RA: Poon-Apple Juice

Scribe: Blow Me Closer Tiny Dancer

GMs: Throbbin Hood and BMCTD (probably one whole sober GM between us… rounding up)

Oh yes, another special-edition brunch naming! And also a sacrifice of a name to the Old Ones. Your unholy eldritch GMs find this offering worthy, and in the devouring of the lost name we have become stronger.
Allow me to introduce our victim, Cody. (Apparently some muggles call him Brodie, but Rosetta Bone saddled him with the sobriquet Just Cody of the BroFactory upon first meeting, and he will probably die with that name anyway, so here we are challenging fate by trying to call him anything else.)
For fun, Cody is a fake-ass drama queen, also known as an actor. As Wait Wait’s roomie, he practices by acting like he enjoys Wait Wait’s percussive stylings and romantic… cacophony. Those may not be mutually exclusive. It’s a fun household: sometimes a lady calls on a gentleman at home and she leaves her unmentionables in the washroom (I’m assuming this is how Wait Wait would describe the situation), and the next morning no one asks whose they are or who brought their owner home for a game of hide-the-knickers. On the plus side, the boys do get to enjoy drunken spooning, and that is some wholesome pureness, so good on them.


Cody reports that he’s currently a 2 on Kinsey scale. Yay MMM threesomes!
On a more serious note, the man cannot be trusted around strippers or fast food, and has been asked to leave establishments providing each. On the same night.

Footage from the night in question. Someone was screaming, “McNugget rain!” Three guesses on who.

Let’s just say that on an evening in New Orleans that involved 3 bars, a strip club, a burlesque club, and a McDonald’s… he was kicked out twice, but police were only involved once. And that was for his drunken theft of some hapless muggle’s poultry-morsels. I wish that were a euphemism, but no. He literally purloined the nugs of an innocent.
While there were other tales involving flying ass-first through glass tables and being peed on by a Czech hobo, the scribe is too lazy to relay it all. A variety of unwholesome epithets were volunteered, but the successful candidate was Battledick’s clever call-out to both unidentifiable undies and felonious fast food filching:The Cumburglar. Please congratulate Battledick on her first hash baby!

On “You can still call him Cumby” on,
BMCTD

When: Thursday January 3rd, 2019.

Where: Gallery Place-Chinatown

Hares: Geriatric Mandering, General Tso’s Dicken, Cheech and Dong, A Midsemester Night’s Cream, and Head Injury

Visitors: On Your Knees, Roadkill, and Tie Me Up Trebek
Virgins: Justs Ben, Tony, and Jose
Long time no see: Mouthful of Clam

Everyone has some super tacky but outrageously comfortable snuggly thing that they’re attached to. Hideous sweats. Raggedy throws. Unmentionable snuggies. Tonight was the night to let those fuzz flags fly.

Battledick took a bit of a tumble on trail, scraping up her knees, and while some uncouth individuals might have suggested “There goes her love life” we prefer to think of her as taking a page from William the Conqueror’s (Domesday) book and laying claim to the earth beneath her, arising as a mighty queen. Further evidence for this interpretation was provided in the form of a personalized throne and the arrival of a scantily clad Goldman Ballsacks to serve as her charming cabana boy. There was some shirt swinging in the disrobement, and the queen was very pleased.

Deetz Nuts and Amerigo Vesploogi wore the same outfit and got into a bit of a CareBear Staredown… which became a stripping competition, and Deetz won by dint of demonstrating that he’d skipped any other layers and was just a sweaty man in a bear suit. That onesie probably needs to be burned now; dry cleaning can only go so far.

Violations:

When the Ball Drops was violated for stopping to pick up sidewalk chocolate and then discarding it again for insufficient nuts. According to her, if isn’t a little bit salty or a touch tangy, there’s no point in putting it in her mouth.
Third Girl Problems was unwise enough to bring his brand new kicks to trail.
And Fail Her Poon was spotted arriving on a Lyme bike. Dude, this is a federal shutdown, but we aren’t savages. Have some goddamn dignity.

And then, a joyous occasion!

The Naming of Just Franklyn

This software engineer learned his trade at the lovely Susquehanna University, which we definitely did not have to Google to find out is in Pennsylvania.

He enjoys crashing electric skateboards and cars, playing saxophones, and engaging in the kind of Frisbee that we don’t discuss at hash.
He also enjoys dead people, sometimes a little too much, as evidenced by not letting his grandma be the only stiff at her funeral.
His first blowjob was a bit spicy, but overall a B+ for sheer novelty.
The story that captured our imaginations the most, however, was the implausible tale of being kidnapped in a Craigslisting gone wrong out in San Francisco. It was decided that his kidnappers were definitely cultists, and there was some sort of “showing him the ropes” mentioned, but we tried not to dredge up too much of this trauma.


Instead, Deetz Nuts saddled him with the sobriquet Heaven’s Gape for being Bay area body-snatched. Please congratulate Deetz on his son.

On – I guess that makes me a grandma – on,

BMC Tiny Dancer

When: 6:45 PM Thursday, December 27th, 2018. Pack away at 7:15!

Where: Columbia Heights Metro follow marks to Columbia Heights Civic Plaza to start!

Hares: Atari 6900… and literally no one else?

Virgins: Just Calvin, Just Dave
Visitors: I Like Your Boobs, Getting Nailed… and some foreigners who literally no one could understand. Also it was cold and the phone wasn’t doing great.

Apparently our hash is a huge destination for the overseas wankers in town for the holidays. I assume that cumming along with us was some sort of anthropological experiment or last effort to really nuke their livers before a dry January.

Violations:

Immediately after being introduced, Getting Nailed tried to start Jesus Can’t Go Hashing.


Sit down, bro, we do not like you enough for a 20 min musical interlude.

General’s Farm Animal insisted he wasn’t compensating for anything, and the ridiculous size of his flask was purely related to his alcoholism.

Finally, The Cumburglar galloped into circle and regaled us with disturbingly re-enacted tale of something involving a horse? Or a whore? Or a houri? Or a sexy horse? Unclear, but there were sound effects.

We needed to be super quiet, and that wasn’t working, so we called it a stealth run on circle and headed over to Town Tavern to get rowdy.

On – swift and silent…ish – on,

BMC Tiny Dancer