Hash Trash #1356 – The Hash Before Christmas*** by Johnnie Cockring
What: BAH3 # 1356
When: Sunday, December 22, 2013, 3:00 p.m.
Hare: At Your Cervix
‘Twas the hash before Christmas, and all through the Land [of Pleasant Shiggy],
Hashers were stirring, the day would be grand;
Dry bags with fresh clothing they all packed with care,
Knowing full well At Your Cervix was the hare.
The bimbos were bundled all up in their sweats,
Ranting, as usual, like they all had Tourette’s;
Blonde Roots in her antlers, Muddy Twaters in her thong,
They were up for a trail, no matter how long,
When from a neighboring junkyard there arose such a clatter,
We ran for the fence to see what was the matter;
Over the chain link we hopped in a flash,
Ripped our drawers on the top – what the hell, it’s a hash.
The cold sun shone down on a field of old tires,
And a group of old hobos, warming hands round a fire;
When who to our wondering eyes should be there,
But At Your Cervix, the day’s infamous hare.
A great tall mutation, with a tankard of lager,
We feared that Cervix would soon lead us to slaughter;
Then more rapid than eagles, other wankers they came,
And he guzzled and belched, and called them by name:
“Now Bobbin! Now Any Cock! Now Rainblow, and ZZ!
On Crash! On Muff Chuckler! On MoreMen, and Free!
In the Land of Pleasant Shiggy, hill, valley and dale,
There’s nothing they won’t run through when they find it on trail.”
And like the dry heaves, which after indulgence do retch,
Came ever more wankers and upped the hare’s catch;
Drawn to the start like moths to a flame,
Empire, NavigateWhore, Old Faithful, Dr. Strange[love].
And Amazon, with Little Flower’s balls held tight in her teeth,
While her pungent BO ringed the pack like a wreath;
A monstrous red dildo she clutched in her hand,
“This is Rudolph!” she exclaimed. “He’s the best in the Land!”
When all of a sudden came a screech and a swerve,
And at 2:59 sharp, a panic skid to the curb;
From his still-smoking deathtrap there sprang with a hail,
The demented Creamy Dog, who we thought was in jail.
He was dressed all in hash rags from his head to his crotch,
And those rags were all stained with semen and scotch;
His mouth it hung open in a great gaping leer,
And his breath it did reek of gluten free beer.
He was a trailer park reject, low class, of no status,
Velvet laughed at the sight, while Gerbil passed flatus;
The droop of his eye, and the point of his head,
Soon gave us to know we had nothing to dread.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to work,
Grabbing all the Angry Orchard, the freeloading jerk;
And laying a finger aside of his nose,
Blew a great wad of snot and wiped it off on his clothes.
Then he took off down trail, leaving all of us stunned,
It was hard to believe that he could still run;
And we heard him exclaim ‘ere he staggered out of sight,
“Merry Christmas to all hashers, and to all a good night!”
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*** This holiday tale is a work of fiction, and any similarities to actual persons (living, dead, or un-dead), places or events are unintentional and purely coincidental.