Tongue Twat Twister gets drunk and writes us a hash trash!


(I received an email from Tongue Twat Twister at 12:23 am on (technically) Friday morning saying she wrote a hash trash for the trail that was run not three hours earlier.  There was a definite slur in her writing.  Honor to Tongue Twat Twister for your dedication to drinking while writing profanities!)

 

Bimbos and Wankers

Once again the No Name  Hash – at  69 T-minus 2, get ready – gathered in the Deep South, so far down that some of us had to park in Clackamas county – hoping we can find our old expired antibiotics in case we wake up with the Clack again. We met up at the least sketchy bar on the strip, the Tired Feat tavern. Unfortunately the lunch special of 25 cent drinks ended at 2pm, and instead we had to drink tall boys of Rolling Rock until the hares Cum-o-flage and Captain Von Poopy Pants were kind/drunk enough to lead us out of the bar and into the great wilderness that lies beyond 82nd avenue.

We followed the smallest marks a hasher has ever seen through some pavement and several apartment complexes before following flour up a very steep hill only to find out that FUCK YOU, IT’S A FALSE. Plan B became very cranky. More than usual.  True trail led us up another steep hill, and then past the water tower into some shiggy that went up another steep hill, and then we turned a corner and went up some more and up some more and up some more. Somewhere along the way Penis Envy paid some lucky wanker $20 to look at her boobs.

Finally our tired, sweaty and thirsty asses saw the glorious sign that beer was near. A lovely view of Johnson’s creek was enjoyed by all, just as much as the PBRs and the Hamms. Cockjaw promised to sing ‘my girlfriend is a vegetable” but then ran off into the wilderness like a r*cist while the rest of us tried to finish the booze, and especially the cider with a peculiar after-taste. Fallen Cumrag demonstrated her lady-like qualities, which caused Just blah-blah to relate a story about When Spitting Goes Wrong (details to follow..).

Milkbone and Mambo set off after Cockjaw well before the rest of us finally decided to pursue true trail, but it was only a fake-out from our honorable hash-flash to try to get “candid” photos of the pack. It seemed like there was no way we could gain any more elevation, but somehow trail led up another fucking hill and we ended up in a grassy field so lovely that Hot Buns was ready to pitch a tent. (In his pants).

There were some kids in a playground who looked at us funny, but we went back into the shiggy and through the lushest greens you didn’t even know existed in Southeast, up and up and up, past dirty mattresses, empty coolers, over sketchy bridges, and finally into the cemetery to desecrate some graves and find another beer check with a lovely view of the sunset.

A few half-minds lazily sang about Jack the Necropheliac, but just as the DFL’s were arriving. the pack was ready to head off again. Finally we got to go downhill and onto the Springwater corridor where a few boobs checks and possibly the first (?) flying cock check failed to keep the pack together. Between dishonorable auto-hashers, and Captain getting distracted by the food carts, we somehow all ended up at the On-In eventually to eat, drink, and scare the locals.

Cum-o-flage drank down-downs for the shitty trail with the WORST VIEWS, and for leaving us to go to rehab. Virgins were sacrificed, and other crimes were invented and subsequently punished. Just “really you’ve been hashing so long and you don’t have a name yet??” was called in front of the masses, and forced to his knees while Fallen Cumrag related the aforementioned story from the first beer check – apparently this Just somehow convinced some bimbo to pleasure him while en route to the coast, and she rolled down the window of whatever Ford P.O.S. he was driving to spit out the evidence. Then, half-mind that he is,  he invited another girl to ride in the same truck and she asks “what is this white crusty stuff on the door panel?” THEREFORE this wanker who did not make it to the carwash in time to avoid the awkwardness of 2 girls, 1 truck, shall now be known as Ranch On The Side. Look for him at the “dress like your hash-name” hump, it will probably be delicious. We swung low, stumbled back onto 82nd to find food carts and hookers, and/or went to bed early to get our beauty sleep for hash prom.

–Written by the lovely Tongue Twat Twister

 

Upsucking:

Tonight: TGIF is pub-crawling around N. Interstate

Tomorrow: Romancing the Bone and Poke Her Face hare a delightful jaunt through Forest Park at 12:00.  Then, the once a year phenomenon that is PROM begins at 7:00.

Sunday: Hangover Brunch at the Space Room at 11:00.

Monday: Nana I Got a Banana does the Kahuna

Wednesday: The dress like your hash name hash!

Thursday: Jizzly Adams fucks the No Name.

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