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.
Where: Eastern Market Metro (Blue / Orange / Silver Line)
Hares: Head Injury; Issues and Tissues, Rail Mary, Rosetta Bone, Special Red, and Unobtainium
Virgins: Justs Dale, Ryan and Corey
Visitor: some pudjam-curious harriettes from Hangover H3 – Justs Kiersten & Heather
Little Spermaid was having technical difficulties with her ugly sweater, repeatedly pressing her lazy right tit trying to figure out why it wasn’t turned on. She also had her ass out on the street near the van at start. I know you can buy lots of things at Eastern Market but I’ve never seen a rump roast on sale there before!
Shamrock Your Cock was running late to trail in her very expensive shoes. Mourning Wood showed himself in desperate need for some Queer Eye for the Hash Guy, mistaking Shamrock’s $500 shoes for crocs. Go ‘head girl, Shamrock out with your crocs out.
Cum Dumpling was caught laying himself to rest on the Indian burial mounds at beer check. I would violate him but he’s already gone. rip, fam
Just Dale just moved to DC and he’s really into cars and guns. So, ya know, he must be packin’.
Woodsie ended up in circle again for wanted to make a suit out of Just Arthur’s skin. BRO we seriously need to talk about your fashion choices.
And finally, I personally violated the hares for laying literally the boringest trail of the year that was so straightforward and not messed up that nobody submitted a single violation to me about it.
And in the humble hollow next to the dumpster and the train tracks we had a very solemn occasion and a Christmas miracle… a NAMING!! Just Emily made herself come to the hash, but gets other people to make her come in the car on federal property. She works for the Department of Defense, lost her virginity at Loyola in New Orleans and was thrilled she could tell her mom that she wouldn’t die a virgin. She’d have a threesome with Captain America and Thor, of course, and I wrote something down about taping grapes to the wall. Sounds kinky. After a bunch of lackluster names, a champion rose to the top of the heap. Henceforth and forevermore throughout the world of hashing, Just Emily shall be known as The Cocktease Falcon!
On – you ever had a BLT on a grilled cheese? it will change your LIFE – on,