EWH3 Hash Trash #1164: Waterworld (Incoming Mismanagement)

Splish splash, my despondent coyotes! On the particular week in question your scribes were boldly leading and boldly bringing up the rear, so this piece of trash is entirely dependent on hearsay. Which is to say: if important details are missing, it’s your fault.

When: January 16 [a Thursday]
Where: Shaw/Howard University Metro
Hares: Twater Boarding, Tacos On A Bridge, They Blow Up So Fast, Seizures Phallus, Jigglytits [that’s me!], Tick Tock it’s Dick O’Clock, and Close Encounters of the Turd Kind [also me, but different]
Virgins: None [it’s called making friends, guys, try it sometime]
Visitors: Hoover McSuck-n-fuck from Boston, You’re A Pee’n Swallow from… here, apparently
On-After: Town Tavern

On this particular Thursday the RAs were particularly effective at their jobs, or would have been if their jobs had been making the weather nose-hair-freezingly cold. Tacos on a Bridge took shelter in the &pizza to collect hash cash while the rest of pack huddled in Scrotal Recall’s leeward side and waited for climate change, looking like a cargo cult formed from the wreckage of a shipment of running gear.

Just before we were all about to imminently freeze to death, except those smarties who prelubed, opening circle finally began. We met our visitors (Hoover McSuck-n-fuck of Boston, You’re A Peen’n Swallow from Everyday is Wednesday) and bemoaned the lack of fresh virgin blood on our frozen hearts. Then some asshole hare representative was called into circle, where they whispered us beautiful stories about something called the Kegland where the kegs never run dry and the weather never drops below 50, demonstrated an esoteric ritual called “salmoning” which would be key to our journey, and then sang us the traveling-song of their people, which had something to do with “chicken,” “power,” and “teams.”


Thus blessed, off we set in search of the Kegland!

First we encountered the horrors of the Drivers and their Seven-Way Intersection.

Then a mythical Roundabout stymied the pack with its blasphemous suggestion that once, long ago, humans did not use traffic lights, and maybe followed actual marks instead of just lemming-ing through intersections.

After of that, wonder of wonders, we caught wind of a Shot Check. But alas, our romance was short-lived, as we were rapidly set upon by strippers from all sides and were forced to flee towards the Pumping Station from which blessed liquid flows.

heckin strippers.

me, a sweeper, watching the shot check run off like

The next bit was a scenic tour of the McMillan Reservoir. Legend has it there was a magical Fish Hook once residing in these parts, although it hasn’t been seen in many a year and certainly wasn’t sighted on this trail.

After terrifying us with a whole lot of cold liquid that no one was interested in [c’mon we’ve all had those hookups], the hares built us some character by depositing Scrotal Recall in a frigid parking lot, but we forgave them when Brew Crew plied us with the blessed waters of life [also cold, but with more interest]. It was also at this site that we received word of a GREAT OCCURRENCE:

oh boy oh boy oh boy

Apparently not long after trail began, Just Kirsten was talking Some Bullshit in which she flipped her hair, smiled cheekily, and crowed, “Who’s up for some Frogger?!” before gaily darting off to play in traffic, confident in her immortality. However, this Bullshit was called not long after when Just Kirsten failed to adequately grant Safety its appropriate due in the hashing pantheon, and as Just Kirsten was not Being Very Careful in crossing the street a rogue Car decided to closely investigate her knees without consent. As the story goes, our heroine channeled a different video game and hardcore parkour’d over the hood of the car, landing with as much elegance as one can channel after one has been hit by a car. By the grace of G, Just Kirsten emerged with only her pride injured and does not have to repeat the experience at least until naming circle.

make lemonade.

Our path then bobbed and weaved past stadiums and swimming pools, among the hallowed dorms of Howard, and cascaded down the dry fountains of Meridian Hill Park to another glorious Shot Check, which had collected, like the rain, into kind of a gross green color at the base of the park. Then we followed some hipster’s calf tattoo back up the hill and into the sweet embrace of TOWN TAVERN [Kegland, same thing].

There, we told the hares just what we thought of their frozen hill climb, celebrated Doppelbanger’s birthday, and apparently all ended up taking our shirts off in a gallant, inspiring display of ungendered enthusiastic equity that lasted until way too damn late, but luckily I had work off that day, so all y’all suckers can go heck yourselves to heck.

Other violations included:

  • The Hares, for not being on theme: They were such horrible pirates, they charted a course INTO the wind for the entire trail.
  • The Hares, for being too on theme: They were such good pirates, they savagely sunk the hash’s morale by running them around the entire reservoir.
  • Son What the Fuck, a commendation: for talented handling of Scrotal Recall while Dude That Guy was merely seat candy. Son can clearly handle the big boys.
  • Son What the Fuck, for alcohol abuse, spilling the entire contents of the shot check in the van. If you liked it, then you should have put a lid on it.
  • It’s Not Cum It’s Ranch, for being premature: not only c*me wildly early but was also overheard lamenting how early he c*me. Where have we heard that one before?
  • Hoover McSuck’n’Fuck, for more alcohol abuse: however, his apology for the spill had already started before the cup fell out of his hand — his true violation was for being a goddamn liar, as he claims he’s from Boston, but clearly he’s full-blooded Canadian.
  • They Blow Up So Fast: for pulling a George W. Bush and unilaterally declaring a shot check on walkers’ trail. Now that’s some mismanagemental action I won’t be ashamed to say I supported decades later.
  • Close Encounters of the Turd Kind: for ruining the first shot check by bringing not just one stripper, but the whole damn strip club. One kink at a time, buddy.

You’re all welcome for the morning reminder you didn’t need of the trail you hopefully won’t remember.

On-may you someday possess as much money as Waterworld lost and may you use it to buy me a drink-on,

xoxo Jigglytits