A word from Wildman. What?

I’m like, what…a no name hash what the fuck is that, I mean, like, this is what happened like when a bunch of idiots who spent all weeks running hash can’t even like, pick a name to start a new group since this new group like, masterminded, and I used the word like, loosely like they really are the master of mind like, start this hash although the initial predicament to starting was foreseen by Fuu Fuu, one of the master of mind that some guy by the name of (sic) Wild man could actually, like, making thing cooler with a name like Judas Flock Oregon Hash sumpin, sumpin…Hey, that’s my beer, bitch…gitjer own!!

Ok, this fat bald guy Butt Mudd, who I suspected long ago was a little limpwristed succulent butt-pluggin’ deviant, not that I do not condone such behavior being a believer of do if yer must feel free laying trail in my backyard called Happy Valley…not that the name has any true reference to how people feel in the valley with suspected faghgots carrying bags of yellow flour laying trail. Ok, I showed up for the run because the only true hash is way up in my kind of boonies, with some OZ worded as the bush, in my side of town.

Ok, trails was reasonable ‘easy to follow’ by about over twenty with just a few bitches who refused to flash titties, which I am proud of my productive behavior, of coerced them to do it, not that I have not seen titties in my entire adult life becuase being America that it is what else is there to do on a hash run day. I used the word run more specific because most hashers can’t even contribute to properly lay a reasonable trail so that point to another aspect of the beer check which is not getting a lot of rap, but from me, should be short and fast.

Ok, the truth is they missed me, Blast Rag who’s married to Pabst the Smear, who is not a good friend of mine who took away what’s important to me which really doesn’t make any sense unless of course if one is a true hashers sleeping around not that that is a hobby of mine other than yellin on top of mah voice about showin ‘em tits, if you’re a bimbo or something that possessed similar body parts.

Ok, note to hashers, running in an urban-metro areas sometimes called da city ain’t make it hashing. Running from bars to bars have the same bag of discredit. That said, you guys need to hash in Asia and smell some Asian assh*les or at least poke your spindley finger in it and how hashing is organized and run.

Ok, spoken from experience which is really double boring…be different and creative about the running trail which to me by experience could make or break my enthusiasm. So you bitches may think, this scumbag slimeball is a perverted titties maniac which I pleaded unfair when all was for the good of the collective, is it not?

Hashing used to be two things: run and beer. Today it’s also titties and getting laid and if you look around you that tit check you just did to make ‘em bimbos to flash is not a hash original, it’s a modern creation of a sick mind which you make not have noticed over the period of time was invented by me and carried on by a OZ couple as goes on predated early in the Humpin Hash era.

Since you ain’t me, and not as creative as me or even close, your trail will be scrutinized, criticized and your lack of a viable form of intelligence pounded upon. If you insist of laying trail in the much used hash-corrupted area of Hawthorne where all the scum live you ain’t deserve to be called hasher in my book….which I still need to get a free one from Border’s.

In my book you would rot in Hell…


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