Hash Trash #1172: God hates Any Cock’ll Do Me
This week’s trail started like any other, with a bunch of milling about and the standard hash prayer from our stalwart RA, also doubling as hare this week. As Any Cock thundered out the usual blessings – “Coppas no catchus”, “Beezus no stingus”, “farmer no shootus” – little did we know that he was actually just alerting God to all of the things He could make go seriously awry on trail. In fact, I think the only truthful thing he said all afternoon was, “This is the symbol for a back check, which you will be seeing a LOT.”
Unaware of the curse just laid down upon us, the pack went crashing into the woods, which appears to double as a dump in this area, judging from the constant sound of glass crunching underfoot. We picked our way through the garbage and ridiculous back checks until we made our way to a hunting area with a hare’s arrow pointing up to the top of the shooting platform. Presumably this was so we could be more aware of how easily we could be sighted and picked off by hunters on any one of the many platforms lining the trail.
We ran by a bunch of go-karts, which was kind of fun except for the part where the trail didn’t involve us (a) dodging or (b) driving go-karts. But otherwise I guess it was okay. Eventually we made it to the first beer check, which Any Cock located at what I can only assume was his home, a rotted out shack in the woods. The glass-covered moldy couch out front is a nice touch – your wife clearly has a designer’s sensibilities.
We drank beer for a while, so that was a highlight. Uncle Fester pointed out where a bee had stung him. Oh, that’s a bummer, we all said. Fester took another swig of beer casually. We continued horsing around, then started to jog away from the check, and then Fester collapsed, because APPARENTLY HE FAILED TO MENTION THAT HE IS ALLERGIC TO BEES. Gaelick and I rushed over. His lips were turning blue, but I didn’t really get too worried until his sense of humor disappeared and he was just staring vacantly into space in response to all of my exceedingly funny jokes about his new lipstick color. Anyhow, by sheer coincidence we happened to have an epi pen on site, and I think Pump and Dump set a new land speed record running to Silence of the Clams’s car to retrieve it. Gaelick and I injected Fester, but it didn’t work and he died. So then we tried lezzing out all over him instead and he recovered quickly thereafter. I guess if you’re going to have a medical emergency, at a hash with two hot queer chicks trained in emergency care is probably the place to do it.
Anyhow, after we shipped Fester off to the “urgent” care clinic up the road, which ZZ Bottom knew about for reasons he failed to elaborate upon, the pack continued upon the trail. Resurrection is no reason not to continue to drink beer. It’s what Fester would have wanted, I believe. Anyhow, we ran like a quarter of a mile and then arrived at the next beer check, confused, wondering if we had inadvertently shortcut the trail. But no, apparently the hare was just being lazy.
Then we ran, and the trail was boring for a while because nobody else died. There were back checks every two hundred yards or so. We stopped trusting any trail that involved consecutive flour marks and instead just running into the woods at random. Finally, we broke out from under the power lines onto a road, where the trail ran off to the right up a steep hill but the cars were all clearly visible to the left. Despite this complete failure to be tricky, a couple of people ran up the “dumb-dumb hill”, which of course ended in a false trail. I followed the true trail back to the cars and cruised in as FRB! I WIN I WIN I WIN!!! EAT MY DUST, SUCKAS!!!!!
My celebratory mood was quickly dampened by the realization that Any Cock was surrounded on all sides by the police. Apparently asking aloud if this was about that dead hooker was not constructive, but he managed to get it resolved in the end thanks to the fact that the dude who reported whatever crime we were supposedly committing was even drunker than we were. So, the circle proceeded apace under the watchful eyes of Bowie’s finest, who parked at a respectful distance and watched on mournfully as we had fun while they filled out paperwork. Fester eventually returned from the “urgent” care clinic looking more or less alive, though he had somehow lost all of his hair, which looked totally weird. Any Cock was violated for bringing the wrath of God down upon us. “Coppas no catchus? Beezus no stingus?” Can you impeach an RA?
So all in all, I guess it was pretty ho-hum. For those of you looking for a more interesting trail, come out this Sunday to Running B’Hare’s trail, to which I will bring some special guests, starring the unbelievably hot and endearing chick who got me into hashing, Cum Fly With Me. So if you’re happy I joined your group, this is your opportunity to show your appreciation by showering her with gifts (she likes frosting, ninjas, and long walks on the beach); alternatively, if you hate me, or are just annoyed by my youth, talent and beauty, this would be your opportunity to come kick her in the shins. She’ll also have An Inconvenient Poop in tow, meaning that ZZ Bottom won’t have to drink alone when all black dudes drink, which is good. He drinks alone enough as it is.
P.S. IF YOU HAVEN’T SIGNED UP FOR THE CAMPOUT, YOU SHOULD SIGN UP FOR THE CAMPOUT. I HEARD THERE WILL BE BOOBIES THERE.