Jacked Up by Jacket Off


Let’s talk about Jacket Off.

Jacket Off is an unassuming fellow. Many of you have probably never spoken two words to him. He’s been a loyal No Name hasher for quite sometime, and we’ve come to expect him to be the weird guy who silently sips his beer while watching everyone else, much like a peeping tom—like a peeping Jacket Off, if you will. Also, one time, he puked on a some people in a bar (like a sprinkler) at an On After and completely ruined their night. That’s my favorite thing about Jacket Off.

Has he hared before? I can’t remember. Maybe? Must have not been anything crazy if I don’t remember. Right?

Based on all of this, I didn’t expect much of last night’s No Name Hash in Cedar Hills. I expected a quiet, unassuming trail, with smatterings of shiggy, as there is in that area. Perhaps if we got lucky, Jacket Off would puke on a random again.

But last night, I learned another thing about Jacket Off:

He is a fucking sadist.

I’ve been on a lot of shiggy trails.  I like shiggy trails–but believe me when I say that this was the stuff nightmares are made of. I hope you’re not claustrophobic.

We started with a boring pavement pounder through an apartment complex. Slippery Log started to bitch. We drove all the way out to Beaverton for a pavement pounder? There were some signs, however, that our friend Jacket Off had a few tricks up his sleeve. Back checks. After each back check, the pack bitched en masse, because while they were bullshit, we were together. Jacket Off was already proving himself not to be your average halfmind.

Pussy Le Pew and some hot blonde handed us beers as we ran into the beer check. Our expectations that this trail would not be crazy remained intact.

We then bee lined it for the shiggy. Milkbone and Ultra Twatathon tip toed their way through the swamp and complained as their toes got moist. The kicker dogs, M*rathon and Snake, got lost in the tall grass. There were blackberries. There were creek crossings. Yet, still sure that the shiggy would be short lived, we continued to follow the little pink ribbons though impassable shiggy, hoping to see solid ground on the other side.

Finally, as we crawled through the shiggy, we see upland. Unfortunately, as soon as we untangle our selves from the blackberries, an angry condo owner begins to yell at us and threatens to call the cops. Hot Buns tried to calm him as the pack continued to run every which way on his property, still unsure where trail actually went. After quite sometime, we noticed a chalk check on a tunnel, and after further inspection, we find a true trail arrow—through the tunnel.

Let me paint a picture for you: This tunnel is about six feet wide and six feet high. It goes under highway 26 (so it is fucking long). It allows a creek to flow from one side of the freeway to another, and at this entrance of the tunnel, the water is just over waist height. Let’s also not leave out the smell of swampy sewage. 

Many of us, myself included, said “fuck no” to that, and contemplated finding another way back to the end. Chubby Chaser says “no, it will be fine.” Maxi Pad says “don’t be a pussy.” Cockjaw says “come on, there’s pavement on the bottom.” “It will be no big deal they say.”   So we all do it. We went into the fucking creepy ass tunnel of death.

 It was every bit as bad as I thought it would be. The tunnel must have been sloped slightly down, because the farther we went, the higher the water was, and the more sediment there was at the bottom. By the end of the tunnel, the water was up to my armpits, and I had to duck not to hit my head on the top. Power Puker was in front of me, and every so often, his body would completely block the light at the end of the tunnel, and it was in these moments that I was sure I was going to die. I tried not to focus on the aquatic rats that I felt brush my ankles, or the whimpering that came from the other halfminds in the tunnel. It took a solid 15 minutes to finally emerge on the other side, and I think we all came out different hashers, scarred from an experience that can never be taken away.

There was more shiggy after that, but really, it didn’t matter. We might have crossed that creek a few more times, there was some mud, more blackberries. But really, all that was nothing, we were just glad to be out of the tunnel.

Pussy Le Pew and the hot blonde gave us a sadistic smile as they handed us our beers. They knew. That’s why they weren’t on trail. Those bitches.

We ran through some neighborhoods to the On In with our shoes sloshing and the smell of sewage emanating from our clothes. As the suburbanites mowed their lawns and played catch with their children, they wondered where the hell we came from.

Plan B and Cockjaw gave a rousing religion, for some reason, I think everyone sang a little louder last night, perhaps because we were all glad to be alive. There was a visitor from the Hangover Hash in DC who brought a virgin. I’m not sure that virgin will ever hash again, but the visitor had a smile on her face.

Honor to Jacket Off, I will never underestimate you again. Honor to the No Name Hash for being the best fucking group of hashers there ever was.

Your smelly scribe,

Romancing the Bone

 

Upchucking:

Tonight: TGIF at the Organic Brew Fest

Tomorrow: Log Jammer and String Cheese do the Oregon at Acapulco Gold in NW

Sunday: Mambo Blow bashes your nuts in Essex Park in SE

Monday: Hit it and Quit it does the Kahuna

Wednesday: Shoots humps

Thursday: Milkbone tries to top Jacket Off’s trail at the No Name

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