Lost Shiggy

May 12, an Illustrious and eventful day in world history:

  • In 303, Roman Emperor Diocletian orders the beheading of the 14-year-old Pancras of Rome.
  • In 922, after much hardship, Abbasid envoy Ahmad ibn Fadlan arrives in the lands of Volga Bulgars.
  • In 1935, Bill Wilson and Dr. Bob Smith (founders of Alcoholics Anonymous) meet for the first time in Akron, Ohio, at the home of Henrietta Siberling
  • In 1949, the western occupying powers approve the Basic Law for the new German State: The Federal Republic of Germany
  • In 1962, Douglas MacArthur delivers his Duty, Honor, Country valedictory speech at the United States Military Academy.
  • In 1978, Jason Biggs, future famous fucker of apple pies is born, and

And a gorgeous spring evening it was as the hashers gathered at the entrance to Hoyt Arboretum; I don’t know what happened to the NNH always running in the rain – we might have to write alternate lyrics to the theme song if recent trends continue. Alas, we were without our fearless leaders Cockjaw and RTB as they had made an early break for the bay area, but, never ones to be deterred from beer and shiggy by personal loyalties, we put our trust in Can’t Finish, Iced Pee, Felcher and the hash gods (Pabst & Hamms) and headed for the woods. A short “warm-up” jaunt with a shiggy teaser (an amuse bouche, I guess you could call it, although apparently we never made it to the main course . . . but more on that later) brought us to the first beer check on a lovely forest deck. If only there had been a hot tub . . . of course then we never would have made it to beer check # 2, which would have been sad because . . . well we’ll get there.

Winding through the woods we continued on. Expecting shiggy at every turn, the pink ribbon never seemed to appear, and some more entrepreneurial soles took matters into their own hands (feet?), bounding through grass and ivy and down muddy slopes, creating their own interpretation of the trail like a Georgia O’Keeffe painting. At last we emerged from the vegetation to find ourselves at the Rose Garden and the second beer check. I was admiring the lovely scenery (and the chutzpah of our hares for inviting 50 loud, oddly dressed, and generally stunningly attractive people to drink beer on stage at a public park) when lo and behold, a vision appeared at the top of the stairs. What was it, we all wondered as it made its entrance – or should I say as they made their entrance. It was Felcher, making the most of her captive audience and the red-carpet-worthy staircase down which the rest of us had hurled ourselves in our eagerness to quench our thirst. A statue should be erected in Washington Park memorializing this glorious march. Not to be outdone, our DFLs, VVD and Boobtube closed out the show with a beautiful expression of the love that was in the air that evening.

I don’t know whether it was the beer, the images of bimbos still clouding our vision, or the wily skills of our hairs, but it was a slow start from the second beer check. Eventually we figured out that we did have to go back up the hill to make it out of Washington Park, but even after this feat of directional intelligence, we seemed to lose true trail pretty quickly. Still seeing marks, we knew we weren’t entirely lost, but something felt wrong. Eventually we realized that we were back on the trail that we had already run. “It’s A to A,” Log Jammer pointed out, “who cares?” And that was good enough logic for most of us. Gayzelle, clearly agitated by the prospect of not finding true trail, ran off in the opposite direction for a while, but I believe even he capitulated eventually and galloped back to the on-in, no doubt passing everyone who had gone there directly.

Back at the on-in we were deep in thought, wondering what had become of the promised shiggyliciousness of this trail (okay who am I kidding, we were busy stuffing our faces with chips and cookies) when who should emerge from the other side of the road but Buster Hymen, looking like he had been filming the outdoor adventure-themed sequel to Two Girls One Cup. He stopped when he saw our pristine legs and exclaimed “are you kidding me?!” Apparently one of us did find true trail; and apparently there was shiggy. Oh well.

Felcher and Can’t Finish shared RA duties (see Cockjaw, it takes two to fill your shoes, Romancing is a lucky woman), leading us all in joyous song and merriment. Can’t stepped up and took the blame for the poor trail laying that led us to miss the shiggy as apparently Iced Pee chugged a PBR at the second beer check that didn’t agree with his stomach, leaving him partially-incapacitated. We had two virgins, including one with impressive manscaping which he was generous enough to show off for us, adding to the ample amount of penis that was on view that evening (were all the boob checks on the part of the trail we never found because I think I saw more dick last night than that time I “bartended” at the Republican National Convention). The hump brought us another handful of visitors who showed off their, err, comedic skills, including yet more penis. And for the first time in my experience Honors far outnumbered crimes on trail, the latter consisting only of myself (for texting my poor mother who had spent the better part of the previous evening in the hospital with yours truly to let her know that I was alright) and Cock Broker who couldn’t keep his beverage in when Angry Inch surprised him from behind with yet another “joke”. Good behavior notwithstanding, Chubby finally passed off the hash shit, which is growing promisingly. Finally, we made it to naming, and since apparently my extracurricular activities and their colorful evidence are more name-worthy than my poor trail-laying abilities (and since we already have a Clusterfuck in the family), I am no longer Clusterfuck the Beaver and am left wondering what love has got to do with it. With a rousing rendition of our closing song, we all went in peace and in one piece and hopefully got a piece. Some post-religion mingling and cavorting ensued, but with no fire to draw us in like moths and no tyrants to regale us with long-winded tales and epic 69-verse songs, the evening ended at a not-entirely indecent hour.

Join us next week for the (apparently) extremely rare opportunity to witness Deboner laying trail. And if you can’t wait until then, there is quite a full calendar of hashing events coming down the pipe:

Saturday: Log Jammer and Cuntess of Curdled Cheese Jiz take us back to the Couv (where hopefully there will be no crazy purse snatchers)

Sunday: String Cheese and Twatsicle throw a BASH

Monday: There’s some mystery meat at the Kahuna

Tuesday: Get BeHeaded on the full moon

Wednesday: America’s Next Cock Model gets dirty with punctuation on the hump

Until then (and until Romancing resumes her scribe duties and saves you from my verbosity),

On On and Cheers kiddos!

Your black and blue scribe,

Tina Turnover


2 thoughts on “Lost Shiggy”

  1. Nicely done! And I promise, I will not miss next time we try the Strawberry Shortcake maneuver in the sack. I still say we should try S’moring…


  2. Nicely done Tina Turnover… so much to cover from last night’s trail and you did it eloquently and with great aplomb. Let’s not forget Buster’s pantless victory dance, where he lived up to his name with a sheath of hemlock bark, or tree hymen, wrapped around his member. If that wanker wasn’t already the recipient of a good name, a few new ones come to mind 😉 on on!

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