Hash ???: Deliverance Pre-Lube 7/11/15
Scene: Murphy parking
lot, Midtown Mobile
Time: One week before Deliverance 24, 2PM-ish
In order to properly
prepare for a truly inspired GCH3 Campout Invasion, one must have the stamina
to outlast other wankers for the entirety of the weekend in mind, body, and
soul. If there ever becomes a time when your “CHECK LIVER” light flashes,
you become a turtle crossing the road, awaiting Red Hot’s automobile
Justice. As a kennel responsible for almost half of the attendees,
causing the fastest sell-out of a campout, we have to represent like rock
stars. And who else to shore up our collective efforts than our own RA
LubriCUNT and LMFAO stunt double Table Topper with a pre-Deliverance training
trail?
Meeting in the well-versed starting point of the Murphy parking lot garnered a
few raised eyebrows from our most senior zenning member (“Can’t we ever break
the chains of Midtown?” – Shut The Fuck Up Tater), but as we all know from
these particular hares, fuck expectations. A split-down-the-middle number
of those attending Deliverance and those not made up our hounds for the
day. Anyone who lived close that attended the year prior was in
attendance, including our sister hasher Twisted Shitster. These people
knew the extent of debauchery Adams, TN can bring out of you and needed to be
in tiptop condition. Only two Deliverance virgins showed, Spocker and
Banger; the former being a last minute entry and the latter showing off for her
in-town siblings. (Side note: Spocker and Banger is a buddy cop show I’d
definitely watch.)
Sending the whitey-tightey’d hares away, we tooled around the starting area and
continued our lube of Kirkland’s Own Light Brand Beer. (‘Kirkland’s:
That’s a shitload of beer!’ Copyright MMXV) As we were sent off after the
8th ‘Five Minutes!’ call, we saw our direction head north across Dauphin
and towards Springhill. Passing the church swing in the tree that I
almost broke, we made it to the best part of the trail: a detour of the Vein
Center! Call me old-fashioned but I enjoy when things are tailored for
me. A bunch of short cutters nearly missed the trip around the building,
which led to some pretty amazing fence-climbing and thorn kicking but rest
assured, gentle readers, I made them return and take almost a minute out of
their day cursing.
Once around the Vein Center, we came upon the Bragg-Mitchell mansion where a
lovely Saturday wedding was taking place. Given the part of the pack I
was in and the part that was ahead of us, the guests were apprehensive at our
arrival on the sidewalk. Imposing as you can be in a cummerbund, about
eight healthy “Ro’ Ti’-ers” did their best to discourage us from inching
anywhere on the grass to taint their venerated festivities. Finding trail
continuing even more north, we kept out of their hair and high-fived some guys
on bicycles instead.
The hares alerted us in special instructions that they were taking us by a
water park of sorts but not expressly through it. As if a mirage coming
out of the desert, we saw our splashy, watery Mecca! Crossing the bridge,
we were given the option of either continuing trail…or going thirty yards out
of our way to splash roughshod through a park and then continue trail.
Excuse me for just a moment.
*SPLASH* Watch out, kids! Purple needs a cool off! *SPLASH*
Okay, I’m back. Noticing trail also passed me through an ice cream
truck’s path, I waited in line (for a long damn time) and eventually got a
Ninja Turtle stick pop, with cherry gumball eyes. It was Donatello, for
those of you taking notes. As we wound our way through the park, we
suddenly and most graciously found the first midbeer. Washing down a
Turtle Ice cream with beer is a life experience you never knew you needed.
(“Kirkland’s: With That Aftertaste, Who Needs The Monocled Cat?” Copyright
MMXV) Emerging from the light shaggy onto a road, we realized that this
was the first introduction of the Banger sisters to Toulmanville!
Have to say, if Tater wanted a break from midtown, I think we found it. A
mostly uneventful walk through this area, we came up on the closed outside of
the USA Women and Children’s hospital. Soon, our small band of travelers
were greeted by a security guard who inquired of our mission. Informing
him of ‘running’ aspect of our group, this exchange took place.
Security - Wait, are you with the guy in the underwear? With PIG on the
butt?
Me - Yeah, ol’ PIG Butt!
Security - Yeah, he just dropped a box up there for you.
Banger’s sister – “Did he have a fro?”
Security - …How many PIG Butt’s do you have?
Sending us on our way, we found the second midbeer amidst the bronze statues
and the musical hopscotch that no one knew existed.
Finishing the trail, which continued as a de facto Hell’s Belles type, we all
circled up behind the Walgreens or CVS. Circle was fun until people
realized the awards banquet for the local theatre was soon to start and you
can’t eat all that food if you aren’t there, so we guerrilla’d a few more times
and then piled in cars to put the cherry on the hot-ass sundae that was
Deliverance Training.
All-in-all, this trail was the wonderful ‘ropes course’ our livers
needed. We had water, heat, beer, sassiness, shaggy, beer,
whitey-tighties, and most importantly, beer. And when you’re reaching for
a hash beer, remember Kirkland’s. (Kirkland’s: You Can’t Spell It without SAD!
Copyright MMXV)
Hash 645: Uptown Shiggy 6/27/15
Contributed by A Non-eMouse
So there I was, no shit,
and the sun was beating down. We all groaned about the heat and lack of shade.
But little did we know what stupendously moist markings lie ahead on our well
marked jungle journey. Lots of well known faces, a few newer ones, graced our
presence. A few back sliders even managed to slip in, Saturday Night Seizure
still wondering if he still had time to grab some chicken. We also had visitors
ranging from Voodoo to Survivor.
After a few minutes of socializing, Lubi called to order a shape that in some
countries might resemble a circle. Etta Jameson and Purple Vein instructed us
of special markings( including a fish hook), assumed that all too familiar
position, and off they (sorta) went. 15 minutes-ish later the pack followed.
The hares didn’t disappoint, 2 minutes on trail and we were off into the woods.
After a nice section of shiggy we finally had a clearing, and enough cranium
space to fully guzzle our last drops of beer flavored nectar. A short, rocky
jaunt later we had reached a rope swing that was familiar to some. But this
time at our refreshing swing stop was the first of 2 mid beers. After partaking
in the liquid refreshments we continued into the woods for a short while.
As the sky
started to darken the pack wondered if they would make it to the end before
Jesus got them all wet. The back of the pack finally emerged from the woods and
onto a rock trail, it was then that the fish hook came into play. What is a
fish hook you might ask? Well, it’s where the FRB stumbles upon a beer and must
run it all the way back to the RRB. So, Cocktimus Primer delivered Clit-R-Us
his well earned DFLigation light beer. It was then the bottom started to fall
out. . .coincidence that lightening struck during that moment. . .maybe?!
As G would
have it, the last of the pack ducked back into the orange tape marked woods
just as the flour started to wash away. . .but not before the second mid beer.
Once in the woods we trudged on and the rain continued to pour. But that only
made the mud more magical and the water way more wondrous. After numerous
obstacles that not only challenged our finesse and water resistance, (but also
our sobriety) the middle and back of the pack reunited. After regrouping Princess
In The Pee decided to take charge and boldly lead. . .85% of the pack. . .in
the wrong direction. The remaining 15% followed trail and made it to the
(assuming) ON-IN only to be greeted by Purple mumbling stupid shit and
Etta not understanding the stupid shit he was mumbling. So, come to find out,
the front of the pack had over shot the end and the middle of the pack had
nailed it so they helped grab beer. Where the hell was the end of the pack, the
85%, the Princess pack? Probably babysitting a (drunk) national monument. None
the less, everyone (including the beer and a plant) made it to the ON-IN.
Circle
started off very mellow and quiet. . .apparently wet hashers are more chill.
But as the rain stopped and everyone started to dry out they kept their insides
wet with plenty of beer. Finally the circle began to come to life! Things went
on as they normally do, aside from a few stand out times. Someone should ask
Seizure how he feels about 7 dogs fucking, or 7 shirtless men with their buts
in his face singing Yogi Bear. . .I’m sure he’ll respond to either. Also, does
anyone know if the virgin ever DID shut the fuck up or are him and Tater still
in a corner somewhere loudly having a bromance? Plenty of other questions also
come to mind. . . How did Shiggy Bork Balls find the only fire hydrant in
nature to pee on and why didn’t anyone touch his but? What happened to that car
bumper? Did Enzyte Bob get that satellite to work? Who is the real Batman? And
last, but definitely not least, . . How are TTP’s elephant ears doing?
ON-ON
Butt Gravy's Birthday Hash #615, 7/26/14
Contributed by I'll Bang Your Baby
When Daddy is away, the children will play.
While Sister was off gallivanting in Brussels with Dil, Third Bread and Babe,
the kennel turned to the birthday boy Butt Gravy to lead us on our merry trail.
Since we’re a daring bunch of wankers, we started off on the Alcohol-Free
Campus of the University of South Alabama, where opening circle was observed
with interest by shirtless volleyball players and Campus Security. Much effort
was made to look as conspicuous as possible when the cops’ SUV first rolled up.
Way to go kids! But after much kilt & boob checking, our friendly officer
decided to sit back & watch the shenanigans. So, of course, we waved as we
trotted off into the woods behind him.
The trail meandered through multiple
intersections and convoluted true trails. R U was heard over & over, from
every direction, punctuated by the very rare On On. Somewhere in all
that mess we realized Just Brady, the virgin, had lost half his flag. Just
half, mind you. LubriCunt couldn’t have been happier when she realized the
ripped flag was evidence the virgin was one of the only wankers still on trail.
As the kennel emerged from the woods we found ourselves in the ghost town known
as Hillsdale Heights where the streets are filled with vacant fields punctuated
by the occasional 900sf asbestos-filled circa 1950 home. We were greeted by
friendly smiles & waves (and occasional “The girls are running with beers!
All right!”) from about 100 neighbors at a Celebration of Life. Pubix Cube,
among others, offered condolences.
A quick skip through vacant lots, a field of
thorns straight out of The Ruins, and across a branch of Three Mile Creek
landed us at circle where LubriCunt reigned supreme. After a quick search &
rescue party returned with our lost virgin, Just Amber, we got started. Without
Sister’s calming influence the kennel was ridiculously well behaved. Lubi
announced at one point that she was bored and we’d better start fucking acting
like hashers. Thoroughly chastised, the kennel amped it up a notch. Then Lubi
decided we weren’t leaving that patch of grass until Just Willie was named.
We’d already asked this
wanker questions twice so we pretty much knew his dirt, sexual proclivities and
how old he was when he stopped wetting the bed. It looked like we’d have to
throw things at the wall until something stuck. Then, out of nowhere, the
Commander in Chief was standing in the middle of circle talking about anal sex.
LetMeBeClear… this impression was DEAD FUCKING ON. And the son of a bitch
didn’t miss a beat. Every answer came out of his mouth like it was a recording
of The President telling GCH3 all of his best kept secrets. When he topped it
off with a speech by Mickey Mouse and the harriettes saluted him with a round
of boob checks, we kicked him out so we could talk about him in peace. After
much (30 seconds) of debate we experimented with the various ways to pervert
our Commander in Chief’s name and finally settled on… Ladies & Gentlemen,
may I introduce… FistHer President BRock My Cock. Or is it BaRock MyCock? Or
Ba-Rock-Ma-Cock? It doesn’t matter how you spell it. Say it out loud, you’ll
get it.
Are you ever too old? Hash #614, 7/19/14
Contributed by Can I Fuck Your Sister?
So, what do you do when
you end up in the armpit of Foley, AL with the promise of a muddy, dirty,
shiggylicous trail after days of Lower Alabama monsoon type rain? We found out
the hard way. Etta Jameson declared the trail to be a one of a kind joy ride
for hashers of all types and believe it or not, all types showed up. We had
visitors from Voodoo H3, Biloxi H3 and even a few back sliders of our own
kennel (I’m talking to you TLAM and Skid Marks).
In the current laissez
fair start time of our hashes, trail didn’t actually start until about 45
minutes after it was supposed to. That’s just fine by me. We got a chance to
meet new friends and hang out with..read fondle… old friends (Texticle Teaser).
This delay also afforded us an opportunity to meet the local wildlife, being
the park ranger type who came up to chat with someone, anyone who could tell
her just what the hell was going on. As she approached, beers were being
hidden, all be it with little effort and most hashers found it necessary to
check their shoe laces. Etta bit the bullet and attempted to speak with her in
the native muggle tongue. It turned out, she wasn’t there to harass us at all.
She just wanted to welcome us to the area, encourage us to stay on the paths as
best we can and to watch out for snakes… yep, snakes.. That gave several of us
pause as just last week, a hasher at Deliverance got bitten pretty badly in her
foot and needed an ambulance ride and several doses of anti-venom just to
survive the weekend.
For some reason, four
hares were required to lay this trail, or should I say, run the trail (maybe)
and whenever they felt like enough distance had passed so that Drew Brees
couldn’t throw a football that far, carelessly plop down just enough flour onto
the muddy, grassy, slippery trail that a microscope was required to confirm
that you were actually on on. That was just fine with most of us. It wasn’t the
flour plops or lack-there-of that kept the trail interesting. This trail had
fun obstacles to negotiate like a rope wall that had the first mid-beer (or
should I say “only” mid-beer) of the trail at the bottom. There were also other
a-frame structures to get over as well as a tire course to navigate. By the
time we came to the OTF, which was a very tasty “we should have seen this
cumin” bottle of Jameson Irish Whisky, most hashers were soaking wet from both
mud puddles and sweat. The humidity was so thick that LezBFriendz declared that
he wished he had a straw so he could stick it up into the sky and try to find
some air to breath. Due to the clothing exchange early on, I was stuck wearing
Cunt For Head October’s tank top. Or should I say, it was stuck wearing me.
That man just finished basic training. His clothes don’t exactly fit Sister. I
felt like Just O.J. Simpson and the famous glove, trying to put that thing on.
“If it doesn’t fit, you must….”, well, you know the rest.
Per tradition, every
hasher held at the OTF until the bottle was gone. Snatch Of The Day happened to
declare that it tasted so good, she could drink it like water; which she
promptly did. As a last obstacle, the hares devised a hand rope over a log
contraption to help us cross a creek to the other side and on-on to the
on-in.
As hashers started
arriving at the on-in, Etta Jameson was asking how every one liked the second
mid-beer. ‘SECOND MID-BEER?’ we all wondered. It turns out that Enzyte Bob
(A.K.A. Spider Monkey Choaker), shimmied up some tree and hung the bag-o-nectar
up high. Too high it turns out because no one saw it. “It was right there, in
plain sight” he declared with a touch of sadness that no one found his creative
hiding place. “Well,” several of us proclaimed, “If we weren’t spending so much
time with our microscopes hovering around the ground looking for your flour
markings, maybe someone would have had the wherewithal to glance above grass
blade height”. I saw him eyeing several of us for his patented choke hold so I
promptly started circle so at least I would have witnesses. I still watched my
back, as much as one can, whilst standing in the middle of a circle.
As circle started to cum
together, down-downs were handed out and virgins were initiated. Pause was
given not once, but twice to watch Snatch Of The Day pee off in (at the
immediate edge of) the woods. I was aiming for a quick circle so we could get
to the namings that were over due. Since our hash has grown over the last
couple years, it has become awash in just too damn many Justs for my liking. No
name is given before it is perfect for the hasher and Just Cory and Just Queef
had by this time, done and/or said too damn much for us to not give it a whirl.
The kennel did not disappoint. With Jameson Irish Whisky and beer (Thank G. we
finally finished off the Keystone) as the lubricant (Almost couldn’t spell that
correctly as my spell checker now insists it being spelled LubriCUNT), our two
hashers started spilling the beans about their life, favorite this and that and
what piece of the Monopoly game they would shove up their ass.
Just Cory was first and
though he was a total theater geek and frequent flyer at the STD clinic, the
hash centered around that part of his past that offered so much material. Being
a Peace Corps wonk in Bulgaria just had a certain draw for the imagination.
That and being a frequent actor in community theater got us thinking. I for one
thought he should get named after someone who jerks off to Shakespeare while
staring at road maps Sofia, Bulgaria and remembering young lovers of the past
but alas, that didn’t exactly offer the play on words that we were looking for.
So, needing a play on words for his acting chops and being told by his roommate
Just Brett that he loved bulges. Just Cory shall forever more be know as
“BulgeArea PieceWhore”.
On to Just Queef. I gave
Just Queef that name early on because I was drunk when I met her. For some
reason, “Just Quite” didn’t translate as English to me and I couldn’t help
making a quick joke out of the first thought that came to my half-mind. Little
did I know that she would take that shit and own it like every pair of
testicles she has hanging off her bedpost. She even started announcing herself
during introductions as “Your Chocolate Relief… Just Queef” and would then
bounce her ass like she was trying to make it rain dollas’ at the strip club.
It was almost like she has a marquee, all blinged up with lights saying “I dare
you to say something fucking stupid”. Take that bitches. Well, the truth
behind “In Vino Veritas” slapped every one in the face as she started answering
questions with such veracity that you would think she was testifying before
Judge Judy. I don’t know who asked her the two questions that got both myself
into a new, quite enjoyable sexual position and led to the impetus for her hash
name. The questions were, “What is your favorite sexual position?” and “Will
you show us your O face?”. What I heard next from her was “I’ll need Sister to
lay down for this”. My first thought was “I had better not.” but that didn’t
exactly translate to my legs in time to stop me from almost flying off my feet
into a face up prostrate position. Within seconds, I was face-to-spandex in a
thigh driven headlock of epic proportions. I threw my thumbs up so every one
would know I hadn’t died yet and could hear intermittent orgasmic sounds cuming
from Just Queef as she face slapped me with her inner thighs and dribbled my
cranium off the ground like LeBron James does a basketball. After about a week,
I was let up for air and to my delight, Just Queef smiled, slapped my ass and
said, “You was all right.. Nothing to write home about”. There were probably
more questions but I was dizzy and somehow both ashamed and happy at the same
time. You know, it was a lot like masturbating. Fun while you are doing it but
after, you hope no one saw you. Before I knew it, she was sent away and all
manner of variations of what just happened got translated into long names. No
one seemed to capture just what occurred and I wasn’t in any place to give a
good opinion. The best I could offer was that I felt like my face was just
worked over by the business end of a plunger. Out of the back of the crowd and
with an air of confidence, Boris said the two words that not only captured the
moment I just experienced better than I could ever describe to anyone but also
rolled off the tongue like magic. I snatched the paper…. um, beer box… out of
LubriCUNT’s hands where she was “Maulering” the proceedings in earnest, trying
to write everything down, before she could even finish writing. I gave the
kennel the time it took me to clear my throat and whistle for Just Queef to cum
back to circle to think of a better name and to be sure, no one could. From now
on and ever more, Just Queef shall be known as Ass Mask…..
Circle basically wrapped
up via a drunken attempt to ask several other candidates questions about their
sexual preferences and which part of a donkey’s penis do they find most
attractive. I’m not sure though. I snuck away to call DilVanDo to tell her that
I think I just cheated on her but I wasn’t sure and could she promise to cuddle
me later.
On-On Wankers. The Hash
Trash Is BACK!!
