Hash Trash: EWH3 #730: The Jorts Run

On a bright and beautiful late summer day, the anniversary of your second favorite scribe as it happens, the pack gathers 14,000 meters from the nearest metro exit adorned with the most unfortunate series of fupa popping, camel toe embracing, friction burn inspiring jorts this side of a Georgian gay pride parade. Strangely, the best Canadian speedo presentation came from Kindergarten Cock who filled out his jorts better than the woman he stole them from. So either he’s more shapely than a harriette or he’s been diddling more than primary school teachers (kids really are getting fat these days).
While waiting for our ever timely departure of closer to 8pm than 7, we entertained by Prep O getting on her knees in front of as many wankers with sub-par jorts as possible, tittering with Ginger delight as she waved extra sharp scissors around already sweaty wedding tackle in the name of fashion and crafts. The delay was gratefully embraced by Whiskey Business who (despite being the teacher in question) forgot that he was supposed to attend a meeting in which parents meet teachers, but is not in fact, according to the aforementioned jorted wonder, a parent-teacher meeting.
After a rousing rendition of “Hi, this song is too long” Just Amber lead us directly into traffic with her bright and shiny new shoes, and onto trail. Not to be out done, Fat Friends in Wet Places took this opportunity to try to shove Connect Whore into an oncomming car, in order to take out the competition and prove that despite his ever present vacant grin, he’s not always a southern gentleman.
Our first obstacle was a deliciously cool looking pool, which There’s a Clapp for That wasted no time in running around, depite trail being in the opposite direction.
As we tried to solve the mystery that was what the hares claimed to be a trail (sporting more checks than a party mix), many of the pack were disturbed from their zenning by the distinct sound of a ringing phone, followed shortly by Just Hannah explaining to her mother that she couldn’t talk because she was running a race. We don’t support lying to our mothers at this hash. Only our future mistakes.
As dusk settled around us, a multitude of headlamps switched on to light the way, like so many drunken fireflies in the night. One of which was significantly lower because Just Jolene wanted to make all you bitches feel fat by putting her headlamp around her waist. While many of the wankers appreciated this and flocked to the light like desperate moths (watch out for that burning sensation, boys!), someone should warn her that the pack can be a crowded place where being shanked or force fed a bear claw is a real possibility.
As we approached the Crystal City mall, our cowboy pride parade was met immediately by the Fuzz, of the rental persuasion. Ol’ Jonny “within 50ft of the entrance” law was not having any of our antics. Imagine his chagrin when he was admonished for discriminating against the gays by our ever so effiminate Yule Log. I called that shit. This explains why Miss M’gag Me always has to wear boots and a flannel shirt for those intimate moments. This surprise to no one was topped only by the revelation that Twinkle Twinkle Little Cock has fully embraced his life of celebacy by going full Francis of Assisi and harboring every stray animal he can find. Someone needs to tell him that terrified young woman chained to his radiator is FROM Turkey and simply doesn’t speak english. “So cute but very skittish. I checked extra close for testicles on this one though. Definitely a boy.”, he was earlier quoted.
Meanwhile, on walkers trail, Tongue Punch my Fart Box proved that walkers are the laziest creatures on the planet by bringing a chair and taking a seat every time Please Step Away stopped by a titcheck to explain options a harriette has when they feel their sweater meat is the best ever put on this planet and thus, too good to share with their fellow hashers. This is what I like to call a teachable moment. If you’re new to the world of hashing and are ever caught doing this, you will be run out of town.
Some of you may be familliar with the story of Phinneus Guage, who took a steel rebar through his cranium and lived. Subsequently he was rendered mild, simple and very good with animals. According to Edgar Allen Ho’s dog Daisy, only two of those things continue to live on in our very own Phinneus, Tragic Carpet Ride.

Then it was time for a very solemn occasion. We didn’t have any of those so we had a naming.
Just Aru (two guesses if he’s caucasian, the first one doesn’t count) stayed true to stereotypes and studied Computer Science at Johns Hopkins, which has a mascot of the Fighting Blue Jays. That’s what happens when smart foreigners pick your mascot. Despite being quite smart and not a terrible person, our Aru (who refused to take off his sweater due to some cultural obligation) is from Pittsburgh. No matter how much material we gave you, the circle consistently failed to come up with anything offensive or funny until we boiled it down to:
Thank You, Come Never
Tribbles and Shits
But eventually settle on:
Corn Dog Billionaire