Hash trash #1201: Mad love for the hobos

Bunker Beater and I had high hopes for this trail.  The weather was looking to be a balmy 60 degrees; the trail scenic; the Valentine’s cupcakes ever so delicious.  But then Bobbin 4 Buttplugs and FeyLAY! made a concerted effort to exhaust or injure all of the hashers willing to travel to the Wheaton area the day before, and we wondered if anyone would have it in them to run another trail in Wheaton the next day.  We shouldn’t have doubted you; we did advertise beer, after all.  And so it was that 44 wankers showed up to celebrate love, beer, my birthday, and also beer.
 
Many showed up in festive attire, some of which was even appropriate for the holiday (Valentine’s Day).  After a quick circle explaining the ins and outs of hashing to our two virgins, Just My-Sister-In-Law and Just Forgot-To-Bring-Any-Money, we were treated to the longest hash prayer we have ever been given, from a Religous Advisor who clearly cares so much about our well being that he wants to ask the Lord to protect us against every eventuality, including the following:
 
– Dog bites
– Ice-related injury
– Heat stroke
– Apprehension by law enforcement authorities
– Unsatisfying sexual encounters
– Itchiness related to contact with insects, plants, or other hashers
– Locusts
– Frogs
– Alien abduction
– Chainsaw massacre
– Unintended weight gain
– The inevitable evolution of artifical intelligence into SkyNet
– Erectile dysfunction
– Chewbacca attack
– Nihilism
 
Having covered all our bases, the pack set off to see if they could find something dangerous that Any Cock had neglected to pray for.  It didn’t take long before they encountered a train station with a train scheduled to barrel through just as the pack crossed the track.  Park and Ride, either unaware that Any Cock had not prayed to protect her from being smushed by a train or in a misguided attempt to join the prestigious Les Assassins des Fauteuils Rollents*, darted across the tracks with only a few feet to spare, which is thankful, because she had alcohol locked in her car and only she knew where the keys were. 
 
After the train passed, the pack, now severed in two, all sat down in dejection, because parting from such dear friends was too much to bear.  Just kidding, actually everyone kept running because they hadn’t found the alcohol yet.  The first shot check was cleverly stashed in a storm drain, and was possibly made by mixing the effluent with cough syrup and everclear, judging by the taste.  After leaving some shots in the drain for some hobo to drown his sorrows on Valentine’s Day, the pack continued on to the next shot check, which was cleverly stashed at a park with many playing children and families (I swear they were not there when we originally set the check).
 
There was much more running, including some completely sweet hills, all of which went up, like an M.C. Escher drawing — finally proving my theory that the laws of physics do not apply when you are too intoxicated to remember them.  There was also some scenic stuff, like a giant effin’ Disney princess castle/temple for the Mormons which somehow didn’t even make it into the photos for the trail. 
 
Eventually the pack made its way to the beer check, but only with a lot of help.  Some were confused by the sea of pink paint marks on all the trees in that particular area; others were just too dumb to see Bunker and I lounging under the overpass.  But after a bunch of hollering, the pack made its way down the icy precipice and drank a bunch of beer in what we referred to as a “sweet hobo lounge area”.  This waterfront property came complete with lounge chair and colorfully-tagged walls providing privacy from the traffic on the beltway.  As Bunker and I climbed down there, him with a giant backpack of beer and me wrapped in a blanket, we thought about how it didn’t seem so bad to be a hobo (provided you have a warm house with food to return to afterwards).
 
Anyhow, somehow the pack made it on in, and much beer was consumed by the ravenous masses.  People were violated, and Any Cock sang a song about how he no longer wants to put his penis in me, thus inspiring in me a profound sense of relief.  After we ran out of beer, we went to a bar, which did a shockingly good job of handling a party of 30 that arrived unannounced, after getting over their initial anger that we had somehow taken all of their glasses and pitchers, despite the fact that there was like no one else in the entire bar.
 
In the end, all went well, except of course for Stuffed and Bunker, who are probably still recovering from the invasion of hashers in their home.
 
On on to Upper Marlboro (where I can’t join you today — taking volunteers for the trash),
SB
 
 
 
* It’s a literary reference, you illiterate wankers.