It was the Saturday of Memorial Day weekend and I was afraid there wouldn’t be any beermeisters, so I went to the hash. I was 2 pints worth of red blood cells low and I paid $20 for a terrible haircut earlier that day. I really wasn’t in the mood to hash, but I figured, what the hell, it can’t get any worse. Besides, it’ll be fun. Boy, was I wrong. On the drive up to Florissant, I outran the the ominous storm clouds and torrential downpours. I hoped it would slide south of us, but that shit caught up as we arrived and it was soon pouring rain. I paid my hashcash then ducked back into the truck to wait for circle to start since, for once, I was fucking early to the hash AND I didn’t feel like getting struck by lighting for being on time.

At 530, Chew and I bailed out to join the other half-minds with no other holiday weekend plans cowering under the tallest tree in all of NoCo. As the thunder rumbled around us, we all contemplated our decision to hash and tried to determine the location of the closest bar. The rain continued, temperatures dropped, and hashers started to whine. On the bright side, we watched a bunch of north county hoosiers slowly pack up all their shit as their Memorial Day gathering was being ruined by rain. (At some point earlier, one of the hashers managed to learn the hard way that the gathering of inbred hoosiers paid fiddy bucks to rent the pavilion and there was no way any other human beings could take shelter with them as the brunt of the storm arrived.) When they finally left, we commandeered the shelter as Greg Loose Anus sweet talked the last straggler.

We got down to business with Licks and Spash knocking out a quick chalk talk. Splash took off shortly thereafter leaving the pack to debate the half life of flour dots in a steady rain. About half of the pack departed and the other half, myself included, were resigned to the fact that there was no fucking way we were going to even walk trail in this shit. So Licks lead the walkers, now auto hashers, to the beer stop a few miles away. Probably for the first time ever, the pack was able to keep up with her.

Our convoy of about 6 or so vehicles arrived at the school and half the group dismounted. For some reason, the school principal wasn’t at home getting high as shit like all the other school teachers enjoying their start of summer break. She didn’t take too kindly to hashers congregating under an awning while sucking down Mad Dog 20/20. We were kindly asked to depart the premises, much to Beaver Chaser’s relief as he didn’t want to explain to his PO why he was within 500 feet of a school again.

Since we were unable to send smoke signals and we were fresh out of carrier pigeons, Licks decided to intercept the runners somewhere on trail. Again, the convoy was off and we rolled back north of 270. Eventually, Locknut emerged from a side street looking like a drenched shithouse rat, so we circled the wagons down the street from him and created an impromptu beer stop. We again stood in the rain, this time under a small tree at the edge of the Shell station that looked like they only sell gasoline, Swisher Sweets, and 40s. Yada, yada, yada… we drank beers, then departed back to the start.

Fake Bake lead us in circle as the temperatures started to warm and the rain finally let up. (I’m sure this is what saved him from hashshit.) In typical fashion, the runners bitched about trail. I wasn’t really paying attention and I pretty much didn’t care, but I think trail was mostly in a sewer. I got the impression the pack crawled to freedom through 500 yards of shit-smelling foulness I can't even imagine. Or maybe I just don't want to. Five hundred yards. That's the length of five football fields. Just shy of half a mile. I heard Stink Palm even drank some of the water hoping to get a tapeworm in a convoluted plan to post solid weight loss numbers in the coming weeks. Ovary Punch got his cranium band for his 69th run and Psycho Filler blessed it with sewer water from her taint and respective cracks. The whole pack scrambled onto an old Sherman tank for a grope shot. Chewie and Toro even scurried up on the old beast. We continued circle and somehow, neither the hares or the RA won hashshit. Fartallatio was bestowed that honor, but I cannot remember why. Postage bitched that circle wasn’t long enough and we swung low immediately just to piss him off. The pack then proceeded to Narrow Gauge for the onafter. (To read the hash trash for this fine establishment, see my review on Yelp titled, “You’re never going to succeed if it takes you over two hours to serve mediocre food.”)

Yours truly in hashing and water-logged taints,

Purdy Mouth