Bullitts= Old Haunts Hash

So on a mucky Monday night we find ourselves in the bucolic Hidden Valley which loverly location I remember from a previous trot set out by Bullitt several years ago, an easy walk through the woods, apart from the fact he got lost blaming it on his wife. And here is where Hyena first came, but now he comes more often because he has his Humidor. Also the hangout of a horrible Hogtown Hash. Well speaking of old haunts, here=s Hot Schlitz coming for a hug, but she=s got baseball and not inclined to join the ragged pack of hashers and thereby spoil her good looks. What good sense! What foresight! Based on above-named Bullitt run in these environs, yours truly imagined another idyllic summer stroll, and was not prepared for the onslaught of mud-slickened mountains and ravines, and only the knowledge of having a heart surgeon in the pack kept me from throwing that coronary. I shoulda known the bad news when we took off in a different direction and sprinted lustily where hogtowners drove their car. Last summer=s porcine trail was bad enough getting lost in the woods with TwoJugs, but on this pristine Monday night selfsame paths were covered in ankle deep mud, which crossing the stream several times did not out and many an arse was muddied. Mountains were scaled, fences were hopped, and thighs challenged on vertical downslopes. We passed by an insane asylum, and us being the escapees, or was it a convent, housing the delusional in any case. The only pleasant part was a steep descent on an actual road, yo-ho down we go, but soon enough it was back into the bush, the fodder of mosquitoes. Two hours hence we finally stumble out of the woods, and make our way past hillbilly cottages whose owners firstly jeered us on, but who now surely were sitting behind the boob tube, clutching their beers. Beer! who said beer? I=ll have some of that, if there is any left and not all guzzled up by front running bastards. And on to the usual clownerie with the plunger. Old Hippo having left, not being amused by wallowing in the mud, there were three irregular characters, Herr Comes and Goes from Edmonton, his virginal bro Marcus Aurelius, and an Internet buzzard called Big Fat Bastard by his brothers, who said he would come again but in that case he=ll need a better name. Humid honours for the regulars, including the horrid hare. For Woodpecker who was running around with a corsage on her chest, having stolen it from highschool kids, and soliciting the question if they were real. She was accused of being deflowered and having 7 orgasms on trail, but haven=t we all on occasion given the encouraging yells, trying to get the damn thing over with and Sally* was one of them. Cruel and vicious Black Widow had stomped on a frog, making Nipplering cry; Skewbic Hair took a bath in the creek and went on and on and on, and TwoJugs had new shoes on Saturday, for which we sang The Sexual Life of the Camel with gusto. Shock and horror for chivalry on trail, Competitive Running by P=NGuin and Deep Throat did not show up last week having run a Marathon, what a lame excuse.

So on-on all the way up to Waterdown, to that excellent Gator=s Ted, and the waiter happy to see us. Drinks being slobbered, wings being gobbled, fries being shoveled and in the end when wallets were being pulled the happy news that it was all on PetroCan but with the proviso to make our next pitstop at the Petro station. Thanks boys, but jeez, if PetroCan has so much money to burn, couldn=t they at least take some pennies off at the pump?

Here we are back again on Germorda Drive, not to be confused with Bomorda Drive just down the street on the left, don=t these Oakville name droppers have any imagination, I guess not, same old same old, like the hash through these haunts, always the same, it=s either left or right, never any fucking beer stops but at least the old homestead is lovely, and so is the wife and the garden, but that=s about all the old Cue gots going for him, although the anklebiters are cute too but put a crimp on the bawdy songs so stick them in TV land. And wouldn=t you know, old haunts make old hags coming out of the woodwork just to sweat their arse off in these negligeable neighbourhoods such as Termin and her Termineater, Terrier, Braindead and even the part time No Name Bastard and his hand and foot maiden Mephisto, what is the attraction, it must be Cueball=s sex appeal or nothing better to do on a Monday night since no football, and so before they start they already run out of hotdogs because tonite there=s new dogs as well, a big slobbering pack of them, so a quick trip to the forager and off we go, and in the end there still is too fucking much food what are the poor people doing.

Well like I said, the same unimaginative trail, through avenues and alleyways, slogging thru the occasional park, crossing the same damn creek 8 times, past garden sheds and schools and cop shops where Termin and Handjob go pee getting frisked in the process, and clonk clonk clonk back to home base. Bringing up the rear Cueball confessed that he was lost from the minute he started, prompting ET to admonish him: AWell get yer head out of yer asshole then!@ This reCALLED CueBALL fond memories of when he was a young lad and asked his father for a car. The old man said ACan you touch your asshole with your dick? No? - Then you can=t have a car@. After a year of pulling Cueball asked his Da again for a chariot and the answer was. ACan you touch your asshole with your dick? Yes? - Well go fuck yourself@. Such was his family upbringing and made him a well adjusted young man.

So much for what some claimed to be running and on to the drinking, starting off with down-downs administered by the pregnant Two-Jugs although this would have been impossible according to Jean Drapeau*, and when TwoJugs asked for a second opinion it was confirmed Ayes you are an idiot@. GM begins with berating the Hare for a hopeless run awarding him the Fetid Foot award, and we won=t see that Foot for a while because after having had 2 kids Cueball doesn=t come too often any more as Hardcore won=t let him. Then calling on the backsliding bastards who show up because they heard there was food tonite for whom Bumsteer comes up with a song about fucking virgins, no doubt from the Hogtowners that rude bunch, and I say we should have a hymnal since we no longer have a hymen and can=t remember the first man or the last song and some of these are or were really good. So Handjob and Termineater get it for using the WC in the PC, Braindead for going into the deep end, No Name Bastard gets to drink outof his new shoe, strained through Handjob=s sockasa teabag, although he thinks that beer with sex would have been better than beer with sox, a common misconception with men who also think that sex with their sox on is cool. Always in a hurry to get it. Now on to a double ring ceremony for Useless who because of his venerable age will henceforth be called Sir Useless and he got his 100-run foot award and Hyena got it for competitive running AND for pissing on the trail, and isn=t he much happier now that he is back to boozing and knows all these good songs from Florida about his seester pissing in a sombrero. So there=s interlopers who are bashing without hashing but who gives a damn because they bring more food, and we are now going to gorge ourselves, but no matter what we do, we can=t get it all down and isn=t it always the way that you end up choking on it.