First of all: Where did all these virgins come from? And who knew there were so many West County hashers?
The pack set off precisely at 7, much to the chagrin of latecomer PC Porn. The hashers immediately set out through some excellent, steep shiggy and across a great log spanning a creek, only to find a BJ at the other end. Wa-ha-ha! That BJ ruled!
After this, the runners had a good long run while the runners took the turkey trail for about a block. Just Sharon displayed flasks of vodka on her belt. (That's what she said.) The trail was excellent, very well-marked and easy. It was made more challenging by bad, bad hashers who marked checks with hare arrows, and marked them wrong at that.
Then there was a beer stop, at the pool. Then came the interesting part, running through the very dark night. Some hashers found another excellent BJ into the woods. Some of us managed to pass the aggravated man who insists the right-of-way is part of his yard. Others had to be led by Help Me on an alternate route.
The woods were very well marked with chem lights for those blind hashers who can't find a flashlight. What a great idea!
We arrived at the 2nd beer stop to find Whiney Bitch posing as Buttsucker under the mailbox and pointing the way to the back yard. Here the hare had generously provided a hexagon of Molsen to boost our strength. Best of all, there was a trampoline!
Dancing Queen and the girls bounced and squealed and cried out in delight (or was that pain?) until the disturbance was too great and we had to leave.
A short trip back to the end, and Postage ran a short, efficient circle ending in Kumba-ya. Hash Shit nominations were moved to the bar, where we had zillions of wings and yummy beer and named Just Gena after what she called to Meta after she fell in the creek on the Des Peres hash: "Help Me, I'm Wet!"