Baltimore Annapolis Hash House Harriers

What:  BAH3 #1362

When:  Sunday, February 9, 2014 @ 3:00 p.m.

The pack was promised a mediocre trail and unfortunately the hare, our respected [COUGH] Religious Advisor, the always-dressed-like-a-pussy Any Cock’ll Do Me, delivered.  Woods, mud, power lines, a beer check at an elementary school [yaaawn].  No strip clubs, no shot checks?!

Amongst those half-minds too stupid to get in out of the sub-freezing cold were overachiever More Men Pukes Tonight, Floppy Attachment (duly chastised for displaying a callous lack of consideration for the rest of the pack by not sending Oedipussy in his place), and that frightening mountain man, Don’t Have One.  Extra Creamy Dog Crap proudly brought along his latest conquest, a raven haired beauty named Bear.  Chicks Won’t Stick was so cute running w/ his clever lil Special Forces “camelback” which, instead of water, actually contained survival gear – a thermal blanket and lube for a quickie in the woods w/ $5 Infection.  The MVP of the Day was ZZ Bottom III w/ his bottomless cooler.  No Wake Zone, looking strangely normal w/o his technicolor mohawk, dismounted from his sex swing long enough to make an appearance.

Lovely bimbos Stick It In My Socket and Blonde Roots made the day’s debacle at least somewhat bearable for the other walkers who included the silver fox, Free 2 Lay.  Never-on-trail Zenmeister At Your Cervix (a/k/a Just the Tip on this day of major shrinkage) was occasionally spotted wandering aimlessly about the area.  Punctuality challenged Choke Out To Put Out & Just Emma and their dysenteric hound Camden desecrated the trail at will.  IOC President Spew Tube even flew in from Sochi just for the day’s events.  Boy was he disappointed!  The always bloody A Phone Named Gerbil, who apparently ran around the Earth the long way, was DFL by about an hour behind even the lazy walkers.

The walkers did find local wanderer The Virgin Regis on trail in the sleet and w/ promises of ice cold beer, enticed her to join our merry band of misfits.  What a trouper.  Or maybe she was homeless.

To cap the afternoon off, the sleet turned to snow and an abbreviated 90 minute circle was held in a raging blizzard.  The hare drank.  Often.  The virgin was called out, and she drank. There were violations and the guilty wankers drank.  There was singing. There was shivering.  There was more drinking.  Not by Crash Test Dumbass though, who showed his true colors by shunning the beer and instead sipping a latte in a thermal Starbucks mug during circle. (!)

And then, (w/ apologies to Bruce Springsteen) in the blink of a young girl’s thighs, it was over.  Except for the few degenerates (ZZB3, $5, CTD, BR, ST & your faithful correspondent) who risked their lives at the sleazy On After, the pack again dispersed to the far corners of the region like snowflakes driven by the wind, desperately hoping to reassemble next Sunday if there’s a hare.

On on!

On a balmy winter afternoon, the naughty kids in attendance included, among others, Chix Won’t Stick, Cleanup on Aisle 3, Pornyboy, Eat my Twat, $5 Infection, the lovely Fey LAY in a skin tight spandex bodysuit which made her look 6 feet tall, A Just, the elusive Pain In The Ass, No Wake Zone (who amazingly showed up after apparently having fallen under a lawnmower earlier in the day), Hung Like a Slinky, A Phone Named Gerbil, MoreMen Pukes Tonight, 3 West, and Choke Out to Put Out.

Hares At Your Cervix, Bobbin 4 Buttplugs, Velvet Vulva & DoMe Decimal Dominatrix treated the pack to an interesting arctic trail through scenic Brooklyn Park w/ much off-road slipping, sliding and trail treasure. Santa in a Toilet was particularly memorable.  Some wankers (incl. both The Incredible Edible Schmegg and your faithful correspondent) fell on their asses.  Others, like Amazon.cum (looking lonely w/o Rudolph, her monstrous red dildo), bimbo hashed to keep their little tootsies dry.  Fossil was observed vigorously dry humping a particularly curvaceous pine tree on trail in the absence of Dump n Scrunch, who has fled to Asia.  There was an [ahem] ‘interesting’ shot check at the top of a silicon-slicked hill which was rumored to have featured that delightful Chicago libation, Malort.  There was a beer check in a strip club – w/ NO STRIPPERS!

Thereafter the pack retired to Brooklyn Park’s only Michelin 4 star bistro, Milt’s Rendezvous, for the anal BAH3 White Elephant gift exchange.  Buckets of beer were provided by the hares, otherwise NOBODY would have had a good time.  Big winners were ZZ Bottom, III w/ his exquisite white ceramic owl, our esteemed Religious Advisor Any Cock’ll Do Me w/ his shipping container full of VHS ass-porn tapes (expect his blistered palms to be heavily bandaged this Sunday), and Old Faithful w/ that lovely bunny apron.  The big loser was poor frustrated Anastasia Steele (aka Blonde Roots) who not once, but twice, turned fifty shades of grey upon having intriguing BDSM devices stolen from her, the first by notorious hash bizarro Bobbin 4 Buttplugs and the second by man-eating newcummer Muddy Twaters.

All in all, it was another Sunday afternoon perfectly wasted.

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!”
_____________________

***  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.

When: Sunday, December 8, 2013 @ 1 p.m. (or thereabouts)
Hares: Amazon.cum & Blonde Roots

In the teeth of a blizzard, the pack slowly assembled.  Well, it was more like a litter, actually.  Crash Test Dumbass, Any Cock’ll Do Me (smartly attired in his tiger pelt pants), $5 Infection, Oedipussy & Floppy Attachment along w/ their 2 mini-hashers, and your intrepid correspondent rendezvoused at the North Pole after a harrowing ride down Daniels Drive into the Patapsco ravine.  As the ferocious onslaught of the storm continued unabated, Amazon and $5, exhibiting waaaaay too much common sense for hashers, decided that the 4 rapidly growing inches already on the ground were cause enough to flee for their lives back up the treacherous ravine.

The rest of us half minds decided that it was a fine time for a beer.  Or, since the hares had procured enough beer for a small army, three.

Shortly thereafter, lo and behold, Our Lord Natty Boh quieted the storm and the blizzard subsided to but mere flurries.  And so, fortified w/ liquid courage, we remaining members of the litter decided that it was indeed a glorious day for a hash.  After taking Blonde Roots hostage to ensure safe passage, and stuffing a beer check into our pockets, the brave litter set off on trail.  All except for Floppy Attachment, who wisely decided that this was not the day to take the mini-hashers out on trail.  At which point Oedipussy squealed with delight and quickly joined the departing litter w/o a backward glance.  Boldly marked w/ grey flour on a snowy day, the trail was a breeze to follow.  Or not.

Through a cemetery and up into the Alps we climbed.  Oxygen masks recommended.  After a narrow traverse and a nefarious back check, downhill we tumbled.  Thank God those railroad tracks stopped us from sliding all the way into the Patapsco!  Fortunately AmTrak was shut down due to the storm, so we didn’t need to dodge any bullet trains as we tracked the rails for a stretch.  Then back uphill.  It was at about this time that Crash Test Dumbass apparently decided that he needed to go all the way to Baltimore City for some reason, and off he went.  The rest of us stopped for our pocket beer check.

And so it went.  Up, down, over the river (OK, small streams) and through the woods.  Unfortunately Grandmother’s house was nowhere to be found.  Meanwhile, the diabolical Blonde Roots developed amnesia at every false-filled check.

Finally, after 6 brutal hours on trail the bedraggled litter, battling frostbite and hypothermia, found its way back in to the A.  And who should be there to greet us but that dapper bimbo hasher, A Phone Named Gerbil.  Ice cold libations were served to treat our hypothermia and a 10 gallon bag of popcorn fed the ravenous litter.  Songs were sung and violations were doled out (w/ Oedipussy serving as Amazon’s stunt liver) at the micro-circle, and everyone agreed that it was a good thing to have narrowly avoided being the 1st wankers in the long and checkered history of BAH3 to have cancelled a trail due to the weather.

On on!

Johnnie

M4W (BAH3 #1323 Trash)

Tall, usually kilted, only occasionally grumpy hasher seeking hariette.

Me: Love to hash. Often show up early to start, where I can enjoy the amazing views of whatever house the hashers decide to invade on a random Sunday. Enjoys hanging out with Sex Apnea, Just Robb, Lick Stick, and Fossil.

You: Have a pulse. At least 51% female. Like to get to start before hare appears, but willing to wait around for 30-45 minutes if that’s what it takes for the hare to show up. Fan of Dump ‘n Scrunch, 5$I, TTuA, and Dr. Strangelove.

Me: Enjoys long walks on the beach. Especially when that beach is made of of huge rocks, is assaulted by cold, grey waves, and has no particularly appealing view. Fancies running from NEC, Standard Deviant, Choke Out, and Old Faithful.

You: Happy to climb sheer cliffs to make your way into and over private property, apartment complexes, not nearly enough roads, and anything else you can find on your way to a random van for liquor. (Van provided by Lil Flour but only after he decided he wanted to park ALL THE CARS in front of his own vehicle, and only then realize he needed a way to get shots out of the driveway. Thanks for the loan Dr. Strangelove!) BFFs with Cleanup and Pvt Skinflute.

Me: Always up for a sprint across a golf course.

You: Fan of long walks through the woods, especially when those walks can go through the same trails four, five, six or more times on one trip.

Me: Super excited when I can finish a trail without getting bloody, finding poison ivy, or attracting ticks. (Note: attached map does not show such a trail…)

You: Always willing to get into a hot tub, no matter how many unwashed and/or unwanted heathens might already be there.

Me: Love celebrating friends’ birthdays, especially their twenty-fourth. Happy Birthday Amazon!

You: Understand that sometimes it’s cold, and, you know, some people are showers, and some are growers. Either way, ticks need to be removed much earlier than a week after the hash.

Me: A Phone Named Gerbil. (Call me!)

Welcome to the saga of BAH3’s trail number 1318.

There was no doubt in my mind this trail would be memorable. Starting early in the week Regurgasex’s plaintive calls for someone, anyone, from MisManagement to get back to him indicated something odd was going to happen. Combine that with the fact that the trail was going to have a live hare, and in B’More, where we all know there’s no shiggy, but the trail notes suggested, wait for it, wait for it, an ACTUAL STREAM CROSSING! Woohoo! How could this go wrong? As it turns out, it could go wrong in soooo many ways.

Everything started off well. It was a beautiful day, sunny, warm, just the right kind of weather for hashing. Then I found the wrong starting point. “In the parking lot next to the Stieff Silver building, on the side by the Scouts”. Sure. After three or four cars full of hashers drove into that lot, then left and went across the street, I figured I might be missing out. Yeah. Well, just a minor hiccup, right? And besides, if I was the only one to misinterpret the directions then I’ll just blame that on the brunch mimosas I started the day with. So hashers arrived. Many hashers. Then 3:00 arrived, then 3:10, then 3:15, but no hare. Wait, wasn’t he supposed to leave at 3? And then let us follow by 3:10? Oh well, it’s summer hashing, and it’s nice out, right? No worries.

Then worries. Regurgasex does eventually show up, and starts putting down some marks for chalk talk. Hmm, what kind of marks are these? “Runners will be on these two colors of chalk, walkers on these 6? 7? something like that.” Okay… I suppose that might work. Oh, and walkers trail is already laid, and the hare’s heading out with flour now… Okay. Well, it’s a nice day, fun people, there are still a few pre-lube beers lying around. Sounds like a plan.

Even with the ominous warning signs, the on out started off well. Three miles, 40 minutes, a back check or two and a nice scattering of flour later, the runners found their way to a Beer Garden on the Johns Hopkins campus, just in time to not find the hare. See, usually when there’s a live hare, that hare waits at the beer/shot stops to make sure everyone made it, and enjoy a refreshing beverage as well. Apparently that’s not Regurgasex’s way. Okay, cool. The thirsty runners decide to skip waiting on him, and descend quickly on the beer. Yay! Eventually the hare does decide to show up, eating pizza. About then was when we realized the beer garden was closing up shop, and there were no more beers to be had. Hmm. Oh, and the walkers weren’t here yet. Hmm. Well, this is shaping up wonderfully!

So the hare heads out to find the walkers and get them back on track, and the runners stand around waiting. And waiting. And waiting. Because, as you might recall, it’s a live trail, and so there’s no on-out for us. We finally decide to just no-no the walkers trail back to start, even though we know we’ll miss out on the promised second beer stop. Of course, that second beer stop could be anywhere in a five mile radius, and with no marks to find it, not likely to be attended. Luckily(?) one block down the trail we run into the hare again, leading the bedraggled, wet, tired, and thirsty walkers to the now-defunct beer garden. From the rumors and stories I heard, it seems the walkers found all the shiggy promised to the pack. Go walkers! (That’ll teach you, Johnnie C_ring, for your comment to the hare: “and btw, regurgasex, walkers like checks & shiggy too!” You asked, and he delivered.)

So the hare gives the walkers directions to the next part of their trail, something like “go up past the garden, then turn left. You can’t miss it!” Heh. Anyway. Then off he goes, hopefully laying trail to the second beer stop. After a short time the rest of the running pack starts trying to figure out where the hare went. That failed. And failed. And failed. About 15 minutes later, after successfully finding the newly laid no-no walker’s marks that the hare had helpfully laid down to assist the walkers about three separate times, most of the pack gave up and went back to the start.

In the next hour or so, the pack back at the stop called up DDD to let her know there was no pack coming to the beer stop, and that we wanted her beer (and delicious shot) back at start. The intrepid walkers managed to make their way back to the start as well, though I think they missed most of where they were supposed to go to. (Rumor has it the walkers trail ended up longer than the trail most of the runners did.) Eventually Regurgasex returned, and a few minutes later both Peter Puller and More Men Pukes Tonight / Bringem Hung made it back in. Somehow, those two managed to find trail, and followed (and caught) the hare. Over-achievers.

Regurgasex hared this lobotomy of a trail, Call Triple D hosted a beer stop no one made it to, and brought yummy shots. Any of you who were there have been invited by Regurgasex to have your hash cash paid for at this week’s CCH3 trail. Those lucky b*stards are: SotC, Bang En Style, Johnnie C_ring, More Men Pukes Tonight / Bringem Hung (how many names does this guy have?), Free2Lay, Dump & Scrunch, Socket, Works for Tips, $5i, Phone Named Gerbil, Chicks Won’t Stick, Just Mike, Peter Puller, B4B, Gigolo, Schmegg, Fossil, and Do Me Decimal. Oh, and in honor of the trail, Amazon was included in the offer by Regurgasex.

So, after discovering this list of names in the random pair of hash shoes my DD accidentally donated to me after the last hash, it seemed a shame to not acknowledge the dedication, determination, delusion, directionally-challenge-edness, and drunkenness of both our hares and our hounds for BAH3 Hash #1317.

Everything started off well. There was not nearly enough parking, far too many civilians wandering through the gathering place, and the ever-present boding sense of doom. Luckily, things went uphill from there. By that, I mean they mostly went downhill, in all senses of the word. The hares decided they’d go ahead and give us a chalk talk that would be super-helpful and wonderfully kind to the hounds who really wanted to go forth and find a bit of beer. Oh, and, for the record, those hares were: ECDC, W4T, $5I, and PND. (Also for the record, PND wrote these names down, and I’m just drunk enough to not be able to translate them into something resembling actual words, so there you go.) There was some sort of circle surrounding these talks of chalk. Given that NEC was listed on the attendance list, I’m assuming he was the RA, as the combination of factors including: 1) it being six days since I found this list and realized I was supposed to do something with it and 2) me ending the evening with a BAC far higher than I’ve had in an while, suggested that he was likely the one to send us off into the woods of doom.

Oddly enough, the trail started off well enough. The pack started off in the general direction of the marks, and then instantly lost them. So, business as usual. Eventually, trail was found, and the hounds continued their search for beer. Luckily, we were quickly introduced to the idea of a wonderful trail inspired by A. A. Milne. The hares exquisitely brought forth a memory in me wherein I could recall a wonderful Winnie-the-Pooh episode, consisting of Pooh and Piglet following tracks in the snow, and, “ah ha!” discovering where new tracks joined the footprints they’d followed. Soon after, more people joined the trail they were following. It was only after they became afraid that they were following an army of Poohs and Piglets that they diverged from the path they were following, and discovered they’d only been finding their own tracks, adding to the trail again and again. Yes, the hares definitely outdid themselves this day.

But was this enough? Were the hounds able to find something to quench their thirst after thirty minutes of circling? How dare you even assume such a thing?

Strangely enough, the next 1.5 miles or so were actually marked. I suppose that was the hare’s way of lulling the hounds into a false sense of confidence. The next chance they had, those hares decided to leave the entire pack wandering aimlessly under some amazingly high-powered electric lines. Perhaps they were expecting us to develop magnetic powers and find trail through our newly gained sense of the electromagnetic field? Perhaps. It didn’t work. Eventually, a randomly wandering hasher found marks suggesting they might actually be on the way to some of the wonderfully liquid refreshment the pack was dearly seeking. Yeah. Like that was going to happen.

Oh, and what’s up with a back check that backs you up to a mark that’s one mark off a check? WTF, man?

Anyway.

Two miles later. Forty minutes later. Hooray! There was much rejoicing! But wait, after crossing multiple streams, traversing six miles of hideous up and down trail (btw, props to the hares for even finding this shiggy in Columbia), we finally have a chance to slake our thirst with our lord’s most holiest of beverages, BEER! Err, no, maybe not. Because this stop, six miles into the trail, was a shot stop. Let me just leave you, dear reader, with that for a moment. A shot stop. Give it a moment. Oh, while we’re taking that moment, let me mention that the hare’s response to our arrival was, “what took you so long?”. Yes. That’s what happened. .

Perhaps sensing the pack’s mutinous tendencies, the hares seemed to have adjusted the rest of the trail following the shot check. Just over a mile and a half and 20 minutes or so later, the pack emerged from the Patuxent ready for the beer stop, only to discover that the beer stop had been turned into the on-in. So. 7.57 miles by my technology later, we found no beer, one shot, and shiggy that has me still scarred six days later. Epic trail.

I suppose I should mention that the shot stop did have a cooler with a few more shots than were necessary for the pack, and I think there were some beers in there too. I only say this now as I feel the rest of this recap will be blissfully short, as my memory has completely evaporated post on-in. I’m assuming there was a circle. No doubt there were violations. Many hashers rued their sins, and, some hours later, I woke up very hungover.

Those who should be commemorated for surviving this trail include: (as scribed, and re-written)

• Gerbil
• Cornholio
• Ass Orge
• Pink Panther
• The Penis
• Swantang
• Gigolo
• Just Leo
• EMC
• I Suck Not Well
• Socket
• Choke Out
• Fossil
• Just Charlie
• Dump N Scrunch
• No Wake Zone
• Just Katie
• Mightier
• Just Mike (owes 1)
• NEC
• TTUA
• Johnny Cockring
• Clean Up
• ZZB3
• Ponyboy

Marvel at their magnificence and rejoice.

For a second opinion of this trail, I give you B4B:

By the feedback I’ve received, I can sense some of you are wondering, “How can I set a trail this magnificent?”. I can break it down for you into 4 easy steps:

Step 1: Lie to the pack and tell them all of the false trails are explicitly marked with False symbols.

Step 2: Have the trail abruptly change direction without warning. Do this at least a dozen times.

Step 3: Hide some the back-checks. Heck, while you’re at it, hide some of the regular checks and some of the trail as well. Save some of your best work for when the pack has already gone over 6 miles.

Step 4: Blame it all on ECDC.

–B4B

Aarrr, me hearties. A horde of swashbuckling scoundrels, winsome wenches, buxom beauties, dastardly dogs, and rapacious ruffians weighed anchor, took to the seas, and found themselves a comfortable port in Heavy Seas Brewery Bay on a recent Sunday in August. Treasure and booty awaited, and though X did not mark the spot, 5$ Infection and Chicks Won’t Stick had endeavored to lay down a treasure map of sorts. With an unusual display of timeliness, Pump ‘n Dump called together more than two score crew members, including a half dozen virgins, to start up an opening circle fueled with pre-lube and hilarity. After appropriate instructions and introductions, the crew was off, at full speed, straight into a slog through shiggy the likes of which hasn’t been seen in seasons.

The mates followed the treasure trail through forest, muck, river, stream, grassland, dirt, dust, tunnels and every location where shiggy existed. The only missing part of the trail was pavement. Shots were consumed, beer checks were enjoyed, safety was ignored, dogs were lost (and found), shipwrecked late arrivals were gathered up, and eventually, after much travail, the crew found their way back to the starting point of this delightful adventure. Some crew members changed to even better pirate costumes (many thanks to the beauties for that) and a horde of thirsty scavengers descended into the Heavy Seas Brewery Tasting Room.

Beer flowed quickly, and the crew took much advantage. After a short tour of the warehouse, where mates were yelled at to “Hash Hush” no less than a dozen times, with increasing volume and frustration, Pump ‘n Dump opened up the circle for the usual miscreants to enjoy. Bobbin’s mother seemed to enjoy herself, even though just about every hash song about motherf*cking found their way to the room. All in all, full advantage was taken of the two hour drinking window provided by Heavy Seas, and eventually a bunch of drunk hashers were let loose on the outside world.

On-pirating-on,

A Phone Named Gerbil

The pirate had captured a wench,
Quite youthful and pretty, and French,
He showed her his bed,
She shook her sweet head,
So he polished her off on the bench!