The evolution of the bush


We gathered at Knucklehead’s on Foster Rd, which I’m sure Mambo Blow chose due to its high frequency of midget patrons.  Had Topless Tiny Dancer joined us last night, she would have felt normal sized.  String Cheese was having a tall day.  Chubby Chaser looked like a freak (as usual).  And, I am really disappointed in everyone, because I don’t think a single sex-with-little-people reference was made.  You should be ashamed of yourselves.

Mambo corralled us outside to do chalk talk, because he felt we needed to become more cultured and experience hash marks from a land far far away—Seattle.  In Mambo’s homeland, a check looks like a uni-boob (though no flashing is required), and an arrow is only meant to confuse you rather than show you which way is true trail.  So, we sent the cocksucker off.  After about ten minutes dicking around outside the bar, about two blocks up, Cockjaw saw our hare (in his bright red shirt and matching socks) crossing the street.  He had probably laid at least a half mile of trail, then crossed Foster Rd just two blocks up from us.  I don’t know if he thought we would all go back into the bar after he left and we wouldn’t notice him, or if he thought we would honor the sanctity of his pavement pounder and follow true trail despite having seen him run by, or if this issue really didn’t cross his mind until cock-hungry Chubby Chaser was chasing him down, eager to take his kilt and see him hare the rest (the majority) of the trail with his dick out.  We caught him, but we didn’t take his kilt for the children’s sake.  I was severely disappointed.  Fuck the children.

After that, the pack was pretty (and) lazy.  We were lost for a while.  Cockjaw and Plan B ran in circles looking for trail, while we began accumulating trail virgins.  As Hot Buns said, people in this neighbor didn’t seem to understand this “running” thing that we were doing and were definitely intrigued by the beer, so they tried to follow us.  The first was a man and his puppy.  Milkbone was all over that shit, and cried when he got left behind because his puppy wasn’t behaving for him.  Then these two guys got out of their car and immediately started running with us (more like chasing us bimbos, I was uneasy).  Oral Defense told them we had already started drinking, so they decided to pre-lube and catch up with us later.  We never saw them again.  The last trail virgin we encountered was a guy was wearing nothing but bright turquoise short shorts.  He knew about what hashing was because a few months ago we had a trail crash a dodge ball game, and he was one of the dodge ballers.  He ran most of trail, but didn’t make it to religion.  His name was Just Dylan.  We might actually see him again.

There were two beer checks.  One was at a lovely park, and the other in front of a church on 69th street.  We drank some strange concoction of Coors light and Mike’s Hard Lemonade and Chubby Chaser and Cockjaw serenaded us with the Engineer’s Song.

Our laziness continued on throughout the trail and as we meandered up to Mambo’s house, we were slightly disappointed to see another (a third) BC instead of an ON IN.  It was a bacon check.  There was candied bacon and a bottle of bacon flavored vodka.  We lingered there and darkness fell upon us, and finally our hare came back and said, “I guess I’ll just make this the ON IN.”  Whatever he had been doing for the last while was all for not, just more flour on trail that would never be seen by a hasher.  Honor to the Hare for working harder than any of us.

Upon entering Mambo’s backyard, Milkbone, the new ginger girl, and I were immediately distracted by the Playboy 50th anniversary book.  It featured Playboy spreads throughout the decades.  My very favorite part was seeing the evolution of the bush.  In the 1970’s, bushes went unkempt like a lush lawn hiding mystical treasures.  Not only could you see a nice thick triangle of fur front on, but, they even showed the bush in profile, where the hairs grew out from between the legs like soft moss that covers forest park.  Into the 80’s and 90’s trimming up the sides and top became more common.  While there was still a bush, it was delicately maintained like Flaming Hetero’s facial hair.  And, even more recently, the full-on Brazilian wax has become prevalent, bare as a child’s undiscovered genitals, no mystery, all anatomy out there for the every man to see.  Coincidently, this also seemed to be the period when Playboy became a bit more modest.  Unlike the in your face, legs splayed action of the 80’s, models would strategically cross their legs or turn or hide behind some prop to avoid showing their full cooch.  Why is this?  Perhaps they are somehow missing the subtle beauty, the mystery, the natural wonder that is the woman’s bush.  So, I propose that we bring back the bush (albeit a trimmed and maintained bush because no one likes a hair in their mouth, but a bush none the less).  Mostly, because I am lazy, but also, because who’s to say that being as naked and hairless as the day you were born is better than the natural womanly glory of the bush.  So, send your letters (and photographs?) to Playboy, contact your favorite porn production company(s), post pictures of your own beautiful bush on the internet.  Bring back the bush!

It took quite a while before Plan B and Cockjaw could pull us away from the artistic photography we were enjoying.  But finally, religion started.  It was off to a great start, because Cockjaw forgot the sacred vessel and stole at home, and we instead drank from a plastic Rain City H3 cup.  Our RAs did a few down downs for being dumbasses.  Chubby Chaser did a down down for abusing alcohol.  Everyone else also did down downs for one thing or another.  And finally, it was decided last night, after the new ginger girl who made herself cum (her virgin hash was the flour fight trail where Flaming broke his leg) should get a name when she demonstrated how a bimbo can pee just can easily as a wanker with the “scoop method.”  So Fuu Fuu, Hot Buns, Chubby Chaser, and myself convened in a naming committee, and it was determined that no bimbo can pee as easily as a wanker, but because of her valiant effort to prove that fact wrong, she shall forever be known as “Penis Envy.”

After a lot of drinking, I’m sure we must have swung low, but who really knows what happened after that… I think there was some tossed salad.

Your unshaved scribe,

Romancing the Bone

Uppissing:

Tonight: TGIF at Rontoms on East Burnside

Tomorrow: The Fucking TOGA Hash!! Starts at 5:15 at Couch Park.

Monday: Mystery Meat does the Kahuna (probably starts at The Ship)

Tuesday: Stinky in My Ass eats the furry Beaver

Wednesday: Manko seduces the Hump

Thursday: Cum-O-Flage tortures the No Name!!

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One thought on “The evolution of the bush”

  1. Way to forget about Cock Jaws wandering eye in his need to check out midgets at the bar, and than trying to embarrassingly cover it up by claiming he thought she was a child.

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