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.
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.
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,
It was a romp through the burbs with all your favorites: train tracks, strip malls, gratuitous tunnels, curious neighbors, and accidentally approaching a WMATA van bc all white vans look alike… and all the messed up shit y’all did:
Honorable Vaginal Discharge admitted to putting herself into the Witness Protection Program in Okinawa to avoid being bibbed. Let’s hope Trash doesn’t know how to read!
A violation for our runners’ hares, Special Head Kid and What’s A Boner for laying a trail so short and boring they both ran it twice to get enough of a post-Christmas workout.
Gunna Probably Spew was showing off to Jolly Green Jizzer: the secret to his speed isn’t hard work and practice, it’s his racing stripes. You know, that line of hair that goes all the way from his chin to his dick!
Atari 6900 was violated for being the worst Songmeister ever. Upon finding a song check, he sang only the first four words of a song and still managed to fuck it up.
And finally, a massive violation to the absolute clown car of a walkers’ trail, since literally every person piled into PSA’s car and didn’t even pretend to go on trail.
No naming, but we had two lady virgins and no immaculate conception so I’ll call that a Christmas miracle.
When: December 19 Where: DuPont Circle Metro Hares: General Tso’s Dicken, Cheech and Dong, Colliteral Damage, Deetz Nuts, GeriatricMandering, Poon-apple Juice, Ready Player None, Schrödinger’s Cock, Son What the Fuck?! Virgins: None (you sluts!!) Visitors: Two from Beijing H3 On-After: Town Tavern
So there I was, dear reader, having definitely remembered that I was supposed to Stunt Scribe this trail and very definitely not running dangerously late (which I would never do) to start in the middle of scenic and deadly Dupont Circle for General Tso’s Dickens’ celebratory Onesie Birthday Trail. For the purposes of brevity I’ll speed through what was no doubt a glorious opening circle in which the hares were probably already drunk and sang us a painfully unharmonious rendition of Joe the Button-man, but the birthday meat and potatoes is that someone shouted ON OUT and we scattered in all directions in pursuit of trail.
Like a gallant gentleperson not running late I let the FRBs find the “correct” route in a southwesterly direction, where we immediately got even weirder looks than usual from passersby in our onesie regalia. The hares laid us an immediate sweet little false then took us on a scenic tour of all three feet of Duke Ellington Park. After dipping down toward L St and finding it decisively too bougee for our tastes, some half-mind extolled the virtues of Milwaukee Jesus Water and then half of pack promptly forgot the third rule of hashing and almost got run over by a bus (myself included).
At some point soon after that we located a school that most definitely had walls, and the school-aged under-30s were told to work our young muscles and go find trail at the promised “under-30 check.” The fact that only one other hasher went to find trail with me heralded my sudden discovery that EWH3 may no longer be home to the “hot young twentysomethings near you” that I similarly was promised when I began hashing [here]. But such nightmares were purged by the splashing waters of Rock Creek, which we avoided like the plague because one does not show up to EW to make one’s feet moist in 30-degree weather. (Thursday is a hashing day, not a frostbite day.) It was here where many of my DFL-running compatriots were reminded that Running is Hard and Why Do We Do this and dropped significantly behind… or ahead… (My memory of my position relative to pack may have been impeded by the imminent arrival of a Shot Check, which tasted like the thousand-year-egg version of a White Claw. I blame Colliteral Damage, who made the bold claim that it was “gin and tonic.”)
Not long after that was a beer check in a cul-de-sac, aka the closest the millennials of EWH3 will come to tasting suburban life. It was there that I learned Doppelbanger struggles to remember the words for gloves despite remembering that Sioux Falls sucks, two visitors made absurd Breitbart-level claims that Beijing’s hash is superior, and Tuck and GFA had their own Ornery Old Man circle. (Reader, I was not invited. Maybe some day. Yikes.)
When asked to describe the status of her alcohol consumption, the General told me that she did not know any songs about drinking. Someone jogged her memory: “What about the song that goes ‘I’ve been drinking, I’ve been drinking?” to which General responded “YES THAT ONE.”
The remainder of trail was short and blurry, much like a bad night at Dan’s. Somewhere along the way a shot check showed us which of the older hash members have been practicing getting down on their knees, and Son What the Fuck and your humble scribe accidentally flirted with a carful of young-looking humans who were really curious to know what we were doing standing around with beverages in such a tiny traffic triangle with such a sketchy-looking human as Deetz. We responded that they must be very fun considering they had fit ten people into a vehicle the size of a SmartCar and they should come find us when they reached legal beverage consumption age before quickly running off to play in traffic. I could tell when we rapidly entered AdMo because the skeptical side-eyes of passersby turned into cheers, and on the wings of such admiration we beat Scrotal Recall to our final destination. Inevitably, as one does, we all gathered at Town to tell the hares how much we hated their trail.
In a brief, drunk reckoning of circle, we: – Found out that our hares General Tso’s Dicken, Cheech and Dong, Colliteral Damage, Deetz Nuts, GeriatricMandering, Poon-apple Juice, Ready Player None, Schrödinger’s Cock, and Son What the Fuck keep a number of titillating things under their onesies, except several of them, who keep nothing under their onesies; – Congratulated General Tso’s Dickens for surviving another lap around the sun. She initially failed to remember any other songs about drinking to describe her current mood, then after consulting her phone finally settled on “the one about shots. You know, it goes ‘shots shots shots'”; – Asked our visitors if they were unzipped or uncut and determined that they were miraculously all single; – Informed Beijing visitor Molotov Cock that he does not have to look like Daniel Craig in order to visit DC because only some of us are spooks, but we appreciate his dedication to the theme; – Observed that Just Arthur‘s red shorts were exceptionally appropriate for a Miami Beach hash and possibly less so for a DC winter hash; – Violated those whose age was less than the temperature outside (or something like that, you all got what I meant); – Violated anyone who had allowed education to get in the way of their hashing over the last several months and was now taking a “winter” “break,” including Six From Behind and Gonna Probably Spew; – Made some kind of joke about doctors’ examinations and the Pony Express (look I don’t made the jokes I just record the jokes); – And sold four necklaces to George Stuffedanoctopus in the hopes that he will more slowly distribute them across the floors of hash bars in the future.