Well wouldn’t you know, they let the poor bastard out of the hospital, but they don’t let him off the hook for setting a hash, it being his turn, and why not, him having a Deep Throat to help him out, since he was otherwise buggered up falling off his bike. So on a hot Sunday aft we gathered on the pavement in a Burlington burb, and probing questions were being asked by the GM before we even started off, such as who made you come, well none of your business buddy, but newly come Jamie said it was himself. O.K., such things happen, we all have our barren periods, but sometimes masturbation is the best since you meet a better class of people. And there were other relatively newcomers, such as Little Big Horn or Big Little Horn, presumably named after his private parts so let’s check it out hashers and see what we are talking about here is it Big or is it Little. And there were oldcomers such as Cougar whose only excuse for not attending for eons was kids and having been to meet the Czar of Russia. Well, let me tell you, there IS no excuse for missing a hash, particularly such a totally crappy one, with no beer stop in the hazy heat, marks on the wrong side of the road and running through lacklustre localities and preppy parkettes, with NO challenges, NO creeks to wade through and NO cemeteries to contemplate life and death situations. To top it all off, two of those lazy louts loafing along asked ME to carry them, and they were big guys too; well of course us wimmin are the beasts of burden in the grand scheme of life, being saddled with you guys’ psychological non-payloads, as well as having to look after every needy inch and fiber in your bods and buts, but just buzz off will-ya! Get there on your own or get left behind on the winding road of life or the hash metaphorically speaking. But get there we all eventually did, that is to the down-downs, and of course they were for the co-hairs, Bloodclot and Deep T., for navigating such a nauseating hash. Other honours were handed out such as to Jamie for being a CFRB, and he showed his hasher potential by dunking the drink very, very quickly and wasted not a drop, to Scousebitch for not once complaining on the hash, now here’s a novelty, and to some related limeys who were observing the melee from the royal box while celebrating the Queen’s birthday. That was the sister and then there was Saltlick who got fingered for being orientally challenged by misplacing the Hash symbol on her chariot so that it now says No-No. She however was given the option of taking the chalice or dropping her top, but under catcalls of "Drink the Beer!" she declared she wasn’t showing her tits to anyone, leading to more tomcat calls to "give her another beer!" Men must have their hopes, and it always seems to be up. So then there was splashing in the pool surrounded by 173 figurines in the grass and some of them cute, such as Black Widow’s present squeeze being ogled by a potential pops-in-law, and a BBQ, but Bloodclot ran out of gas the poor bugger and he couldn’t drive with his right hand or was it his leg, so dinner was late, but by then we were sufficiently sauced that we didn’t even know if these recycled burgers were bearable or edible, and I decided right then and there to become a vegetarian, so keep your meat to yourself, although I will still swallow the occasional fish, but not that fish that sang "Take me to the River!" because he was the life of the party, and without such grand entertainment it would have been a pisspoor event which it wasn’t.

On-On!