Hash #565
What can I say about a hash where the entire pack Chevy-shortcuts, and no one has to drink for it? Well, I could say a lot of things, and if I were N.F.B., I would say that the main problem with this hash wasn’t the trail, it was the rest of the pack who somehow developed hash-induced laryngitis which prevented them from yelling “ON-ON.”
Like I said, we were supposed to start @ the Walmart in Ephrata, but the hares in some obvious bout of drunken stupor (in the case of Over Exposed) and addled brain damage (in the case of Everyday Asshole) decided that the parking lot just didn’t have the right aura, and a more feng-shui –friendly start would be about 2 miles down the road.
Alright whatever, so we drive over to the parking lot of what appeared to be an amish whorehouse, and off we went. Up up up, and not a ½ mile later, BEER NEAR!. Well, that was a fun hash, while it lasted. We’re hanging out having some brews, when all of a sudden here come the Queer Nation protesters – three dudes all dressed in pink or some kind of neon dayglo, prancing through the woods like a pack of wood nymphs. Yep, you guessed it, NFB, Girly and Swamp must have been lost on trail or participating in some kind of bizarro-sick-twisted circle jerk. (my money is on the latter).
And like lightning we’re back on trail. Guke makes a quick stop to steal the hare’s car keys, and the pack finds trail….and…. Ruff Butt and Desperate Dave. Holy shit, we’re being over-run by those Harrisburg/Hershey-ites!!!
Up up up through some kind of archery range, I kept ducking behind trees, praying that it was Wabbit Season, not Duck Season…. Several turned ankles later, and after almost losing Horn in some kind of a tiger-trap left over from the Vietnam war, we ended-up at this interstellar launching platform/beercheck. Apparently the hares were offering libations other than beer, because it was around this time, that NFB started to whine. Maybe it was the pink jacket bringing out the bitch in him,or maybe Horn hadn’t given him his 4:00 AM telespanking in the past few days, but NFB was riding the rag pretty hard.
Down down down down, the pack went, ending up in the lovely burgh of Ephrata, where I had some awful flashbacks to a type-A event I ran several years ago. Apparently the hares had run low on flour, because all we could find were check marks spaced blocks apart from one another, and at times it seemed as if the entire pack was check-hanging, and waiting for some civilian to point the way to us. Finally, we found a long stretch of trail (I’m talking at least 3 blocks here, folks) where trail was actually marked. Yet another check and the pack disbursed, some of them huddling for warmth under a parked car, others standing in the middle of the street hoping to be hit by a passing motorist, still others harassing the local citizenry for cabfare. Just then, NFB emerges and starts up the whininator about “stealth hashing” and all sorts of bullshit. He proceeds to lead the pack down to a false acting like we deserved it or something. I tells ya, some peoples kids… you can’t live with ‘em, you can’t tie their heads to a 100 lb weight and drop it into a boiling vat of acid. Well…technically you can, but we just can’t afford to lose another dues-paying hasher. Back onto the trail, again whispering “on-on” at each mark, we ran through a series of lakes –oops, I mean puddles --- left behind by the Nor-Easter and finally found the Apres.
I never did catch the name of the joint….. but there was all kinds of mean nasty ugly looking people there. Mother rapers. Father stabbers. Father rapers! Father rapers sitting right there in the bar next to us! And they was mean and nasty and ugly and horrible crime-type guys sitting in the bar next to us. And the meanest, ugliest, nastiest one, the meanest father raper of them all, was coming over to Polly and he was mean ‘n’ ugly ‘n’ nasty ‘n’ horrible and all kinds of things and he sat down next to Polly and …. Hold on, that wasn’t my trash, that was some of the lyrics to Alice’s Restaurant. How the fuck did the two files get joined?
Anyway, we sat there drinking among the other lowlifes – watching the local Ephrata mob making book at the bar, then taking the deadbeats outside to kneecap ‘em. Eschewing the illegal activities at the bar, the hash decided to lay down money on the exact dollar amount of the dental work that the waitress needs. Bushwhacker and I held our glasses under an exposed part of the ceiling so we could be sure to get as much asbestos in our beer as possible, and Girlie passed around some skin-mag that he’s been publishing.
After a few pitchers, NFB started to cheer up a little bit, but then he got lost some how. We thought he was out on trail looking for the wayward Desperate Dave and Ruff Butt, but apparently he was just lost inside Phone Sex’s shirt – the lucky stiff. He came out all dumb and happy looking, grinning from ear to ear. Phone Sex reached down and set her beer on his flat head and all was right with the world.
Then it was on to Hash Business, where we made Guke drink for wearing Type-A Apparel, and then we named yet another hasher-recruit. Just Leo, who has hashed with us and Harrisburg several times was dubbed “Piglet” thanks to his lowly position in law enforcement community. To celebrate the naming, Everyday, Fuzzbuster, and Phone Sex started to do some kind of a kick-line and I thought I was watching the Ziegfield follies.
The evening quickly devolved when one of the local drunks tried to pick-up Polly & Horn (charming them with his chronic halitosis, lazy eye, gimpy foot, tenuous grasp of the English language, and eleven fingers). I brushed by on my way to the shitter and heard him woo Polly with a sultry “once you been with a eleven fingered guy, you just don’t go back.” I tells ya, you could have cut the pheremones in that room with a knife. Horn – desperate to throw her pursuer off her scent, announces that NFB is actually her husband. Unfortunately, this just got the guy even more interested, and he suggested that they have “one of them Man-ager-Tree’s.” Polly must have been even more desperate than Horn, because she latched onto me to stave-off her new courtier.
After having titillated the locals with our fine collection of high-class bimbos, we planned a hasty exit, sticking the hares with the bartab, and making sure to defile the parking lot.
Shitty hash….Shitty Apres….
Disrespectfully Submitted.
Decoy
