Category Archives: Trash

A Very Shitty Trail

A hash trash, brought to you by the birthday bimbo herself, Shitty Kitty!:

Shitty Kitty’s 50th brought to the N2H3 by Hare Krotchna, Gymnasty and Love Seat!

Wow did I ever feel like some special kitty last night!!! The trail started out like any other N2 trail – well, with the exception of a # of defectors / shitty-kitty-loyalists from the Stumptown. But, when I was handed a Mojito on the first beer check, I knew this trail would be different. As Can’t Finish led the pack in Alouette-ah! that covered every part of my face before finally addressing my sagging boobs and ample backside (note to Can’t Finish, the refrain is as follows: Alouette, gentille alouette, Alouette, je te plumerai –the last bit translating to “I pluck you” since the original is about plucking a bird) … a COP showed up!!! I was worried at first, but his unseemly tight shorts reminiscent of Reno 911 and long, hard flashlight made me wonder if perhaps I was in store for … you guessed it! A striptease by Power Puker and his thong with Felcher on boom box. Cops aren’t historically my type but P.P. gives me reason to reconsider … he was sizzling hot! I think there was a 2nd, more traditional beer check but all I remember was about 20 angry hashers waiting for their guest of honor to arrive at the ON-IN so they could dig into an amazing spread put on by Hare and Gymnasty! We’re talking gourmet grape leaves, lamb & chicken gyros, hummus and tzatziki (not the cheap kind, this was from Whole Foods!!) complimented by avocado daiquiris and finally, a Love Seat-inspired massive penis cake with chocolate sprinkle ball stubble and home-made vanilla custard raging up the center! (I hope Hash Flash got a photo of it.) Religion was peppered by many Dead Ho songs which brought to tears (the laughing kind) our 25-year-hasing ho and wanker visitors from the Carolinas. In response to a bestiality crime-on-trail, Can’t Finish belted out a virtuoso rendition of Billy Joel’s “You’re Always a Pussy to Me” (or something like that) which nearly brought down the house. But this is all just a bunch of this and that compared to the crowning performance of the evening … a completely nude StinkFinger jumping out of a birthday cake!!!! Until last night I always wondered what Wet Spots saw in him but now I know J. Hot tubbing (with Gymnasty as tub-side waiter), sport drinking and gratuitous sex followed.

–Shitty Kitty

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

Log Jammer Log Jammer Log Jammer

The No Name Hash began at Bloomington Park, in the most delightful part of Portland between I-205 and Gresham. Chatter immediately began as everyone eagerly anticipated the pyrotechnics and debauchery that was sure to occur in the name of Log Jammer’s birthday. Log Jammer would not arrive for another three hours, but the No Name Hash would not let that small fact deter us from indulging in birthday-themed festivities as soon as possible. In fact, I began pre-funking for Log Jammer’s birthday the evening before at the Hump Hash, still, unfortunately, without her.

Wiener Retriever was our very flexible hare. A slave to the whims of the much-anticipated Log Jammer surprise party, he had to change his trail location three times. “That’s okay,” he says, “I’ll just have two trails in my back pocket for later.”

ATTN: Hare Raisers

Weiner Retriever is easy prey right now if you need a hare in short notice.

As we set out for trail, Milkbone exclaimed that she could not run because she had to carry her brand new dog-like accessory. She called it Gracie and it was so small that my cat could eat it as an appetizer before a much larger, more satisfying course (My pussy can eat your dog?).  

Trail was the perfect kind of shitty, because as I wandered with Milkbone and her purse-rat, I watched the FRBs run every which way around me without ever being too far away. Right about the time I was becoming thirsty, we happened upon some shiggy and found the beer check.

We needed to properly prepare ourselves for Log Jammer, so the beer check contained 40s (for her 40th year of explosions) and birthday hats. We drank, talked about Log Jammer, and wore birthday hats. Log Jammer would not arrive for another two hours.

After moderate circle jerking, we then made it to the second beer check and celebrated Log Jammer’s birthday with birthday cake vodka and more 40s. Maybe you only turn 40 once, but you can drink many 40s.

Finally, we got to Log Jammer’s birthday party (also known as the On In). Log Jammer would not arrive for another hour, but there was candy, beer, chips, and wieners. The party would not wait for her. We continued to drink and talk about how awesome Log Jammer is.

After some time, there was still no Log Jammer, so we started religion without her. There were two visitors from the Stumptown hash and a virgin, and a Hash Scribe worth her weight in beer would be able to tell you what their names were. But none of that is important—because Log Jammer was about to arrive. We stopped mid-circle and crammed into the garage (read into that what you will). Felcher gave us Pop-Its to throw into Log Jammer’s face when she arrived.

By this time, we were all full on smashed from our extensive celebrations of Log Jammer’s birthday, and we were unable to be silent or still or reasonable in any way that would help maintain the surprise factor of this party. Pop-Its popped in every direction as Felcher shushed us and insisted those were for Log Jammer.  

Finally, after three hours of celebrating without her, Log Jammer arrived. The garage door opened and we poured out onto Felcher’s front yard, stormed her car, and threw Pop-Its at her when she opened her door. She maintains this was truly a surprise, because she a good friend, and a good fiancé. 

Now, the true climax of this entire event was still yet to occur. This was like tantric sex, we were dripping after such a long period of anticipation. Now with Log Jammer there, we continued circle. Log Jammer was the recent recipient of the hash shit for the Hump Hash. The hash shit was huge, heavy, and smelly. There was a bit of fuzz on it and a nest of flies. So, the No Name Hash agreed that it was time. Yes, there was a fire. Yes, we had the hash shit. But that’s not all—we also had a FUCKING FLAME THROWER.   To cap off Log Jammer’s grand birthday celebration, she blow torched the Hump Hash shit before burning it in a beautiful blue green cancerous flame (video available somewhere). So, in sum, Happy Birthday Log Jammer! Also, congratulations on getting fucking engaged! Marriage isn’t as bad as they say. And we swang low.

I plan to continue celebrating Log Jammer’s birthday tonight at Gil’s.

Then I am dedicating my first running of the Penthashalon to Log Jammer.

Let the celebrations continue!

Monday: Ice Boxxx chills the Kahuna

Tuesday: Clownmydia eats a Beaver

Wednesday: Fuck Him, I Did and Manberry Cunt Cake Hump

Thursday: Jacket Off jacks off the No Name

 

Log Jammer’s truly,

Romancing the Bone

This trash is long like your cock

When I woke up this morning, found a lovely hash trash by Testicles, and I thought to myself, “I need coffee,”–but after that– “shit—it’s been, like, YEARS since I wrote one of those.” Fuck, YEARS (and if you know anything about me, I am very uncomfortable with the whole aging and time relativity thing. But enough about me [probably not]).

I did not expect much of last night’s No Name Hash. I had heard that the Stumptown hash would make traitors out of many of our once beloved and loyal No Namers (In case you’re in the market for their soul: their price is salmon. I’m looking at you, BeeFuck). Also, Chubby Chaser was our hare, so I was sure that no one would cum and Cockjaw, Chubby, and I would end up spending the night alone talking about our feelings in tears. But I was mistaken—we had a good crowd. Some came because they love hashing, others because of the April Challenge.

We met at the Marquam Shelter. The night started off great—I was immediately informed by Chubby that the cops were on their way—but not to bust us—WE called them. Apparently some bum vagrant (Honor to Hash Bum) was violently masturbating and jizzing in our general direction (or something like that, he had finished before I arrived). As soon as the cops arrived, we hid our beers behind cars and pretended to be decent, and they left without incident. We then prayed to the hash gods that our cars would not get broken into this time, and set out for trail.

We ran up and we ran down, and back and forth, and up and down again. Sometimes we went fast, then slow, then up and down again. We went down real fast, then up slow. The trail was wet and slippery and we went in and out and in and out again. Then he lightly graced my thigh with his finger tips and I let in a quick breath as my loins tingled. (Oops, I seem to have lost track of what I was doing… Back on track.) We then ran into a curious mark—XXX. Was this a false with checks instead of marks? Were we being fucked with? Was our hare a half-mind? At least two of these things proved to be true. This mark fucked our shit up for at least 69 minutes. We were later informed by our hare that this was a “fuck check.” mmk. I think this trail has fucked us enough. Fuu Fuu, Goo Swallow, and Hot Buns don’t like to be fucked and managed to catch a ride to the end by a random with a car.

Finally, we found a Beer Near, and we eagerly began to run up a hill, many of us struggling with early onset sobriety. Unfortunately, beer was not near. Beer was 690 feet straight up, and the pack, dejected and thirsty, wound up the many switchbacks that finally led us to the beer. Cockjaw clocked 3.5 miles by the time we got there. We drank our PBR with serious concern for what the rest of trail would bring.

We then did some pavement pounding on the mean streets of Southwest Portland, and eventually headed up to the OHSU Tram. Of course, the halfminds that we are, lack the short term memory required to remember the super shitty first half of trail, and we were instantly excited to go for a ride on the tram. Say what you will, but the tram was pretty neat, and the view of Portland at night was beautiful. Hashers being hashers, got all hot and bothered by this, and steamed up the tram windows.

Pulling out the worst “late” April fools joke in history, we see a note from our hare in chalk, “April fools, no second beer check.” Boo. Fortunately, our intrepid stallion FRB Cockjaw, had carried the leftover beer from the first beer check. So we drank the delicious nectar of the hash gods, and I considered what I would do to Cockjaw in bed that night.

Finally, after what I imagine was 6.9 miles (which—take note Amazon.cum and Flat Dick—is NOT an appropriate length for a week night trail), we got back to Marquam Shelter. It was raining, but we did not want to disturb the gentlemen (the jizzing masturbator left) sleeping in the shelter, so did religion in the parking lot and all got wet. Some people (*cough*Angry Inch) convinced the RA to sign his April challenge sheet before circle and skipped out on the third religion this week.

Learning that Plan B would not be there complete the dynamic Cockjaw-Plan B duo, we all gave a collective sigh of disappointment (seriously, Plan B, you should feel loved). Child Left Behind brought us a virgin, and we had several visitors, White Boy from Guam (Fuu Fuu let out a squeal of excitement), Better Hoes Than Gardens and On All Floors from Ashland, Just Stacy (a two timer whose cherry was popped at the Hump the night before), and another dude from the Oregon Hash. There were some crimes, I think (but my alcohol consumption and memory are inversely related). Milkbone blinded everyone by flashing (not her tits, unfortunately, her fucking camera). Anyway, then we swang low.

Afterward, many of us headed to Suki’s to hear Cock Model’s ridiculous karaoke rendition of Devil Went Down to Georgia.

And all was good. Honor to all who turned down salmon to hash a shitty trail.

 

On-fucking-On!

Romancing the Bone

 

Upcumming:

Sunday: OBGYN 4th Anniversary! O Smears Pabst, in Riverside County Park in Clackamas

Also, Deadliest Snatch does little kids at the Family Friendly Hash in Gabriel Park

Monday: Hit it and Quit it does the Kahuna at Marquam Nature Park (again?)

Wednesday: Mambo Blows the Hump

Thursday: No More Fucking Hornets and Bone in Hamms bone some fucking hornets at the No Name!

 

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

Upcuming:
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?

Maxi Pad’s Non-Lazy Ass Trash On The Trail That Wasn’t

8/16/12 A day that will live in No Name infamy. Or until we all get drunk and forget about it,which will probably be tonight.

It was hot that day.Belay that. It was FUCKING hot that day! There wasn’t a dry crotch present which is normally a good thing,but not tonight. They were the bad kind of wet crotches.The hash stated at Suki’s, which most in the Hash have never heard of. I got there as the Hares Tap Dat Ass and Gayzelle where,for some reason, doing their own chalk talk. Why they didn’t use the marks from the 15 other chalk talks done in the past 2 months is a mystery to me. As we all would soon find out, the hares should have probably paid attention to their own chalk talk. Plan B did one of the surliest send offs ever and 15 minutes later,we left the air conditioning and beer to go run, AKA the biggest mistake of our lives.

Trail followed the standard “start at Suki’s” formula with a short jaunt around the Duniway Park Racist Track, where not 3 hours before,a tree limb fell on a Racist. Let that be a lesson to all you Racist bastards! Nature hates a Racist! Up past Marquam Shelter is where we got our first taste of the coming clusterfuck. On trail,your well hung scribe found not only a false BUT also a regular mark! Guess what I found not a hundred yards up the trail? Why none other than our Hare Gayzelle! Safe behind a hastily drawn boob check and a shitily laid turkey-eagle split. About 4 miles later, we FINALLY got to the beer. Only AWOL was stupid enough to run the Eagle BTW. The Hares bickered amongst themselves,trying to blame each other for fucking up. It was funny. Romancing the Bone was being a little bitch and not helping the pack finish the beer. Milkbone took lots of pictures,unfortunately 2 hours earlier she was shooting dog porn  and the photos where all blurry from being on dog setting. Stinkfinger may have grumbled about something. Fisher of Men and Tongue Twat Twister were trying to hook up with a trail virgin until he admitted he was a psychopath.

The Hares, and soon after, the pack left the shade and beer on a torturous trek up up up! After we FINALLY left those fucking woods we found a boob check on some road that yuppies live on. Little did we know that check was to be the lynch pin of this whole clusterfuck. We searched for true trail for at least 69 minutes.Alliances formed as to who was going to go what direction after we determined this trail was fucked. Team Plan B went left, Team Tina Turnover went right, some thought it went up into a fenced  private yard. There was lot’s of bitching and the virgins became nervous. And in the middle of it all, another fucking tree fell down on the trail we just came up! The only person it hit was Whoreknob, but thankfully she’s used to having hard wood slapping her in the face. An in(ebriated)trepid group composed of Milkbone, Romancing the Bone,Clit Gloss, and yours truly braved on to the top of Council Crest, only having to walk past 6.9 falses to find the second beer check! We laid around, laughing at all the dumb asses who where out there lost, sweating and cursing and not having any beer!

From the last beer check, hounds and hares alike all rode down the mountain in the back of Taps truck. We made fun of Milkbone because she was in the cab and couldn’t hear us. Gayzelle threw flour out the back while we were going 40 MPH, or about 10 miles an hour faster than he runs. He even threw some in the face of a pedestrian! We all laughed at that. We also all laughed as we passed all the tired sweating lost hounds who DIDN’T get any beer. Oh how we laughed at them!

Religion was, surprise surprise, behind that stupid little building where bums pee and shoot drugs at the park. And guess what? No fucking snacks were to be had. That was the cherry on top of this little shit sundae! There was no RA, god had forsaken this hash, so Fuu Fuu, ahem, “stepped up” What he really did was lead the pack in some shitty joke circle jerk. Gayzelle started telling some joke in doubletime and when I woke up 15 minutes later, he was still telling it. It fucking sucked by the way. How Dumb and Dumber avoided an Old McDonald is beyond me, they even stripped down expecting it! After Fuu Fuu disrespected the sacred vessel for the 69th time, I left to go drink and eat.

TL;DR This hash was fucked, no more Suki’s for a year, read the fucking Hare Guide!

Maxi Pad

The trail that wasn’t

Dearest hashers,

Suki’s is played out.  Let’s not have another hash there for at least a year.

On On!

Romancing the Bone

P.S. I would write more trash, but my annoyance over the disaster that was last night’s trail keeps cumming across as bitchiness rather than humor (and you all know how I never bitch).  So, I’ll spare you.  (Damn, even that sounded bitchy.)

Upfucking:

Today: TGIF Anal Horseshoe Bonanza?
Saturday: Tardcore fucks the Ballbuster
Sunday: Hash Bum’s Memorial Hash
Monday: Headless Horsemen and Hit it and Quit it has a Kahuna
Tuesday: Hash Brown touches the Beaver
Wednesday: The Fucking Pirate Hash!
Thursday: Chubby Chaser shows the No Name an original trail!