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Wednesday 02/11/2009 #763

Postage Tramp & $5$5$5 @ Maryland Heights

Hash Trash:

I knew it was going to be weird when I showed up to find no hashers, and for ONCE, I knew I was at the right place. So I took it upon myself to find a nice, lighted, sheltered spot with lots of parking for everyone to gather. Lock-Nut, visitor Tai Tai Toy, and Burning A-hole were right behind me, so I was thinking we were good. Cold. Not Drunk Enough.
A few more show up, and we’ve got a great-looking group, 2 coolers of beer, but no hares. We hear from a little purple bird that the rest of the pack is in a different spot (same lot) with no wind protection, less parking and no beer.* I would like to take this time to propose a new hash law: whomever has less beer is the half-pack to do the moving. Cold. Dark. Not Drunk Enough.
So fine, we moved, and got things BLOWING—I mean  ROLLING. Our fearless hares, Postage Tramp and $5$5$5 entertained us by BLOWING through chalk-talk with a lot of new letters and some long-WINDED jibba-jabba. There was talk (barely) of BLOW jobs. Stink Palm broke some WIND.* Ho-Lateral Damage spouted some “25 Things” that he now knows about people since joining facebook. Keyless Entry wanted something in her mouth. I got the tall white boys confused with each other… but Whiney B!tch was able to set me straight. Annnnnnd, they’re gone like the WIND. Cold. Dark. Windy. Not Drunk Enough.
Off we go, into the wild black yonder. As usual, I tried to zen to catch the pack, and it was getting a little muddy, so I decided it’d be better if I stuck to the main roads. Not much longer and we find ourselves face-to-face with the angriest creek/drainage ditch I’ve seen in my 33 years. The creek was angry, I tell you. I-Feel Tower looks at it and gets hearts in his eyes, which quickly turned to daggers as he wishes he would have found this beast first. I dawdled. I desperately looked for a way around. I ~thought~ everybody had gone in before me. So in desperation to not loose the pack, Cliff BangHer, Ricky’s Crab Shack (blah20yearsblah), I-Feel and I shimmy into the creek. The angry, frigid, rushing, silty, stinky, widow-maker of a creek. We slopped through the thing until we finally were able to brave the white-capped rapids to have to claw our way to muddy land. I would like to take this time to propose a new hash law: no wet trails in the winter. Cold. Dark. Windy. Wet. Not Drunk Enough.
So we think that must be the worst of it, when we get to the next obstacle. Awesome! Railroad tracks! I reminisced a little on how “romantic” I used to think RR tracks were, and spent the rest of that mile cursing them. Help Me I’m Wet, Just Aaron, Full Service A$$ Station, Goat F-er, Fist In Her Furry A$$ and I hobbled the cursed wooden ties until we met the hare at his very own shot stop. “Some Turkey for the Turkeys!” $5$5$5 said, and was gone like a flash. F-SAS did her part at the shot stop, and I don’t know who else participated. I don’t DO shots. So we get to the beer stop. Cold. Dark. Windy. Wet. Twisted Ankles. Not Drunk Enough (except maybe F-SAS).
So we get to the beer stop, and after all that nonsense, the hares make up for it with tasty beer. I found it hard to complain while drinking a fine Michelob. It was delicious. So the small pack of Turkeys were hanging out, sans I-Feel Tower – he had deviated before the RR tracks… and taking bets on who’d be FRB. Our options were Stinky, Lock-Nut, Whiney, Ho-Lateral, and  up-n-coming FBI, Just Clare. I had my money on J. Clare because I know what those hounds like having in front of them. Turned out to be Lock-Nut, with J. Clare not far behind. Cold. Dark. Windy. Wet. Twisted Ankles. Not Drunk Enough But Getting There.
We were cold and wet (those of us that didn’t find the walk-around) and needed to get going, so we tried doing a “who’s lost” count, and came up with Ricky…? Cliff..? The Visitor…?  And 2-F Canuck shows up, who wasn’t there from the start but had stories about the po-po following him around… So we imagined who’d be offering up the BJ to get the three stooges out of trouble with Hummers not around, or maybe that was just me. Cold. Dark. Windy. Wet. Twisted Ankles. Not Drunk Enough But Getting There. Arrested?
So we get back to the start where I imagine circle festivities to have taken place. I didn’t have a change of underpants, outerpants, socks and/or shoes, since I wasn’t expecting a wet hash in February… so I had to skeedaddle. I did get a text from Ho-Lateral saying that when I’m writing the trash be sure to spell the FRB’s name right… so here’s to you, JUST CLARE!* Warm. Dog. Cozy. Dry. Flannel Jammies. Sleepin Off A Buzz. Not In Jail.
Hashshit? Sig Runs? Backsliders? Cranium Gear Violaters? Idunno.
* I have no actual facts to support this.


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