|
Handjob's
going down in Lowville Hash
December
2, 2001
It being a balmy December Sunday we
find ourselves in Lowville Park so as to partake in today's hash set by Handjob
with Bumsteer as a silent partner. Sure enough at the Hare Instructional Moment
she told poor B.S. to shut up - once she used him, she did not need him any
more, bringing Hyena to muse as to where she learned this trick, probably after
her first orgasm. A Dancing Queen from S. Africa had joined the group, later
regaling us with stories about carjacking of BMWs in that lovely country. So
after GM sold dollar store lanyards for 2 bucks, but I got a special deal or
else bad things will be written, off we go, but not before hare and yours truly
were almost run over by the chronically challenged Little Banger screeching into
the parking lot, who had to finish "me shepherd’s pie" first before
coming. Phart complains that I do this with the newspaper. The outrageously
orange spray paint had been sold to Handjob as being environmentally friendly
& soluble but no doubt the indelible marks thereof will still lead the
extraterrestrials in the XXIIIrd century to speculating about what on Mars did
these earthlings do here??? Well, what we did, we started by hiking up this very
steep hill which I recognized from some previous tongue hanger, and ended up in
a Stonehenge look-alike golf course while cracking silly jokes about Osama and
Oral Sox leading the way, because once a month TwoJugs apparently gets horny and
she needs to run for the hills or so I was told by Hyena who claims to have the
in on the sex life of hashers about which more later. And here we arrive at a
very classy beer stop which turns out to consist of Kahlua and hot choc, oh such
ambrosia, and it is too bad that from there we have to continue on crisscrossing
the park several times up some damn hill and down and it was to HandJob's credit
that she managed to make so much out of something so small - the park that is.
So finally we end up at the wagons, which we had already circled a few times
before, but this time for the down-downs and starting with HandJob who was
accused of not using enough flour on the golf course. Dyscount celebrating his
101st run got the beer but not the foot, and was denounced for having
no life, spending too much time at the hash. Well talking about the pot and the
kettle by our quintessential hash family for whom our hash does not seem to be
enough, no they have to slut around elsewhere, and so it was noted that TwoJugs
had been dancing at the Hogtown annual Hash with lust in his eyes, but it was
not clear whether the next morning she said "thank you" or "no
thank you", and there had been defecation on the trail by Hyena who
apparently did not return the leftover paper; and fashion notes revealed shorts
being worn in winter and that Human Cannonball TwoJugs looked like a yellow
Pac-man in his new ensemble and so we went on to the Original Gaitors Ted, and
here TwoJugs was at it again ogling, and when the lovely young waitress
announced that the Head Chef was in tonite to cook the wings, we all sang the
Vikings Head song, embarrassing this vestal virgin no end, and the fries were
not curly but the suicide wings were very hot, causing Black Widow to phone Amy
to put the toilet paper in the freezer, and all nice and filled up with fat food
me Phart and I fiddled down on home, but not until I had scared a patron by
popping my head over the railing, which made him scream "Jesus", but
she is in Parry Sound now, and if he thought he saw a saintly apparition, at
least he could have called me Maria because the song goes "They call the
Wind Mariah" and I was standing in Phart's wake.
On-On ............to
Useless'
Twenty-Twenty Pissoff Hash
Jan
20, 2002
After a hashing hiatus due to nasty knee, your spasmodic
scribe seemingly the single source of hash history and tattle, ventured out on a
mindless Sunday aft so as to partake weak-knee-edly in above hare’s runabout,
which she previously thought was a nice guy. Well, deceived, deceived again by a
man, when will we ever learn? So here’s Useless flaunting the theory that this
was a 20-min affair (pray that men would last this long), no false trails and
the usual offhand lies spouted avant-gallope by hares hoping you would take them
for their word. In line with the fact that we have here a Useless engineer a
profession wont to lowball the task at hand so that they can reel in the
lucrative contracts, Useless just happened to leave out a zero thus the 20 min
workout was more akin to a 200 min via dolorosa. Black Widow, Bumsteer and
another keener, whose name I do not recollect because GM forgot the roundcircle
intros, went as usual on their own private, overexuberant and offpissing
leaving-everyone-else-behind dash. This served them right, because they ended up
doing the 20 min false trail ending at a waterfront cliff, which the rest of us
was thankfully spared, due to hare knowing better than further antagonizing
mutinying masses, giving these showoffs only a 20 min head start on the
beerdrinking recovery. Nipple ring and HandJob were somewheres in between taking
a shower together, while the rest of the faithful doggypack followed the whole
damn trail and all the damn marks, including loads of birdsheet, I mean seed.
So, yes, we ran, and ran and walked and walked, and every time there was a
bloody two-way you would think it would loop back, but no, we were going further
and further away, crossing Burnhamthorpe and Eglington and the Credit, getting
ourselves damn near downtown. Finally the climax was reached, and still an hour
to get back, the only highlight being Barbie finding a golfball and getting it
stuck in Phart’s horn, but ET to the rescue she knows how to get guys balls
out. Traipsing along an endless railroad track, matching in length the corny Ken
jokes, and then:
Finally, finally back on home and on on to the down-downs,
starting with Useless for giving us such a sorry sojourn and no excuse. It was
noted by ET that Phart would be complaining because after this long haul she
would not be able to go down on her knees for another 4 weeks. On to those
over-achievers Black Widow, Bumsteer and Keener for not following the trail and
going down the longest wrong way ever, Bummy ending up with a foaming head.
We’ll have to talk to the Vikings about that! Barbie with the excuse that he
did not want to ruin the landscape (well then make sure you’re not in it!),
had exhibited chivalrous behaviour, along with Phart, the latter being spared
the chalice, so as not to waste good beer on bad teetertotallers and thus, Phart
intent on driving his golfball home, yours truly and her consort took off,
having no knowledge of any further debauchery taking place at the local on-on
joint, and missing Two Jugs singing swinging low.
Hansie's
Haggisless Hot Tub Hash
Jan
27, 2002
Having blocked out any incoming
e-messages with the word "Hot Tub" because No Name Bastard’s
computer had a virulent virus, yours truly had no inkling that above Hash would
be used to celebrate the Birthday of the Famous Bard Burns. Och ay, yee, and I
do have the plaid shorts in me drawers, but three kilts from the TwoJugs Clan
was surely enough to pay the tribute. So on a splendiferous Sunday aft, lacking
in Canadian snow and Scottish fog, a cheerful crowd gathered in the Garden City
to celebrate Not Just Robbie, but the mere fact of being alive. And a good bunch
of revelers it was, including Moist Leatherette and Shampoo from Hog Town and
Just Bruce from Somewheres. So here’s Oral Sox passing out a dram of Scotch in
frugal paper cups swallowed thankfully by the lushes. TwoJugs announced it was
run No. 659, but hecklers demanded a recount of these numbers through an
independent audit by Arthur Anderson. After yelling Shuddup! GM waxed poetic,
reciting a wee verse about a "Wee Sleekit, Cow’rin Tim’rous
Beastie" (guess what creature in the animal kingdom he was referring to,
and no it was not his dickie), in a godawful pseudo phony Scottish accent.
General jeering and off we go. No instructions from the hare but there was some
yelling that we needed to waitup for Mrs. Robinson and her Hogtown Shadow, who
got lost on the highway in her red sporty car no doubt confused by the North and
South map references. Well, she caught up soon enough, just missing the initial
pissing about, and a good thing it was because her seafood jambalaya was the
best (her musscles weren’t too bad either), but that must have been because
she picked the fresh chives while running through the woods. So we pass a little
time trotting around, up and down a few hills and the only thing that saved this
from being Boring! was the fact that this was a gorgeous spring day in the
middle of January, and the impromptu beer stop at HandJob’s parents house,
them having gone off so as not to disturb the invading horde, but leaving the
beer and the mickies on the porch. Unfortunately no key, forcing various people
to pee in backyards and in woods, to their later detriment.
So the obligatory down-downs for the hare, but none for
his co-hare the guilty Glowworm, HandJob got cited for two transgressions, i.e.
organizing a beer stop and a crafty pee in her parents garden, but leave it to
someone to spy on this. Repeat performance for No Name Bastard for pissing on
trail, he was rubbing his stick with glee, i.e. the chalice handle, false
accusation from Black Widow that Phart was pissing, but his was après-trail,
and there was something about Black Widow’s stump and his scratched legs; a
bloody sight they were too. Yours truly being penalized for pissing in the woods
but having an excuse for non-attendance, so they sang a touching tribute to me
that they missed me but otherwise these downdowns were pisspoor.
Well enough of this and after No Directions to his house
from No Name Bastard, who got TwoJugs waylaid because he raced first to the
(closed) beerstore at speeds approaching 90 km/hr, we all traipsed over to the
welcoming mansion where we found a sciatica-riddled Deepthroat Bashing without
Hashing and once again it was a bloody foodfest, where the lack of decent Sunday
afternoon exercise was compensated by too much dietary indulgence and so the
masses stuffed their faces with gourmet potluck although no haggis, and then
jumped the hot tub, needing bailout buckets for too much lard being lowered
therein. Special kudos to Mephistoles for her dazzling paperware, a Waste but no
Crisis because recycled. And oh it was good all that food, except for the drone
of some stupeed sports event going on in the background, oh yee culturally
challenged cretins, what’s football got to do with celebrating the Scottish
Bard! Enough to make Robbie lament where is the Scotch in this. None being in
yours truly and her royal consort, we headed home at a reasonable hour, and for
once did not insist on drinking the cellar dry
Can't
Count Dyscount Hash
Feb
3, 2002
Since we were in town your fearless reporter and her sidekick
Phart decided to grace this otherwise graceless event. Phart leading Lubricunt
by the nose raced into the school’s parking lot only to be outdone by
P’Nguin coming with a crash into the snow bank. Cheerfully she admitted that
she had not been home since last night and did not own the pants she was now
wearing. Well, she always wanted to get into a boy's pants and did, leading
Weaklink to proclaim: "She must have had sex, because she is smiling - she
always smiles when she has had sex, I know!" Steamy tittilating
revelations, having hashers bare all. I oughta come more often, but the
neighbours already complain about the noise. Apparently again we don’t
introduce ourselves, since we already know who we are, the only announcement
being that this is Run No. 660 and 666 coming up. Instructions from Hare
Dyscount: Marks in chalk on concrete lightpoles but he lied, as there were many
concrete trees on trail. There was sexual orienteering involved, another lie.
Two to be on. Herr Dyscount heartily complaining that these dyslexic hashers
could not count, but what you want for a dyscount hash. A Twoway apparently
stands for 2 and no one held the checks. Many ignored false trails, hare
annoyed.
It having been announced that there was a spot with
"Beer Near" (BN) we was afeared that this consisted of Running past
the Beer Store but there in fact turned out to be a beer stop in Clot's garage
holding his magnificent motorcycles and Snot peeking around the door. Clot &
Wendy not home, went snow shoeing in the mall. But the absent host phoned to see
if we were o.k. Sure Clot, as long as we are drinking your beer we don’t need
you. Lubricunt announced happily he had "on-on privileges" today, not
meaning that he was allowed to get on, but allowed to be out late, mostly
because the wife went shopping for paint and knows better than to take useless
men along. His catchy name had stuck to me, because on Shoppers Seniors Day
recently I asked the Pharmacist for lubricunt. Buy it in bulk these days, Phart
not drinking and bored.
Why is it that legs are always so heavy starting up again
after an alcohol stop? But on on we go to where the path veered down into a
gulley, apparently climbing over a log was involved, here is were the sexual
orienteering came in, some young’uns claiming to be too green for this
activity. A path not taken by yours truly, had already seen a big log that day.
Down on home, pretty cold wind blowing in the parking lot,
and that cold beer makes you want to piss even more. Sought shelter by big snow
bank. HandJob making a pictorial story of her life, another photograph of her
one and only friends. Down-downs for the hooded hare, who pointed to the
Unterhaschengrupenführer, i.e. P’Nguin. Shortcutting by Black Widow, SexToy,
HandJob and Hyena, suitably punished. ET fingered once again for having a weak
bladder, but the existential dilemma inquired: was Clot’s basement loo - which
had a sign "Drop your Drawers here" - considered "On Trail"?
Apparently, since I came out with a book, but the urinary honour was fortunately
shared by Skewbic Hare. To top it off, or should I say bottom, there was a Pants
Down-down, first of all for P’Nguin for wearing someone else’s pants and
bragging about her extracurricular activities - get it through your head: only
the Hash counts, no claptrap about copulating elsewhere -, shared by TwoJugs for
his bad taste in pants, matching his equally floozy Sally Ann top, and he took
the pants down part seriously - spare us the sight dear friend.
On on being held at the Fox & Hound, or somesutch cutesy
name, Phart drove right by, rushing home to watch another stupeed a ball game
and ignoring his own fox hound to his later lament.
On-On !! TranScribed by E.T. - Jan 31 - Feb 5,
2002
|
