If you had any doubts that trail would be brutal, consider the following:

Locknut Monster is an anagram for Unlocks Torment.

BH1335 began in the ruins of a Pizza Hut in the ancient city of Fenton on the banks of the Meramec and it was hotter than two squirrels fucking in a wool sock on a tin roof in mid-July, or June in this case. Seriously, this is the sort of heat that attracts the Predator. Speaking of squirrels and heat, this hash had some visitors, including a squirting squirrel from Springfield and another from Hanoi who undoubtedly brought the sweltering humidity of Vietnam with her to the hash. As the crowd grew, the new GMs slinked about peddling their wares and collecting coin. All told, the damned Big Hump got me for $102.00, including a Bungle rego, hash cash, and shiggy socks. This makes one wonder if money spent on hashing could constitute a sizeable tax write off as it IS a non-profit organization. Probably not.

Circle slowly started to form around fifteen coolers and a bottle of Gold Bond. Note: while refreshing in the butt crack and male groin area, Gold Bond is literally napalm to a vagina. As I was told, a vagina will triple in size and burst in to flames if any of the powder even so much as touches it. Sorry ladies. Once the hare arrived already dripping sweat and covered in ticks, the RA started the ceremonies and proceeded to conduct them in an unconventional order and method. Intros were first, people were running around shaking hands, I had no idea what the hell was going on. Eventually, Just Something was brought into the circle to be bombarded with questions for a naming that would never happen. Questions ranged from the usual porn/dick/animal questions to tax forms (he uses the long form, fucking baller) to introspective questions like “what’s the favorite and least favorite part of your body?” Who the hell invited Dr. Phil and Oprah to the hash?! The hare was blessed and sent forth into the jungle with a 20 minute head start.

The beginning of trail was pretty straight forward, legging south towards the shopping centers and the topographically challenging terrain of the fabled Bluffs of Gravois. Coming up behind some shitty department stores, a turkey-eagle split was laid. Quickly after, on the eagle trail, the first chick check was laid. The hare had mentioned water hazards and one part of the check descended down a ravine towards the creek. This must be the direction, right? WRONG. Mother fucking blow job, made of floor, on dirt, under a bush. Torment, already unlocked. The true trail continued south on 141 and eventually up a mountain/hill/probably exaggerating. At the top, the hare left beer, water, and a pretty good view of the sun setting over a dozen big box department stores. The trail then headed down the backside of the bluff, across the last remaining farm fields in the area, and into a neighborhood. This is where this hare truly exercised his artistic talents in fuckery and confusion. A whichy-way and then a trail that just fucking divided. This would be the doom of a good chunk of the hash, who went uphill into the suburban hell to never be seen from again, or 30 minutes, whatever. The true trail went downhill, heading back towards Fenton Creek, but, unfortunately, the water was not deep enough for any serious water hazard / heat relief. Trail bounced around in the jungle until finally coming out at a park near the banks of the majestic Meramec for the beer halt. A couple hashers ventured into the water for relief, but the water was the temperature and consistency of soup, soup that has a really high mercury and lead content. Fortunately, their brains are already developed and damaged, so it’s no big deal. The gathered group was significantly smaller than it was at the start. The leading theory was that the missing portion were just intelligent hashers that said “fuck this heat, we’re going back.” The walkers set off and then the runners started. Just as the runners were leaving, the rest of the group emerged from the woods! They weren’t smart hashers that went back to the bar, they were goofs that got lost! The poor souls got turned around in the suburban maze of streets whose names all began with “Winter.” But they didn’t say fuck it, no, they pressed through and eventually found the beer halt.

At this point, it was fucking dark. Only Accidental Anal / Joseph “Blue” Palaski brought a headlamp. The damn thing was so bright, it was cooking the floor dots and the trailing pack just followed the smell of baked bread. Return trail was fairly straight forward, although the hare did lay a check that everyone ignored. By the time the entire pack returned, it was perilously close to the on-after’s kitchen’s closing time. Closing trail was hastily conducted, but with sufficient time for bit of hazing. The hare drank out of the bed pan twice, the second of which was for hash shit earned by laying a death march of a trail. The visitors and virgins were brought into a trail. Vietnam hasher, who brought the humidity, sang a song in Vietnamese while another translated simultaneously. This was like watching a beautiful foreign language film where the subtitles take up the entire fucking screen. Another told a joke that was simple and kind of sucked. Cum on Down Under got the joke, 10 minutes after it was told. And finally, Just Mike showed us all his little dingaling. This would’ve been an excellent preface to a naming, but the fucking trail was ten miles long, people got lost, and the kitchen was closing. The door slammed on the hash and all went to the on-after. Oh, and the rush was unnecessary because the main menu was already stopped and pizza and apps were available well into the night. DAMN IT!

Good trail, 10/10, would bang again.
~Cum on the Record