You can usually tell dementia is setting in when people forget what they decided on three minutes ago, and since Roadkill could not remember whether the appointed hour was 3 or 4, all the 3 o’clock people had to wait till 4, but we amused ourselves with shitshat with the surprise-visiting Knickerbocker and several newbies never heretofore been seen, and we may never see them again, because let’s face it hashing is not for the faint of heart. Although what weakness overcame Roadkill at the setting of this mishash was not clear, because his usual 3-hour run was replaced this time by a 45 minute stroll, and a good thing it was because of the participation by many lame and crippled persons, plus some that can only walk on their best day, including Clot just dismissed from the hospital, Weaklink with a weak ankle, Barbie recently having survived a life threatening blood disease, and that is not counting the usual hasher faults and diseases, but wouldn’t you know it, they all want to talk about it so a good thing Dr. Jeep didn’t show up till later to be lambasted by a litany of medical ailments and requests for free advice. So off we went on our walk through the neighbourhood and the loverly Shell Park where the sign said no picking of flowers, but apparently flowers of the night are being picked up there and deflowerings taking place, but we only picked up burrs as we toddled along the designated route, except for a group of competitive bastards, such as Hyena & Skewbic, who dashed off in the wrong direction and never were seen again until the regulars returned to the cars and found them drinking beer having broken into Roadkill’s roadster that contained the revitalizing liquids. So after a few slugs and shrimpcicles the drinkingdown began, and there was Skewbic who had an electronic device in his pants, a dicktaphone presumably, giving him a buzz once in a while, Hyena who turned out to be an accomplished car-jacker with a coathanger, Clot was rechristened Bloodclot, and Elaine Frontrunning Bitch, so now we have two of them, and then we went in convoy to the Roadhouse, where many appetizing food items, more booze and hash wimpouts were awaiting. Now it must be noted that at the spring Annual Mismanagement Meeting the outgoing GM Roadkill cut off his own scrotum by declaring no more hash birthday or wedding celebrations, so his was a No-Birthday Party, him having reached senility and sixty, and he wanted it erased, but Menu clearly made up a roadmap of 60 memorable years for all to see, including when he was young and good looking, if you can let your imagination soar to such dizzying heights, so there we had the story of his life plus a birthday cake, so drink up and be merry, you don’t know how long it will last, and certainly not if you risk your health by drinking out of a dirty sock such a Skewbic was sentenced to do. And with so much fluids it was a good thing that Menu has at least 8 bathrooms and I visited them all until it was time for the ride home in a pleasant state of euphoria, and the conviction that if the road to sixty leads along many happy hash trails, you can’t get lost in life.