Home
Hareline Hash Stats Past Hashes
Contact Us
Hareline Hash Stats Past Hashes About ⇻ Mismanagement About ⇻ What is Hashing? Contact Us

Wednesday 01/16/2008 #678

Do My Butt's Birthday Trail @ Florissant

Hash Trash:

January 15, 2008. Do My Butt's date of birth. Thus, Do My Butt's Birthday Trail.

 

I originally wanted to write the hash in the form of a re-working of a song from DMB's most favorite musician, but then I realized how difficult an undertaking that would be, and decided just to write a straight trash instead. I'm not nearly as original or talented (or dedicated) as G-Spot when it comes to writing the trash, unfortunately. But, if I had gone with my first idea, the song would have been called "What A Shitty Lay" (set to the tune of "What Would You Say". Of course, that's the only part I actually had written out, so you can see what I mean when I say I'm not really that dedicated. Although it's a clever title, no?

 

Alright, bitches, here we go.

 

So, first thing is that we circle in a park with a big tank in it. That's pretty cool,

especially for North County. Then, a ton of people show up to hash for DMB's 22nd Birthday - like, a bunch of people that haven't been there in ages. One dude, Arabian Moon, apparently hasn't been there in years. Of course, in that time he still remembered a lot of the hash rules, even rules that I've never heard, like you can't walk into circle during circle, even if the beer is in the middle of the circle and there's no real way you can access it without moving into the circle. He shared a lot of these rules with Just Shirley, who was standing next to him, and was breaking many of them, apparently. There was also one virgin (well at least to Big Hump) who knew DMB by way of a cousin's ex-fiance's grandmother's co-worker's great aunt. That was pretty neat. Small world.

 

After an illustrious chalk talk, the hare set off to lay trail. Or at least, that's what she

was supposed to do. I guess, though, when it's your birthday, you can do whatever the fuck you want, even if it means replacing the standard marking flour with some sort of super secret Ovaltine magical decoder flour that creates marks that one has to use one's natural gift of clairvoyance to actually recognize. At first the group of us, after hitting a distinct Whichy Way (set with visible-to-the-human-eye chalk), just thought we chose the wrong way. Then, we thought maybe we didn't go far enough down trail. Then, we thought maybe we just didn't see the marks -- you know, maybe they were right in front of our faces, but we just didn't see them -- then, one of us (the old, short, blonde one of us, as opposed to Any Cock'll do) decided to go to Perroni's and maybe just go eat some pizza -- but no one else seemed to want to do that. Then, several of us decided we really had to pee, and fuck this stupid trail because we don't know where the hell we are supposed to go and where are the fucking marks and what the fuck does anyone know DMB's number? Does anyone have a phone? Goddammit we don't have phones cause we're not supposed to have technology on trail. Oh, and where the fuck is Gladdy? He was like, there, and now he's gone....he may have found trail, why the fuck didn't he blow whistle? And Meta's gone, too! What the fuck? Does anyone hear a whistle? I thought I heard whistles but now I don't and I can't hear that good and I don't know what direction they would be coming from. Goddammit. This sucks. What the hell? I'm peeing. Fuck this shit.

 

Oh. Sexorcist has a phone. Excellent. Sexorcist saves us again. DMB tells Sexorcist the way to catch trail, claiming that her marks must have been "driven over" after laying them. Yeah. Well, we mistook a lot of driven-over trash, such as cigarette packs, napkins, fast food bags, and styrofoam cups for marks, so if the actual trail marks had been "driven over", I'd imagine we'd have noticed them, too.

 

5 minutes later, we joined everyone at the beer stop, but sadly missed the guest appearance by Florissant's finest, who, from what I understand, initially mistook the group for a bunch of teenagers. Now, I understand some of us look very young for our age, but I'm thinking maybe the tags being left on the wall of the building we were beer-stopping behind is what gave him that impression -- tags like "DO MY BUTT" and a drawing of a woman's open legs, displaying her Vijay-jay and reading something like "Eat Me" and "Here, too." Even with the vulgar tagging and the obvious drinking in public, the Po-Po simply asked us to stop defacing private property, and then went on their way. Wow. Sweet. Why do I keep thinking Hummers must have had something to do with their quick acquiescence?

 

Finally, the BS ended, with Postage leading me away from the pack with a shortcut in hopes that we would both be FRBs, cause I have always wanted to be FRB.

 

Another 5 minutes later, we're back at the park, where I take the first of many pees

behind the afore-mentioned tank. It's only after the 3rd time that I realize I'm peeing on sand. Sand that probably someone's kids are going to roll around in the next time they come to the park to climb on the tank. And that makes me sad. Because I won't be there to see that.

 

Circle time!!! A bunch of people get called in for doing stupid things and the virgin tells a joke that I remember laughing at but I don't actually remember. And then backsliders (of which there were MANY) are called into circle to drink. And then...oh. Hey, it's the Po-Po again. Now, the funniest part about this is that EVERYONE took a step to the right, got REALLY quiet, put their heads down, and covered their booze, like we were all 16 years old or something. I mean, it was hilarious. Apparently the Po-Po had recieved "several calls" about our band of merry-makers. I'm really curious to find out what those calls sounded like:

 

911: "Yes, what is your emergency?"
Caller #1: "There's a group of people running down my street."

911: "They are running down your street? Are they violent or causing a disturbance?"

Caller #1: "Well, they are running. And they have flashlights and whistles and they are yelling 'On'-something every once in a while."

911: "OK. We'll have a officer come and check it out."

 

911: "Yes, what is your emergency?"

Caller #2: "Hello? There's a group of people across the street drinking."

911: "They are drinking? Are they being loud or causing a disturbance?"

Caller #2: "Well, they are drinking. And I think maybe writing on a building."
911: "OK. We'll have an officer come and check it out."

 

Luckily PMS used her Mickey Mouse Marathon Medal to mesmerize the PO into coming around to our way of thinking. Then Dewey Sexual System closed the deal by showing the PO one of her "hash cards", and again, Po-Po went on their merry way. Seriously, how could one resist that harriette onslaught?

 

Now that disorder was restored, we could proceed with Hashshit nominations. All I remember is DMB winning it for about 3,483 different nominations (one nomination for every dot she didn't lay). Then, she had to drink out of a large moon cup. Nasty.

 

We swung low and we were off to Crest Bowl, but not before Ricky's Crab Shack banged my window (that's what she said) then started wailing and holding his leg as I started to pull out of the lot (that's what she said). While I sat in Park watching the faker for what seemed to be FOR-EVS, he finally went on so long with the act that Nurse Hashshit rushed over to his side, honestly believing I'd ran him over. Nerds.

 

The rest of the evening was awash in everyone making fun of my sweater and tall shoes, Princess not pulling his pants down for a change, Burning Asshole actually singing to the theme from Smokey and the Bandit, Flossit and I trying to figure out why the bartender could never remember what bill we originally gave her, 2 Fuck reminicing about me pouring beer in my hood, Cliff talking about coloring his hair, Dos listening to Cliff talk about coloring his hair, PMS playing her FAV game ever, Bama taking things slow and easy for the evening, and a lot of really, really, really bad karaoke.

 

All in all, just another shitty trail.

 

Happy Birthday. Do My Butt.

 

That's what she said,
Strap On (clap clap) Strap Off

 



Big Hump Hash House Harriers - St. Louis, Missouri - Established 1999