Hash Trash 1167: In which I learn a new way to get my shorts wet and contract hepatitis

When the hares GAP and ZZ Bottom wrote in an email that we would need headlamps for this trail and that the shiggy level would be about a 4, they failed to mention that this was on a scale of 1-3 and that we didn’t actually need headlamps except to make the locals extra nervous about a bunch of white people “checking” for things in their neighborhood. And, aside from the part where Pump and Dump had to get on her knees to crawl under some branches (resulting in much cursing of the lack of Hash Flash on trail), it was decidedly less than scenic, with the pack alternately pounding pavement, trash and moldy pillow-lined creeks, and backwoods shiggy littered with the feces of deer that are clearly eating things that are disagreeable to their gastrointestinal tract. I suppose the sound of broken glass crunching under the feet of a dozen or so hashers had a sort of grungy-artsy symphonic quality to it that kind of reminded me of some weird experimental bands I saw in college, but this tiny scrap of beauty did not outweigh the difficulty of trying to make one’s way down a steep incline without being able to put a hand down for stability for fear of contracting hepatitis.

After making our way through the first round of garbage-strewn shiggy, the trail made its way past a basketball court populated by the only locals insane enough to be playing basketball in the heat. The front runners’ cry of “on-on” was answered with a sharp “How about you shut the fuck up?!”, which silenced the pack at least until Pump and Dump got closer to the court, at which point the basketball players noted aloud that perhaps they wouldn’t mind going running with her.

After making our way through more thorns and broken glass, the pack had a bit of trouble finding trail in the vicinity of a thigh-deep stream, which gave us plenty of opportunity to bathe our open wounds in some seriously nasty water populated by some surprisingly large fish. But, eventually trail was found and the pack sang praises as we broke out of the shiggy and back into the streets of the ghetto, where we passed a number of old ladies in muumuus sitting on their front porches who seemingly had nothing better to do than tell us which way the hares went, which was useful because at this point the hares had started running low on flour and marks were getting harder and harder to find and were rarely in a straight line.

The locals overall didn’t seem too put off by a bunch of white people shouting and running through their neighborhood, though there were a few exceptions, like the woman who was a bit miffed because she had thrown out her crackpipe earlier when she saw a white dude running around with a headlamp and assumed he was a cop. Another woman who we ran by asked if we were running a marathon, presumably the only time that white people in running shorts are ever are routed through this neighborhood. Transcript of the conversation provided below:

Local woman: You folks runnin’ a marathon?

Pack: Nope.

Woman: Then whatchu runnin’ for?

Pack: For beer!

Woman: Beer?

Pack: BEER!!!!

Woman: B-E-E-R?

Who says the Baltimore educational system has failed? That woman spelled beer correctly on the first try.

After being asked by several people if we were the police and/or where we were trying to get to, presumably so that they could help us get out of their neighborhood faster, we passed a porch with a bunch of men who informed us that we probably wanted to turn left because a couple of dudes had run through that way not much earlier. When asked if it was a white dude and a black dude running together, they all shouted “Yeah!” in the way you would expect them to shout if you had just confirmed that they had seen a pink elephant gallop through the neighborhood but they didn’t want to be the first ones to say it out loud for fear you’d think they were crazy. The trail then veered back into the woods. We adjusted our headlamps, sure that we would need them any minute now.

The trail temporarily poked out of the woods near I-83, which had a false trail set across it for no apparent reason other than perhaps some kind of punishment for front runners. The rest of us skidded down a steep incline covered with broken glass to go under.

Just when we were about ready to call it quits, the pack stumbled across a “beer near” mark. Hallelujah! Praise Jebus!!! At this point we had run at least 3 or 4 miles in the heat without a break or drink. So imagine our disappointment when we discovered that (a) there was no water, and (b) the beer was all located at the bottom of a sewer. A few intrepid hashers climbed down past the rusty nails and broken handles sticking out of the walls, while those of us who are not up to date on our tetanus shots offered to show our tits if they would toss a beer up.

Oh well, at least now we get to use our headlamps, right? WRONG. The suckers who went down into the pee-smelling wishing well climbed back out, and the trail continued along in broad daylight.

Fortunately, we were almost finished, and we cruised back into the parking lot grateful that the trail was over. On the plus side, this is one of the few places where we could get naked and drink openly in a residential neighborhood without raising any eyebrows. At Your Cervix made an impromptu bid for the title of Whitest Dude Ever by responding to a question about why he had unbuttoned his shorts to show off his underpants with the rebuttal “We’re in the ghetto, bitch!”

After removing as many sewage-soaked articles of clothing as possible, we circled up, and immediately handed out multiple safety violations to the hares for the broken glass, sending us across I-83 for no reason, not providing any water except the stuff that had been heated to boiling in the back of ECDC’s pedophilie-mobile, not including tetanus shots on the friendlies list, and making us run the entire goddamn trail with headlamps we apparently didn’t need but made the locals very nervous. Mr. Grabbyhands a.k.a. Extra Creamy Dog Crap violated Pump and Dump for putting her butt in the way of his hand, presumably so he wouldn’t get busted in front of the comely virgin Just Bonnie.

Once we had enough of beating up on the hares, we turned to the topic of finally naming Just Alex. Since Vagina Whiner was already taken, a strong bid was made for permanently naming him Still Just Alex, but in the end the group voted as it usually does in favor of something way more gross than clever, $5 Infection, after a super gross story that I will not recount here except to say that I am glad that penicillin worked for you, my friend. I’m sure other stuff happened in circle but I was busy watching the World Cup on my iPhone.

Then everyone went home and got MEGA PUMPED for the trail coming up the following week, hared by yours truly and Muffalotta up in Cockeysville, a town that we totally did not make up. There will be all kinds of treats and, even better, no broken glass. So drag your butts up there, because it’ll be worth it, and the on-after has half-price burgers.


Something Black


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