Gayzelle gets all the girls (and boys) wet


No Name Trash 4/14/11

I wasn’t expecting much as we left for the No Name Hash.  In addition to the pissing rain, there was supposedly a significant sporting event going on that evening.  Maybe it was baseball—naw, those pussies don’t play in the rain.  Cockjaw and I were greeted in Momo’s by a sizable crowd of smiling hashers, obviously aroused by the idea of Gayzelle getting them all wet, and proving that hashers are way more hardcore than any pansy baseball team.

As we set out on trail, in pursuit of our hare, Gayzelle, we soon realized that many of the staple FRBs weren’t there.  We stood around at the first check for several minutes arguing about who would scout trail, as we huddled together under the small bar awning, hoping to get a little more foreplay before we were ready to get really wet.  After much hesitation, we were off.

Gayzelle is well known for being an FRB, continuously proving he got his name because he runs like a horny gazelle eager to run down another same-sex gazelle.  But I couldn’t help but be impressed by the amount of blow jobs he set on a live trail all by himself.  That fucker must be flexible (if only Cockjaw could give himself a blowjob…).  It felt like every check had marks going off in every direction.  The difficultly of checking was further compounded by the fact that the relentless rain was quickly washing away marks.  Some checks turned to arrows; some marks disappeared altogether.  Gayzelle effectively got the pack lost, confused, and wet, a strategy he often goes for when picking up drunk girls at parties or the hash.

We headed toward the large stadium of screaming people.  I was hoping we would rush the field, or flash our fun parts to the fans, but alas, we stayed away.  Football?  No, I think that’s in the Fall.  The first beer check was at the esteemed Goose Hollow.  We stood in the rain (because it was still raining) on the patio and watched the check on the corner wash away.

We continued to get lost because some hashers, like the lovely Barnacle Box, think that just two marks is an “on on.”  When we finally arrived at the second beer check, we were sure we were in the wrong place.  Mama Mia’s was elegantly decorated with crystal chandeliers, ornate frames, and velvet drapes (which I don’t know about you, but was certainly giving me ideas…).  The patrons were old and nicely dressed, and we could see on the bartender’s face when we walked in that this was much more than she bargained for.  Just when we were inches away from getting kicked out, G.I. Blow loudly and obnoxiously cheered at the sporting event on the tv (for which he’d again earn the hashshit), and we left in a hurry.

Eager to reach the climax after being sufficiently wet for quite a while now, we quickly found the end of the trail, which oddly didn’t say “On In” or “On Home” or “On Homey” or anything at all.  Does that mean we will perpetually be on that trail? Should I still be looking for flour?  I thought I saw some flour on the driveway at my W this morning, but it turned out to just be the light reflecting off a puddle.  I was very disappointed.

And religion.  Poor Cockjaw.  He didn’t run the trail because he was sick, but he thought, “hey, but I can still shout at a bunch of drunks and keep reasonable control while being at the top of my game as a songster.”  Things degraded quickly.  It started with him forgetting to introduce the sacred vessel and stoll, and ended with him sending me up to help him RA.  That’s when I knew he’d reached the height of his delirium.  Somehow we made it through religion.  There was a sexy virgin, Just Carmen, many silly crimes, and guest appearances by Shoots and Whisky (shit— I think there was a third, but I was drinking, so I don’t recall).  Then we swang low (Did you know that “swang” is not a word?  I think it should be, because I like anything with a wang on it.).

In the half mile trek back to our car this is what I heard continuously repeated from Cockjaw: “Uhhhahhhmaahhhuuuahhh. Oh my god, this was a horrible idea.  I’m so much worse than yesterday.  Uuuhhhggmmuuuuaaaahhhh.”  But I made him drive anyway.

Be sure to cum next week.  It will be the No Name’s first anal Matzoh Ball Hash.  I hear there will be a shit ton of delicious food.

Honor to Poke Her Face for writing an amazing Trash last week.  I encourage everyone to write Hash Trashes, especially when I’m not there.  If you’d like to write a Trash when I am there, just let me know, so we’re not competing for who posts it the fastest.  In a perfect world every hash would be trashed, or may I’d be trashed at every hash.

In other news, you can hash every day this week:

Friday/Saturday: Snow Bimbo Campout

Sunday: Mutt Fucker shows her Full Moon

Monday: Kahuna gets Muddy Balls

Tuesday: Ditch does a Beaver

Wednesday: Chew Toy humps Just Raya

Thursday: We all devour Fuu Fuu’s Matzoh Balls

Your sultry scribe,

Romancing the [big, long, hard] Bone

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