It always rains on a No Name Hash

It always rains on a No Name Hash.

If there’s one thing you should know about the No Name hash, it’s that you’re going to get wet.  Not the “ugh, I’m cold and I smell like mildew” kind of wet, but the “oh my, please baby, I want more” kind of wet.  Well, at least that how I feel about it, but it’s not so unusual for me to feel that way.

You also should know that No Name hashers are the elite, the super-hashers.  We are the ones that laugh in the face of a 10-mile trail, whom a forecast of rain encourages us to go outside, who often hash two, three, or more times a week.  Honor to everyone who came yesterday.  I’m so glad to be amongst so many people that are as eager to get wet as I am.

For those who didn’t know, Buster is apparently a necrophiliac, and dug up and screwed a smelly rotting five-year-old corpse, and right in front of the corpse’s orphaned child.  Poor kid, after meeting the hashers, he’ll need therapy for years.

Buster Hymen was our hare, and with an eager and mischievous smile, he went off.  Despite our elite status, we waited like drowned rats and hoped he would take pity on us and lay an easy trail.

But Buster was apparently short on flour.  He would later describe to me that he set trail with a softball, one bounce was a mark, which left a faint circle of flour on the pavement—and let us not forget—it was raining.  Let’s also mention that Buster likes to make his trails randomly turn without any kind of mark.  So we ran through the streets of north Portland, aimlessly searching for small particles of flour.  But you know how much hashers like to fuck in clusters.

Not long after the start, we found a Beer Near, and in search of the Beer Check, we ran right by it and found the later trail.  Luckily, before our FBRs got too far, someone found a light dusting of flour on the grass that said BC.  Mmm beer.

We ran up and down and up and down, back and forth, and in and out and in and out and in and out, oh!  Oh!  Oooh!!  A perverted railroad enforcement officer watched us, Tard Core and Eager Weiner were nearly eaten by an angry barking bitch, and a nice elderly couple with a shotgun threatened Iced Pee.

We got to the On In after about 2.69 miles of confusion, greeted by cold beer, chips, and a lady with no fingers.  The first three FRBs in were all badass sexy bimbos.  We were soon informed that we all missed a second beer check.  The FRBs missed it.  Then the middle of the pack missed it.  Then the DFLs missed it.  Not a single hound had any notion that we had missed anything at all.  Buster told us we must have missed a whole section of his clear and meticulously marked trail.  Of course, Lipsdick, who helped Buster lay the beer checks and then ran with the pack, pleaded ignorance. Honor to Buster for only making us suffer a little.

Cockjaw led another arousing religion.  Heavy Flow Day was called out for taking a long cut to avoid shiggy, and Can’t Finish for repeatedly wearing his W clothes to the hash.  Some other stuff happened too.  Alcohol was consumed by all.  All were merry.  None were bright.  We swang our wangs low.

Next Thursday will be the most awesome Cinco de Mayo hash hared by the great and honorable Ditch Bitch and Plan B.  I’ll go out on a limb and say that they’ll likely be some kind of Mexican beer, and maybe even tequila.  We’ll be celebrating the fact we’re not Mexican.  Whoops.  One-step too far, I apologize.

I would like to thank the Stumptown hash for linking to our new website, as it already sent some poor half minds our way.

More next week:

Saturday: Cum support Captain von Poopy Pants at his giant crazy party.  You may win a sweet kegerator.  Go to for more info.

Monday: Gayzelle goes gay for Kahuna

Tuesday: Just Melissa has a Beaver

Wednesday: Hump Hash does a Pick up

Thursday: Ditch and Plan B hare the Cinco de Mayo.  Ah cha cha.

Your not so politically correct scribe,

Romancing the Bone


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