HT #1195: The white elephant never forgets, but maybe gets a bit confused when recovering from NYE
When a veteran (read: old) hare lays trail, you have a good sense of what to expect: the type of terrain they favor, clear markings, none of the rookie mistakes that send the pack so far in the wrong direction that people start seriously considering whether they will ever make it back to their car and how to explain to their boss why they didn’t make it to work Monday morning. When two veteran hares team up, you can count on a well-coordinated trail executed with military-like discipline and precision transitions.
Unless of course they are assisted by a tall buxom lady in a “sexy Santa” costume, in which case blood flow is diverted from their brains and the pack is fucked.
Over 30 wankers with nothing better to do showed up on this mild but rainy Sunday to sacrifice their dry socks and dignity to our Lord Natty Boh. Despite the presence at the start point of many of life’s comforts and necessities (food, shelter, beer, boobies), hares At Your Cervix and Any Cock’ll Do Me persuaded the pack to come out into the rain to run trail, promising beer at the end. The pack, so enticed by the promise of future beer that we forgot that we were already drinking beer in a warm, dry place, complied.
Trail began innocently enough, taking us on a scenic tour of the naval golf course, where our nation’s finest sailors undergo a grueling regimen of hitting tiny white balls into distant holes with a variety of clubs to prepare them for the rigors of defending our interests abroad. Everything was going swimmingly until Bobbin’ 4 Buttplugs managed to shave about two miles off the trail by being way fitter than the hates anticipated and stumbling across the wrong true trail arrow a quarter mile from a check. Fortunately, our savvy hares, sitting cold and alone at the missed beer check, were able to divine today’s brand of stupidity and intersected the pack at a later point to ply us with beer and correct our course. Cervix pacified the pack with beer and then instructed us to go back the way we came.
Complete confusion ensued for those who either were not listening at the check or had already forgotten that we were *supposed* to be running backwards on the trail we came in on. Cervix gave up trying to fix trail and just followed the pack around telling us where to go next, which finally helped us get back on flour. The pack then stumbled upon Any Cock, who was sitting in an isolated shack in the woods with alcohol of the variety typically used to get unsuspecting young women into a more receptive state of mind, which he graciously offered to us despite the fact that we were obviously ruining his plans to take advantage of some young woman.
Trail continued in its damp and shiggy way, until the pack spied the on-in, at which point we decided we had had enough fun for the day and abandoned trail. Hopefully AC Do Me wasn’t sitting alone at that last shot check for too long.
Circle ensued. Our Lord Natty Boh, displeased with our trail offering, declined to bless our circle with His sweet nectar and instead cursed us with his lesser cousin, Natty Light. Once our sins were cleansed, we all consumed massive quantities of garlic bread, which didn’t stop the two virgins from excusing themselves early to go get to know one another better. They got the hang of hashing pretty quick.
In the spirit of the white elephant, we exchanged gifts ranging from the alcoholic to the pornographic to the truly hideous. Too Sexy offered no explanation for intentionally stealing the uniquely awful wolfpack diorama, but we have learned to expect the unexpected from a man who dresses like is is just stopping by on his way to Renn Faire for no apparent reason.
Though the wrapped gifts were as tacky as you might expect, the entire pack received he greatest gift of all: Velvet in extremely tiny clothes (though only one lucky hasher got to unwrap that gift).
All in all, a confusing, damp, garlicky, beer-soaked start to 2011.
On on
SB