So, PMS told me of a couple of different methods for submitting the hash
trash. Then I had my complimentary shot of red booze juice at Weber’s and forgot
most everything. So, my inaugural voyage into scribing is probably going to be
fraught with errors of various kinds. I hate to admit that Shotbyawhore is officially smarter than I because he thought
to take notes during the hash. But that is harder when running.
It was another pleasant enough night in greater Webster Groves, though not
as balmy as the previous Wednesday. I believe only Postage and Purdy Mouth
decided to wear shorts. Actually, Postage was even topless at one point. First
breasts I have seen at a hash since like August or something.
I am not sure how the hare did it, but he somehow managed to make it feel
like we were going downhill three quarters of the time even though we ended up
back at the same place. Maybe it was that the Ledge of Death was high enough to
compensate for the negative elevation changes at other points. It was not a
terribly deathy Ledge of Death, though, and even Gay Blade’s dog probably could
have made it. Yet there was some arse pushing to get the last few people up the
The trains were less dramatic this week, since we watched from a beer halt
and no one had to decide whether it was wise to go jumping over the tracks
rather than wait. There seemed to be two of them passing in the night, but I may
have already been too buzzed to tell for certain. We also did not get a visit
from Webster’s finest, so that was a little sad. I did hear the day after last
Wednesday’s hash that the cops were a little shocked to see the various cranium
lamps heading up the hill to Autohaus while they were having a smoke after
deciding not to arrest 40 people.
The beer was as promised by the hare. Cheap. Awful. More Stag in one night
than in all my previous years combined. The hare also made me realize that
people who live on Newport get to have real garages and a cool alley. We don’t
get to have nice things like that on Clark. We also got to hang briefly in the
part of Webster where people keep goats. I swear…goats. No idea why. I think we
were all too lazy to go look at the goats, however, since there would have been
another hill to go over.
Pleasant enough little jog from the beer stop back to circle. I am fairly
certain PMS wrote 4 new songs in the last week based on the mumbling and lack of
knowledge of lyrics on the part of the whole group. I will have nightmares for
months about whatever it was Free Mustache Rides had on his head. IHOP’s virgin
was apparently ready for a joke, but he pulled his pants down anyway. I think he
was just showing off his boxer briefs. Also, Postage is now calling Tig Ol'
Bitties Diggity and seems rather stubborn about desisting. Whiney Bitch was
wearing some creepy hoody thing that made me think of Max Von Sydow in “The
Seventh Seal.” Shits Bricks managed to do something to DFL himself, and there
was much sadness.
Once it came to Hashshit nominations, I think Burn Rubber was falsely
accuzated of wearing new shoes, considering how adamantly she protested. She
lost most sympathy when she was unable to even remotely finish the seemingly
bottomless plunger of Stag and PBR. The pack then swung low after about 20
announcements, and we headed to the on after at Weber’s.
We realized at the on after that Shits Bricks seems to confine his various
man crushes to gingers. Postage had a whole bunch of fries stolen. Burn Rubber
made up for her horrible down down by having two shots of the free red booze
juice at Weber’s.
All and all a good night with not a lot of blood on trail…