Trail 1457

For the one thousand four hundred and fifty-seventh running of the Big Hump Hash House Harriers, veteran hashers Dewey Sexual System and 59 Minutes Left, Wanna Talk? took the pack deep into the Groves of Webster. The pack circled up in the always unusually dark parking lot of Southwest Park wherein one Greg Looseanus seized the opportunity to RA. This, of course, meant circle was about to be braised in gratuitous and poorly timed quips, unnecessarily verbose directives, and the general tension of a group of hashers just wanting to get the hell on with it. The hares were called into circle to begin chalk talk only to have their voices drowned out by a cacophony of canine cackling instigated by a late arriving, off-leash doggo that was darting around circle like a fur-covered missile whose guidance had been scrambled. Once the beasts had been calmed, chalk talk commenced, although it didn’t appear anyone was actually listening, as is tradition. Grope shot was attempted, eventually abandoned, and the hares were released.

Once on out, I was suddenly overwhelmed with a great anxiety: was the world in the midst of a flour and toilet paper shortage? Would we all be forced to go paleo and wipe the poo from our anuses with our hands? Because the hares were being awfully stingy with the markings. Eventually, however, they suspended their rationing and the path became clearer. The trail circled around a bit before finally heading over the Highway 44 pedestrian bridge just east of Berry Rd. From there trail, the pack briefly stayed together until the turkey-eagle split. Turkeys continued on to Berry Road while the eagles headed north on Clifton. Since I took the turkey trail, I outsourced a portion of this trash to Disco Ass. Disco, how was eagle?

"Did a pretty big loop through the dark streets of Webster. Chick check at the busy railroad crossing Berry Rd, went down the tracks for a bit, passed by a perfectly good Country Club without even setting foot on the lush grass. Strap-On and I checking and somehow expected to see a two dotter wrapped around a telephone pole. Down a hill into an ice cold but crystal clear stream - did you know they put filtered bottled water into that? That's why Webster taxes are so high. Some fools tried to avoid getting their tootsies wet only to have to get in the water at the last second to get to the beer halt - where all the beers were Ice - Bud, Genesee, Nattie, Beast, etc. Gross. Through a rarely used tunnel under Hwy 44, up into the rear of a nursing home to rejoin the turkey trail into the Beer Stop."

Excellent stuff, thank you Disco. While the eagles were violating the rear of the elderly, I found myself alone on the turkey trail. Turkey trail continued south on Berry, then on to Big Bend before eventually winding through some side streets and into Sanders Park. The hares dipped into Gravois Creek for a little turkey flavored shiggy before bringing trail back onto pavement, passed a tennis court, and into the beer stop and the south end of the park. The eagles trickled in about ten minutes later. Disco, being unable to resist firing up dogs, shook the fence of the tennis court where some asshole was letting his dog run around (tennis courts are not dog parks). However, Disco did this only because he thought the asshole and dog were hashers. Once he realized he had been terrorizing a random stranger, he gave a deep and heartfelt apology: “Oh, hey.” The pack drank some beers and then trail continued back to Southwest Park. The trail back was almost entirely uphill, as indicated not only by the topography, but the incessant whining of all involved.

There was a short lived panic as circle started due to an absence of orange food, however cheesy popcorn and spicy cheesy popcorn was found and soured stomachs were soothed. Then some sadist brought Blazing Doritos into circle, a snack food that trades flavor for heat and should really just be classified as an irritant rather than a snack food. Closing circle was “led” by the RA. Licks was called into circle for her 100th hash. Strap-On thought it would be nice if I pretended that I had her headband in my pantaloons, assuming she would be disgusted that it was not coming from Splash. Conversely, when I pretended to reach into my pants to retrieve the headband, she did not assume the face of horror or disgust but rather something bordering joy and indifference. It was as if she had already made peace with her fate but was also somewhat relieved that the headband might not be fully saturated with sweat as was undoubtedly guaranteed if it had spent the evening hitching a ride with the quite proudly sweaty Splash. It was of course a bamboozle and Splash did violate her face with the headband-now-turned-moist-towelette. The salty perspiration of Splash's perineum beading on her forehead, Licks leaned forward to take her 100th hash mug into her teeth only to have it swiped away by none other than overbearing RA extraordinaire Greg Looseanus who decided that the act of chugging out of the mug as dozens, if not hundreds, of Big Hump hashers had done previously was suddenly unacceptable. So she drank from a plastic cup, twice, and everyone clapped. Finally, hash shit nominations were opened. Disco Ass was nominated by his spouse for terrorizing dogs, someone else was nominated for something I can't remember, and the RA turned harbinger of the nanny state attempted to nominate the hares for not having a walker's; trail. Aggressively, his nomination was mocked by most of the bipeds in attendance as the most prominent of the hash constitution was cited: this is a drinking club with a running problem. Hash shit was decided viva voce with nearly everyone quietly groaning for all candidates save one, the RA, who was declared the winner to the tune of yells, screams, and whistles. A few sips were taken from the hash shit before he attempted to twirl it about only to be denied by a vessel that was designed specifically to prevent its contents from sloshing out; a more fitting end I could not have imagined.

TL;DR: Descent hash, eight out of ten stars.

Insincerely,

Record