Psychedelic drugs and wife swapping

for the sake of convenience, I will also include discussion of group sex.

I wasn’t expecting a lot from last night’s No Name Hash. Tracking down our hare, Rear Entry, for detrails was harder than a cokehead’s dick at a strip show. Was he too drunk to remember when Cockjaw conned him into haring? Was he a dead beat that hates us all? We didn’t know, because even though Rear Entry is a long time hasher (he’s humped over 150 times), he hasn’t hashed in a long time because he decided to have kids and become lame. After desperately advertising the need for an emergency hare, finally, through a friend of a friend of a friend, we got the detrails. Old people, like Rear Entry, are apparently difficult to get a hold of because they don’t have email or phone numbers, and because people of Cockjaw’s generation no longer know Morse code or own carrier pigeons, there’s a huge gape in our ability to communicate.

Quite a few half minds showed up at Sundowner in North Portland—but there was no hare to be seen. Seven o’clock came went but there was still no hare. Did he think it would be funny to have us show up at a bar where beer is $5 a pint to find that there would be no trail? Would we have to give Plan B a bottle of brown liquor and a bag of flour and push him out the door to be our pseudo hare? Would we have to bankroll an evening at a bar where a single pint is the same as an entire hash? Just when Cockjaw was getting flustered and sweaty at the thought of not running, Rear Entry showed up as if that moment was the precise moment he intended to grace us with his presence. This reaffirmed my exceedingly low expectations of the trail. I assumed he forgot he was laying trail, and we’d swing around the block before bankrupting the hash at the ritzy bar.

(Interesting note: While waiting for the hare, I found a curious book on the bookshelf at the bar: Alcoholics Anonymous. Naturally, I had to read it. First, I learned that I am not an alcoholic, because I handle my booze way better than the poor folks in that book. Second, I learned about Dave. Dave was the previous owner of the book. He received it while going to AA meetings, as he did for quite some time. Upon leaving his group (for untold reasons), all of his co-conspirators wrote him notes in his AA book like, “good luck on your road to recovery,” “let me know when you get a phone #,” and “I hope your family can learn to love you again.” Then one day, poor Dave fell off the wagon and left his book at his favorite local bar, where the bartender knows his name and everyone is happy to see him.)

Just before I found God and decided to renounce booze, I was pulled away by all my drunken friends in my drinking club to try to find beer in the bushes. Rear Entry decided to be clever by making up new marks, including a CB (check back) which was kind of like a back check or a false or something and a RT (random treat) where we would stop to scour the bushes for some unknown thing of interest. The CBs caused us to get lost and run in the wrong direction a lot. Milkbone complained about this, because that is what Milkbone does and she’s trying to work off her butter buns (see how do you like it?) so she was annoyed every time we stopped to scratch our heads. But the fact is, we were never lost long, and the pack stayed together well. Our RTs were a weird bottle of beer, a couple mini bottles of tequila and jaeger, and a porno magazine from 1970 that included informative articles on which drugs best enhance your sexual experience and the benefits of wife swapping and group sex. Tard Core took the magazine as his own because his likes hairy men and women.

There were two beer checks, and Cockjaw clocked in 3.3 miles to the first one, though two of those were likely going the wrong direction.

Luckily, the On In was only a stone’s throw from the second beer check, and we were greeted by the most perfect array of On In food that I have ever seen. Future hares: take note. Bread, peanut butter, jelly, salami, cheese, mustard, caramelized fucking onions, pre sliced oranges, chips, BEER, peppermint patties, etc. It was fucking brilliant. Honor to our hare for a great trail and a great On In. Also, hashy birthday. Maybe for your birthday you could get an email address.

Plan B and Cockjaw led another rousing circle. There were not one, but TWO namings. First, Turn me Sweet, Eat my Meat, because she was the brave (stupid?) one who decided to drink the purple energy drink and chase it down with Rear Entry’s very special “Turn me Sweet” wine. I do not envy the headache she will have in the morning. Second, Foot-long Fancy, because this girl got all wet at the thought of sticking a nice big juicy wiener in her mouth while on trail. Good news is, in both cases, someone’s getting head tonight. I would tell you what these two lovely bimbo’s names were before they were named, but I don’t know and no one cares.

Anyway, as the Frigid Cuntess began incessantly complaining about being cold, we swang low like Lil Jon.

Your slacker scribe,
Romancing the Bone

Friday: TGIF at Rae’s Lakeview Lounge
Saturday: A Shiggilicious OH3 in Oregon City with Fecal Flyer, Eager Wiener, and Maxi Pad
Sunday: A PH4 mismanagement meeting that promises a lot of excitement
Monday: Chubby Chaser shows us his little Kahuna
Tuesday: Captain Von Poopy Pants busts his balls
Wednesday: Can’t Finish Humps again
Thursday: Jacket Off pukes on unsuspecting bar patrons at the No Name!

Wow, that’s seven in a row, who’s gonna be a super star?


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