Baltimore Annapolis Hash House Harriers

After the usual amount of milling about in the parking lot drinking beer and wondering where we left our underpants last night, stalwart RA Any Cock’ll Do Me instructed us to revolve around him in a circular fashion, like planets about his bright, sunshiny disposition.  For some reason, we complied, and were treated to perhaps the most terse trail explanation ever given by a hare.  I had never met Running B’hare in the flesh prior to this trail, and he did not disappoint — it turns out that he is as random and opaque in person as he is over email.  After much badgering from the RA for more information, the hare conceded that we should follow flour marks and stop when we see beer before taking off to lay the live trail.  The pack went back to doing what it does best, which is wandering about aimlessly while skeptical bystanders wonder if they should call the police, and after a bit set off after the hare at a pace that can best be described as “holy shit it’s hot who the fuck thought it was a good idea to go running”.

Fortunately, despite an early back-check 7, Running B’hare took it easy on us – the checks were relatively shallow and the trail had plenty of shade, though the heat turned a few would-be runners into walkers and degraded the already-feeble mental abilities of those who insisted on running, such as front runner Bunker Beater, who came close to earning a Road Scholarship when his delirium and lack of peripheral vision caused him to run out into traffic.  As usual, our collective stupidity was well rewarded with an exceptionally good beer selection at the beer check.  Uncle Fester and Any Cock treated us to an impromptu wet t-shirt contest thanks to their profuse sweating and their decision to dress in white on an extremely hot day; this was a situation with no clear winner, on many levels.

Bunker Beater wandered away for a moment to take a leak (one of several incidents during the day in which we were all treated to a view of his junk), raising two important questions: 1) which one of them is the preggo, anyhow, and 2) how on earth was he still producing urine after sweating so much?  I think I didn’t pee for like 12 hours after this trail despite drinking about four liters of water when we stopped, and even when I did manage to tinkle it came out as a color I would characterize as “burnt orange”.

After rehydrating with water and in equal parts dehydrating with beer, we continued on our quest to remove every water molecule from our bodies through sweating out the rest of the trail.  B’Hare proved to be a diligent hare, going so far as to mark the turds along the path with flour.  This same courtesy was most definitely not transferred to the pack, which engaged in its usual amount of letting branches whack people in the face and, in at least one case, No Child Left Behind graciously allowed Lost Drawers to go ahead of her on an exceptionally dodgy-looking section of trail so that he could do a faceplant first and thus provide an excellent bridge for walking across.

In the end, though, everyone made it back to the circle, though the heat caused the pack to spread out quite a bit, leaving plenty of time for Bobbin’ 4 Buttplugs to wring out his sweaty clothing into a small lake near the beer cooler and then admire Lost Drawers’s manhood.  After several gay comments were made, B4B attempted to claim that “everyone” had noticed that LD’s junk had become exceptionally prominent in his damp shorts, but no one, not even LD himself, had noticed, and also B4B chose the adjective “glimmering” to describe his junk, so in truth B4B is probably just kinda gay.  Thus alerted to the perils of wet shorts and that B4B is the only one taking a special interest, many went back to their cars to change, including Sex Apnea, who turned into something like a real person with a little pony on his polo shirt and everything.  Eventually everyone returned and enjoyed the excellent beer selection, including Magic Hat #9, which Uncle Fester pointed out is better than Magic Hat #2, which was clearly an ill-conceived flavor from the get-go.  Chit-chat continued as we waited for the walkers.  At one point Running B’Hare recommended the Seoul all-men’s hash to Stuffed in my Box, further fueling questions about who in that relationship is actually the pregnant one.

Circle began, and we recognized the virgin Bridget, who was from some country that was colonized by England but didn’t end up being as awesome as America, like New Zealand or something.  She was hoisted onto I Feel Pretty’s shoulders for no discernable reason, leading me to believe that we could probably get away with a lot more abuse of virgins since they don’t know any better.   This is probably also true in other virgin-situations in life, which I won’t elaborate on for legal reasons.

We recognized visitors Jolly Roger from Tampa, Just Lisa aka Spawn of Any Cock, and some guy from Newcastle whose name I can’t repeat here because he said it in that completely unintelligible way that English people say things to Americans to indicate that they are pissed that we took their language and made it like a million times better.  It sounded something like Abu Biva.  A Boobie Vat?  A Boot Beaver?  Ali Baba?  Who knows.  None of them had a song to share, resulting in Any Cock singing a song that should never be sung in the direction of one’s daughter.

Bunker Beater was violated for being FRB, and later in turn violated everyone else’s eyes by demonstrating a little too emphatically that he was in fact wearing a kilt and not a skirt.  Once the temporary blindness lifted, we continued with circle, where we did some naming and one was even successful.  The scribe was named Something Black Near My Hole, a name I am told was proposed by Mr. ZZ Bottom much to the consternation of Scribe Sextoy Bobbin’ 4 Buttplugs.  Any Cock tried to start a naming for Just Linda but backed off when it seemed like she wasn’t that into it, though I’m pretty sure a woman being not that into it wouldn’t typically stop him, but hey, I guess it’s never too late to teach an old dog new tricks.  Speaking of dogs, we even tried to name Just Nugget, but the issue was tabled on a technicality involving whether she thought the peanut butter that Bunker has been storing in the back of his truck for the past couple of years was delicious or not.  Just Alex was mildly bitter that we got around to trying to name the dog before him, but to be fair that dog has been hashing a long-ass time, and plus this gives Just Alex more to whine about on the listserv, which seems to be that wallflower’s primary mode of communication, and we’re all about giving people opportunities to reach out and touch someone here at BAH3.

Despite having wasted a perfectly good day hashing, plans were made to do it yet again the next weekend on an even grander scale.  I won’t be there for the 69 beer check, but I look forward to hearing the stories that you can remember.  Be safe, wankers.

On-on

Something Black

(the scribe formerly known as Just Ellen)