So here you have the summary of this year's sailing weekend: sail, barf, eat, drink, run, drink, eat, drink, sing songs, barf, piss and pass out, crawl outa tent, eat, run (or rather walk), drink, eat more and sail and drink more. Same shit every year, so why are we so addicted? It surely can't be the company, so it must be the booze. And what was different on this sail hash that we didn't have 5 years in a row already? Other than the fact that Phart had his main pole up in 15 minutes, rather than taking the usual 2 hours, but only because Brinker (formerly Bastard) was there with a memory that had not yet been erased by alcohol. And the grub was better, because we did not have to scrounge way the hell over to the other side of the premises for a few lousy hamburgs handed out by some grumpy local sailors. No, we had our own backyard boys barbecuing the boneless breasts, adorned and supplemented with tons of appetizing and fattening goodies brought along by lardy hashers who use running once around the block as an excuse for overeating/drinking. But otherwise it was the same floppy sail across the pond with the usual few getting seasick and wanting to barf leeside rather than aft, thereby splattering the captain's deckshoes, the same run-around on well-trodden paths, going left this year rather than right, but covering the same old ground. We were however missing the usual bridal parties and the champagne stop, Skewbic saving for his own nuptials no doubt. And the same old down-downs after, although Jesus went to see if she could walk on water at the time of reckoning and thus missed being crucified for being late for castoff and this after telling us sinners we would burn in hell if we did not arrive at the pearly boat club gates in time. And Rosie Breastburn got her purgatory plunger for sleeping her dreams of innocence or sodden sin right through the hash and thus did not miss a damn thing except getting tortured by her inserts. And here's a toast for Toad & Gary, for canoodling with intent to commingle. And since Skewbic himself was handing out the putdowns I don't remember the Scewmaster himself being called on the carpet for an extremely lousy hash right through some poison ivy which has haunted old Phart ever since. But I'm sure the self-same Skewbic got his share of beer that day into the night, because I do recall him plonking ripped- off tree branches in the burnt out BBQ so that he could bore us once again with his sexual Sphinx around the fire, get a new repertoire will ye. A few other questions remain, such as who modelled his dick for the t-shirts (Skewbic again and will this be your joy on your wedding night Mucky Dip ? There is still time to bow out having seen thís pathetic model) and was it a hasher smoking pot in the night, and why was the goddamn shower ice-cold, although the sight of Toad under same was anything but. However, this nudity was no comparison to 2Jugs showing his two moons snuggling into a bathing suit earlier on. And where wás that moonlit nude swimming party taking place? in your dreams boys. So the next day it was the usual limp loafers pretending they were running, but only ET was, especially when approaching the various camp conveniences to which she madly dashed urged along by her guts. And a Coffee Stop on a Hash?? Gimme a break. Gary was christened Canoodle, but no one knows how to spell it, and Cuntel promised that his next Hash would be French only, but I haven't seen him since sacrébleu. And as usual everyone had their wind taken out their sails on a Sunday, so it was motoring back all the way, except for the layabouts who jumped into the water halfway through, and surely had more drinks on their journey home than the completely sobered up ET who contemplated the coming week with a happy glow from a great weekend in the beautiful outdoors except that it sounded just like home with those fucking crows cawing in the morning and the highway traffic zooming along and the snoring all night long, and this time in stereo, Phart's logs being sawed twice by 2Jugs.