Hash Trash #1141 – Santa Loves to Hash
Hares: Amazon and EZ Lipps
Filled with dread at the thought of the holiday season ending, 40 some delirious helpers of Satan – oops, I mean Santa – bundled up to ward off the frigid temps and start 2010 off right with an Amazon/EZ Lipps trail. They came from as far south as Springfield (welcome back, Amber Alert) and as far north as Delaware (good to see you again, Lick Stick).
In our fine holiday tradition, we met at the 999s. It’s really a place you can’t miss – you just drive past the maximum security prison, past the police barracks, and then pull into the parking lot of the first condemned building you see that advertises the sale of packaged goods. Here, you will find the wankers of the BAH3. We dropped off our gifts, donned our layers, and huddled for the last bits of warmth we would experience for the next two hours. Then we were booted out the door, told to head for the fence line, and never look back.
Amazon must have made a resolution to use more trail markings (perhaps this was EZ Lipps’ influence) because there was toiler paper and flour everywhere! Even 2 miles of an impassable portion of trail beyond a false were marked. You can’t fool us by marking a trail as false – we’re too stupid! 45 minutes later we admitted defeat, turned around and went back from whence we came. What was promised to be an “out and back” trail that would “get your heart rates up” turned out to be a bushwhacking, bloodletting, frozen corpse shiggy fest no doubt concocted in part by a hare who moonlights with the Red Cross. Blood donations anyone? Nearing certain death, we stumbled across EZ Lipps and Saintly Sudds who nourished us with some cinnamon type shot check. Lucky for us they were there to push us in the right direction because some wanker maliciously marked a check incorrectly in an attempt to hoard all the food and presents.
There was talk of taking the high road back to camp but Any Cock wouldn’t hear of it. He threatened to beat us all with his Big Stick if we didn’t get back in the woods. Mother Chalker stopped 1,600 times to tie his shoelaces. I think he just wanted the harriettes to smack his ass. In an act of compete nonconformance, Spitz refused to tie her laces. Turns out she was just afraid we would split on her. We assured her we would not desert her and took off as soon as she stopped to tie them. Fearful of being caught and returned, we quietly crept along the fence line of the prison as we made our way to the OnIn.
FeyLAY! put out quite the spread for us! Hell, she even gave us food. Somewhere in the middle of all the eating and drinking we held a circle. It would take ten pages to list all the violations so I won’t but let’s just say they were a plenty. Did anyone know that Johnny Cockring loved violations so much? We really should make a point to have more of them in the future to keep him happy. Hosehead’s song segued us into the much anticipated gift exchange. Someone had the bright idea to have us count off. Holy shit was that stupid. I’m pretty sure no one will ever ask us to count again.
Not surprisingly, the most coveted gifts were in the form of alcohol. Alcohol and a book about bacon. Ahhh… bacon. Excuse me, I need a minute lone. OK. Cervix landed a bottle of Jameson and immediately began guzzling it prevent anyone from trumping it. Bobbin’ scored a kick ass chicken that sang and bobbed to the Chicken Dance. Fair Game immediately threatened to punch anyone who did the chicken dance in the face. Wow, I guess those Pennsyltuckians are sensitive about that. Velvet modeled her fancy new hash shirt, Mother provided verse in Gregorian chant from his favorite bestiality book, and punches were thrown over a 12 pack of micro brew that likely turned out to be Bud bottles in disguise.
It would be impossible to recount all the highlights of the evening but safe to say that everyone had a great time and much laughter and joy was shared. We managed to kill the keg which sent most of the remaining pack running for the door. A fearless few stayed on to clean up which naturally led to ordering half a dozen pitchers and mingling with the locals. We might be allowed back next year. Might.