A Dead Trail

It was a cold and dreary evening as the No Name hashers convened at the home of Katoy Toy and Winky the Angry Starfish.  The clouds threatened rain overhead as more half-minds trickled in.  I was worried that our numbers would be small due to the unfortunate amount of deaths on Wednesday caused some angry motherfucking yellow jackets.  Luckily, many overcame death to be with us, and even if you couldn’t be there last night, I know you were there in spirit.  I hope your near death experience and/or discomfort made you realize the significance of the meaningful relationships you have gotten from the hash, and more importantly, the alcohol.

It was apparent from the beginning that our hare, Crack Up, pre-layed the trail, so any preconceived notions we might have had about a one lonely bimbo hare laying an easy trail were out the window (as most preconceived notions often are).  When Crack Up set off, she gave us a coy little smile and bee-lined it to the nearest establishment with alcohol, where she then causally waited for the poor unsuspecting hounds to find the beer at the end of the trail.

So, as the pack scouted false trail after false trail, ran through blackberries, stream beds, and giant hills, and risked our lives through the streets of felony flats, our hare was sitting comfortably somewhere, calm and smiley, with a cold beer in hand.  Little did she know that the area was much more tolerant to meth and gang violence than an innocent group of r*nners passing by their immaculate property.

After being entangled in a few blackberry bushes (these certainly are not my preferred bush to be entangled in), and crossing a creek a couple times, we made it to the first beer check.  Wildman tried to skip the beer check and head straight for the next leg of the trail, but knowing that he was not to be trusted, we went the opposite direction, only to find the beer check almost immediately.  The beer was refreshing, despite the unfortunate infestation of sour glowworms.

We set off again to gradually realize that someone(s) was messing with our marks.  We never found the sphincter we were so looking forward to, and a missing check at the top of a hill baffled the pack for quite a long time, causing many of the FRBs to run up and down the hill two or three or four times.  My only wish for the lovely citizens of that neighborhood is that flour is the most offensive thing to be layed on or around their driveway.  During this time, Katoy Toy had found an abandoned shopping cart, where he then pushed around Goodwill Cunting like a drug addled vagrant.  He soon lost interest in Goodwill, and then replaced him with a much cooler toy—rocks.  The rocks soon lost their appeal too, and he left the cart of rocks in someone’s yard.

Cockjaw, of course, had been waiting for us at the second beer check for at least ten minutes.  As we were enjoying our beers, and some sweet yet tart candy (I forget the name), some angry neighbor drove up to yell at us.  Sixty K Nine invited her over to drink with us, before realizing that it was her yard that the shopping cart was stashed, and she had stalked us all the way to the beer check to chew us out (not to be confused with eating us out).  But like the good hashers we are, we were gone before the cops showed up.

The On In was at Crack Up’s house, and to make it up to us, she provided a big yard, a nice fire, and a bunch of big wieners.  Crack Up proved that if you can’t lay a good live trail, then perhaps it is better to lay a great dead trail.  Honor to our Hare for a spectacularly shitty trail!

Cockjaw led another arousing religion (well, let’s be honest, it’s pretty easy for him to arouse me.)  Here we learned that Crab Shaft made his dad cum, proving the incest can be both fun and nauseating.  We were met by several auto hashers, including Heavy Flow Day, Bee Fuck, and Milk Bone.  Cockjaw proved that he still hasn’t learned that the woman is always right.  And Pump My Dry got the hash shit once again for complaining too much, amongst other reasons, I’m sure.  With that, we swang low.  Until next time, and in the meantime, try to avoid the black and yellow bugs with the stingers.

Your scintillating scribe,

Romancing the Bone



Friday: TGIF at the North West Public House

Saturday: Poke Her Face has a naked pillow fight with the Dead Whores at noon at the Hawthorne Hophouse

Sunday: Head First and Red Wings do the OBGYN at 12:30 at Gabriel Park and the PH4 Mismanagement meeting at 7 pm at the Jaw-Bone Household

Monday: O has a Kahuna

Tuesday: The Boob Gorilla does a Beaver

Wednesday: Ditch Bitch deflours Winnie the Goo at the Hump

Thursday: Flaming Hetero and Tard-Core molest the No Name


One thought on “A Dead Trail”

  1. Crack Up Run:

    You can’t lay a good live trail when you are a solo hare given with about 15 minutes a head start. Pre-lay, basically the style of most hash trail, is essential of making the run interesting. Most hashing outside your courtyard whether it’s in Oregon or the whole of USA is usually a pre-lay trail. Live hare run is usually for the hardcore runner groups where speed to the on-in around a non-habitation terrain is crucial only to the uneducated.

    Given to the facts that most hashing in US is just an outdoor social gathering no one I know has a clear perspective of what hashing is all about other than looking for flour marks on trail and the hallmark of the beer checks. This is not to say Crack Up doesn’t know much, but she knows more than anyone here, so far, having years in gallon of experience to her mug, to lay trail BETTER THAN MOST…so far.

    Again, The more you think about the challenges of keeping the pack together, making the trail easier to follow and making the check like track-hunt and a little mind reading the better the run becomes. You can’t do this without careful preparation and planning because good works require a little bit more time and it is labor intensive. Without careful pre-lay at least to some of the trail, it’s like an occasion of two drunks banging each other in your backyard.

    Laying good trail is like a home-cooked meal at the picnic that you’ll truly enjoy and talk about while the trail you commonly experienced out here in Oregon is akin to getting a meal from McDonald’s – quick and easy thus, briefly, in contention being that most Americans are plain lazy by nature.

    Being lazy, one doesn’t need to be challenged and like comfort food most Oregon hash trail are primarily concentrated within the confine of their backyard and neighboring streets. Hashing becomes the lazy person mindless outdoor activity. Undeniably it becomes mindless as all the essential details blurred by the need to soak up the beer most of the time.

    The main reasons can be many for a new club to form under one original empire state but one reason is usually the need to be different from the main body.

    The Hump hash was formed to get away from the disorganized and incompetent Saturday Oregon Hash for lack of a good running trail.

    The Kahuna was founded solely to be non-elitists abide by the rule that there is no rule, no masters – an origin of the KL Mother Hash, unlike to where most Hump hashers needed to comply with myriad of un-necessities tied to the group controlled by a power-hungry Queen of de Nile.

    While this no-name hash group founded by disgruntled few needs to be different from the rest of being non-elitist and no-rules, it is likewise conjugal in relationship by the same people with the same idea and mindset to be elite with the same sets of operation to stir the already muddy water. I was told by Fuu Fuu it’s different from the rest. I like differences because the familiar of ineptitude and inexactitude is compound boring. There ain’t no difference.

    There is no clear definition as to how and what the hash group is going to be other than it will be awash in politics; competing for popularity on a Thursday night – like the rest.

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