Hash Trash

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?


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!!