I show up at TImmy’s house 10 minutes late feeling quite confident that all will be taken care of.  He’s got a print out of a google map with trail marked out. And another copy for me. Clipboard. Pens. Everything is just reinforcing my preconceived idea that Timmy has his shit together.

Quick aside: I just saw this documentary on Netflix about the Flat Earthers.  They believe the world is flat, and whatever new information or evidence comes their way, they just hammer it into their crazy framework.  They remain confident and secure knowing they are right. Contrary evidence can be blithely swatted out of the way, batted down, and ignored   Denied. Belief overcoming knowledge. And I believed Timmy has his shit together.

Driving up to upper campus, I ask Timmy how many times he’s run trail.

“Three times.  But just in parts.  I haven’t run the whole thing yet.”

Huh.

He shows me where the split will be where I will run off and he’ll go the other way.  “Maybe let’s just stick together for now?” I say timidly. I’m really unfamiliar with this part of campus.

The sun is shining.  The air is crisp and warm.  It’s a beautiful day in the redwoods.  A reminder why Santa Cruz is amazing. Timmy is silent.  Timmy has stopped. Looking around. Not in a “soaking in the majesty of nature” way.  More puzzled than that.

“We made a wrong turn.”  he says. No matter. It’s a nice day.  A walk in the woods.

“This is really fucked up”  he says.  

“We can’t be here.” he says.

“Where are we?  This can’t be right.  Where are we?” he says.

Huh.

I suggest we backtrack.  “No, I have no time. Let’s go.  Take the road back to the parking lot.  I’ll scout trail tomorrow.” Timmy quips.  I notice some cracks in the facade of this well-groomed trail.  Wait…is there a facade on this well-groomed trail? Wait…I haven’t run trail yet.  There is no trail.

Timmy drives back to his house in silence, his gaze fixed on something beyond the horizon.  I bounce along in the passenger seat of his pick-up. I’m not sure if I should ask a question to give myself faith this is an aberration, or keep silent to let the few remaining shreds of faith in Timmy hang precariously.

  “I don’t know where trail is supposed to be.” I say plainly.

“Thursday.”  Timmy is formulating a plan.  An evolving plan. “Thursday. Can you show up early.  Maybe 3:30? We’ll run it Thursday.” Timmy’s tone does not instill faith.

I don’t know where trail is going.  But sure. Thursday. I agree.

The next day is Wednesday.

I get a text from Timmy.  “Got trail all set today, good to go.”  I’m not sure I believe it. But moving on.

Thursday.

I blow past the 3:30 arrival, show up closer to 4.  I stopped at Trader Joe’s to pick up snacks for the pack, so I don’t feel bad for being late.  Timmy has the car packed and ready to go.

It is a good omen.

We drive up to campus. “So Timmy, how many times have you run trail now?”

“Ohh…” He pauses thoughtfully.  “Six or seven times.” Seems like enough, right?

Right?

We take off for the run a bit after 4 PM.  Plenty of time for a one hour trail run, drop off the BN cooler, and wait down in parking lot before 6 PM.

Right?

We run past the spot where I will split up from Timmy to lay a quick YBF.  Down the hill, to the side, you can’t get lost. I’ll dot it later. I keep with TImmy.

He points out some flour.  “I dropped just little patches of flour on the turns yesterday at the turns so we can find them later.  We can fill them in with big patches when we run live.” 

Sounds like good plan.  This time. Finally. The familiar parts of the trail go by quickly.  We drop the LC, bury it carefully to keep the mountain bikers away, and proceed down past a cool little structure that is set up like a shinto shrine with a few icons hanging down. 

“Fun little feature, we should draw people’s attention to it.” I suggest quite proud of my contribution to trail.

Timmy says he never noticed it before.  It’s huge and prominent, and completely escaped Timmy’s attention.  But he moves on like it’s no big deal. We pass some Christmas decorations in the trees. Timmy says he never noticed it before.  But he moves on like it’s no big deal.  

We get to the next fork in the trail.  TImmy looks left. Timmy looks right. Timmy looks left.  Timmy looks right. Timmy looks left.

No flour patches.

“No, this is wrong, we missed a turn.”  TImmy announces unnecessarily.

“We can’t be lost.  This shit is really fucked up.  This is really fucked.” Timmy mutters as I nod in agreement.

We start backtracking to the liquor check, stepping off the trail to let two shakey novice mountain bikers pass.

Hitting the liquor check, we retrace our path a bit then take the next left.  I’m not sure the liquor check is even on the trail. We go about one hundred yards when Timmy gets an idea.

“You wait here, I’ll go on ahead.”

Ok.  I stand there.  Timmy goes on ahead.  I remain just standing in the woods.  Alone. Standing in the forest.

I go through my pack to get my phone.  I downloaded the topographic maps to my hiking app to find out where we are.  I discover I left my cell phone in Timmy’s truck. And I’m just standing in the woods.  Alone.

Ignoring Timmy’s advice to stay in one place, I take off running down the trail.  I make a big loop, passing the same two mountain bikers, somewhat less shaky on their bikes.  I don’t know where trail is. I don’t know where Timmy is. I don’t know where I am. I guess at a turn, I run, I guess at a turn.  I run. I run past the shinto shrine. 

“Timmy!” I yell.  Nothing.

“Timmy” I yell.  “Courtesy Flush!”  I get a response. I run in that direction.  I’m breathing hard trying to run quickly to catch up.  My legs are pushing as fast as they can through the rough trail, occasionally stumbling, but pushing more.  Panting hard. I finally come across Timmy.

“I found trail!”  He looks at me, grinning.  He has a funny look on his face that prompts me look around for whatever the joke is.  A glance of my surrounding yields no clues, then my eyes return to TImmy and I scanned him up and down.  His forearm is hanging awkwardly as a trickle of blood ran down from his elbow to his wrist, the skin torn up in several spots indicating more of a skid than just a single point of contact with the earth/rocks/trees or whatever.  I stood silently waiting for him to acknowledge that he was, in fact, bleeding now, but was not when I first left him.

“So, I found trail, let’s go!” He takes off at his TImmy pace, in the same direction we’ve already been, passing the shinto shrine again.  I imagine he’s leaving drops of blood that will be tracked by investigators at some point.

“Timmy, if we get lost again, I think the Blair Witch will be summoned and start taking our teeth.”  I joke, realizing there is a greater probability that we will see the Blair Witch than we will complete the trail without getting lost again.

Passing the spot he was previously lost, with more certainty this time, we come across the same mountain bikers again.  I secretly hope they are lost too. I take notice that they are not bleeding like TImmy.

“Here it is, the Turkey Eagle split!”  It’s now after 5pm, over an hour into the hour long trail and we are just shy of the half-way point.

Timmy points out a few patches of flour as we make way down the trail.  Running late, but back on track, and we come to the road.

Timmy stops.  He looks behind him.

“I’m guessing we are lost.”  I say astutely.

“We missed a turn.”  Timmy says. I am aware that missing turns is what causes us to get lost.

Backtracking, we find the turn we missed.  We hustle along the trail, reach the far end of the Eagle trail, the half way point.  It’s 5:30. Timmy is the beer-meister and needs to be at the trough start at 6:00. It has taken an hour and a half to go halfway down the trail.  And I have very little faith we can do the rest of the trail without getting lost.

Miraculously, we do not get lost, even taking a shortcut back to the car bypassing the Turkey trail.  We haul a cooler for Beer Near into a grove and hide it. We bring the trough into the trough start at 6:15 like nothing ever happened.  A few of the early hashers run over and grab their beers, blissfully unaware that we spent more than two hours without laying a trail that we are about to attempt laying within an hour. 

“Hey Timmy are you bleeding?”  a particularly observant half-mind asks.

Timmy lifts up his elbow, for the first time acknowledging the obvious, grabs a napkin to wipe down his arm to make it somewhat more presentable.

Timmy gives trail instruction to the assembled pack without hinting that we’ve spent more time on trail lost than actually knowing where we.

“Please charge your phone”  I say waving a battery pack to the crowd.  “Please download the offline google maps, there is no reception.” I beseech the assembled mass of hashers who still have the misplaced faith that the hares can lay a trail to bring them safely out of the forest.

We head with our bags of flour to lay a trail we have not done yet sucessfully, Timmy and I split up for me to leave the initial YBF onto portion of the trail I have not yet seen.  I bound down the trail and come to a split, that I did not expect. Shit. Left probably. Meeting back up with Timmy, I leave extraordinary amounts of flour at every turn. On the Eagle split, I consult with the maps on my phone three different time to make sure I am not leading the pack astray.  I run short on flour as I arrange sticks scavenged from the forest floor into arrows. At Turkey-Eagle rejoin, I have the opportunity to shortcut, but instead I make a giant wooden arrow just to make sure the pack does not get lost. Of course, the Eagles catch me while I’m working.

Bounding off down the trail, I run into the middle of the Turkey pack at a check.  They ask me which way trial go.

“I have no fucking clue which way trail goes.  I have no fucking clue if Timmy is lost. I have no fucking clue where the pack is.  I have no fucking clue how many hashers are lost in woods. I have no fucking clue how many organs the police are going to find in the trees when the Blair Witch devours them.” 

None of the turkeys are listening to me.  Someone calls “on-on”, and I take off jogging in the middle of the pack I’m supposed to be leading.  

At liquor check at the barrels, I wait for the DFLs, assuming at a minimum I’ll be able to hear their screams as the Blair Witch devours their souls. up

Finally heading back in with the last of the walkers, we stagger into the grove where Beer Near is.  Timmy hands me beer.

“Anyone lost?”  I ask not really wanting to know the answer.

“Everyone is here except Puff.  He’ll be in whenever.” Timmy grins.   “We finally got the trail right. See, I told you everything was gonna work out just fine.” 

hash trash 975

Uncategorized

Hash 975 – Patriotic Ramblings plus Hot Dogs.

It takes FOUR hares to lay this trail…but Princess Di slipped out to check on her other weenies.

Thump getting ready to do his month old hash laundry….or maybe this time he really will set a live trail.

 

hmmm.

another head scratcher hash says Timmy!!! Dog Breath waits with bated breath for a divine message in a bottle….or in a red solo cup….or in a dog bowl.

 

Say Hi to your new crossing guard…Steamy B.

 

 

 

 

Notice how all the new kids are running for their lives….wonder what’s chasing them? All that marathon training has finally paid off for Ho to Housewife as she leads the pack in a frantic escape. Guess they were between a rock and a hard place.

 

 

 

 

 

Check out that view from Privates! It’s not what you are thinking…get your mind out of the gutter.

 

 

 

 

 

Oh, the promised land of weenies.

 

 

 

 

 

These two jokers were late the to party. Guess they were waiting on their embossed, engraved invitation rather than actually following the flour.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Have grill will travel. The party’s over.

But it’s been revived since the arrival of Broke Bench and Cumz.

 

And our fashion icon Ho who caused fellow hashers – Dog Breath –  to miss marks and get lost….again.

 

 

 

This trio….My little Boney, Banana Basher and Wicked never made it out of fast eddy’s. Guess they were too cool to do trail. Maybe they thought they could pick up some chicks by showing off what they can do with their pool tool.

 

And then we have the hares. Just the four of them trying to honor a national holiday by wrapping themselves in festive flags and guzzling PBR’s. What’s better than red, white and blue all while getting YBF’d?

 

Can’t forget our backsliders: Summers Yeast, Stub Rub and Wicked.

We had a visitor from Ft Lauderdale, Florida.

We had a big analversary….Steamy B with 75 hashes to his credit.

I think we had a virgin who told a bad joke.

I think we had weenies and beer….and a tofu burger or two.

I think we had a good time….as always….or not!

On On On

CumFartZone

 

 

 

 

Trail 998 – Mud Slide

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Trail 998 celebrated our anal Friday after Thanksgiving shit show… Oh, I mean trail. We started day drinking at a respectable time of 1pm this year at the home of Steamy Baanorrhea. I hope everyone saw the huge boa hanging out in his living room. Rumor is, that boa was once the pet of his Mom and was lost in her car for six months after a car accident only to resurface one day while she was out driving. Glad he didn’t decide to come out one day while she was getting her car serviced!

Trail set out quickly to Cabrillo College where both eagles and turkeys climbed the hill up to the Horticulture Center. Upon reaching the summit, we were rewarded with a slippery slope which ended in an LC pit of Fire… Ball. After warming our insides with a swig of cinnamon death, we went down the muddy trail and along a small trail before hitting the turkey eagle split. Eagle was a muddy climb in the trails above Cabrillo then a crazy paved descent along Vienna Drive.

We reunited with the turkeys at the base of Cabrillo where we made our way back over Soquel Dr to the other side of trail where we found our next LC. Rumor has it that it was a pumpkin Kahlua mixture but I decided to skip this one, because it looked like pureed baby shit. We quickly made our way back to Steamy’s house, where we filled ourselves with beer, foods and the remains of the LC’s.

Once we reached a state of shit show, we decided it would be a good time to try to have religion. Little by little we got our drunk asses over to a nice little patch of grass that we really would have appreciated had the weather been warmer.

Dung Fu was our RA for the afternoon and also managed to be his own beer fairy. Down downs were given to our visitors, Missile Anus, Dual Tools Worm and Shanghiney for making the best move of their week and joining us for our Friday hash. Princess Diarrhea and Pink Cherry Licker were both given down downs for missing an LC. After reaching the Horticulture Center, they took one look at the trails and said “fuck this shit”. Not a bad call. PCL and Accuprick are really trying hard to get us all to learn the lyrics to the new SCH3 song “Number 45”. Hey, all I know is the chorus so far but we’re getting there! Myself (H2H), Dung Fu and Puff the Magic Drag Queen were all given a down down for slipping and falling on trail. Sorry about the mud on the fireball bottle, I had to wipe my hands on something! When it came time for backsliders to take their down downs, we included Occasional Rapist in the shame, since she tried to call up Organ Grinder, who wasn’t even there. How much of your LC did you have, girl?

Lastly, our hares Steamy Baanorrhea and Occasional Rapist were brought up and chided for their shitty, shitty trail.

On on on went over to Manuel’s, where we drank and ate and drank to our cold little heart’s pleasure.

Next week will be hash 999 from 99 bottles. Our hares will be Dung Fu & Baker’s Doesn’t. I’m sure they have fantastic, terrible things in store for us. Don’t miss it! All the cool kids are going.