Hash trash #1198: ATM finds a new way to try to kill us all and tries to blame it on Cleanup
On a day as cold as last Sunday, it’s hard to imagine why anyone would want to get out from under the covers, much less venture out of doors. But, a hasher is not one to take the easy way out — no sirree. A hasher of the BAH3 persuasion is pretty much guaranteed to take the most complicated and masochistic path imaginable. And so it was that a sizeable crowd of dumb-dumbs braved the below-freezing temperatures to run Cleanup on Aisle 3’s virgin trail.
Extra Creamy Dog Crap showed up in shorts, lending further credence to the theory that he must have some kind of nerve condition where he doesn’t feel anything below his legs (which would explain a LOT about the amount that he bleeds on trail). Either that or he was just trying to show off his gams to the ladies. Any luck, buddy? I know you had some stiff competition from Barf Bag in his torn neon tights.
Also competing in this week’s fashion show was Just Mike, who arrived in a full head-to-toe customized haberdashery of his own design. Every item of clothing he was wearing was emblazoned with “Just Mike”, as was his his mug, and necklace, and car, and everything he touched, similar to the curse of King Midas, who thought it would be just dandy to have everything he touched turn to gold until his hasher friends turned it against him during his naming (or something like that, I forget how the story ends exactly).
Anyhow, we all circled up and hopped up and down a lot to keep warm, and eventually the hares let us run the trail, after they were sure that we could no longer feel our feet or hands or other parts necessary to keeping balance. The pack set off up an enormous hill, which was followed by an enormous staircase, which was completely coated in ice, which resulted in a couple of hashers testing out whether or not they could fly (spoiler alert: they can’t). The walker’s trail proved to be completely unnecessary as the pack spent the majority of the trail panting their way up or down a steep hill or gingerly tiptoeing along the trail, trying not to break a neck on the ice. I guess it was like scenic or whatever though. Plus there was beer in the middle of it, so all was forgiven.
Since what goes up must eventually come down, the pack all went down on Amazon, who stood at the bottom of one hill to direct hashers where to go. Except I guess she got confused about the directions and instead of saying “follow the flour into the woods that way”, she said “you can walk along the train tracks as a shortcut if you want”, almost resulting in hasher pancakes when a train came barrelling through five minutes later.
Where was I? Oh right, near death. Failing to squash any hashers, the hares brought the pack to an extremely cold, sunless, windy corner of Maryland to try to do us in through hypothermia. In a fit of desperation Schmegg tried to light a bonfire, but after receving several horrified looks, he uttered six critical words for the first time in his entire life: “Wait, is this a bad idea?” When the pack emphatically agreed, he decided instead of lay across the wood and pretend he was a fire, which did not make anyone warm but at least gave Nugget a target to pee on.
The pack circled up, and numb fingers resulted in regular spillage of our holy beverage, angering our Lord Natty Boh but pleasing short creatures that like to lick things, like Nugget and GAP. Nugget licked up all the snow in these spots, then walked over to Gaelick and slapped her across the face for failing to share this glorious beverage with her all this time.
In the end, nobody died, the hares Cleanup and ATM were violated multiply, and we all met up with Redwing Hoover at La Palapa to eat enchiladas and watch Any Cock’ll Do Me attempt to eat a hot dog delivered to him without a bun (I guess that’s why it was on the “value menu”). He managed to figure it out in the end, with a little help from Pump and Dump’s fabulous ta-tas. Seriously, is there nothing those breasts can’t do? Thank goodness she got them repaired!