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Hash 326
The Croatian Picnic And you said there was nothing new under the sun. Okay, maybe more detail would help. Where would you like me to start? How about with your scribe’s on-time arrival? Yes, that sounds like a good place to start, since such things are pretty neobičan.* That’s how our story begins, with your witness cumming to ob’serve his fellow hashers, recording yet another gathering of SCH4. Now, one might question whether this really qualified as a true gathering of SCH4, since practically all the hashers and most of mismanagement were MIA. Even if we counted our resident Texas Ranger-cum-Succubus (a.k.a. the hasher formerly known as The Unalicker), it would not have been a quorum. And for a while, there were some hashers even questioning whether she would show, especially since the sun was still up. However, it was behind a cloud, so she appeared. She circled the parking lot in an impromptu circle of her own, not wanting to submit to normal protocol. One hare, Organ Grinder, pulled out an old-fashioned hash stick (or, more properly, a ‘hare stick’). Pubic Zirconia pulled out of a deep depression to render a monotone hare briefing, while Fudge Tracker pulled out a pair of pointy ears and pointy shoes with little bells so that he could be the hare elf, since he was not about to run so soon after getting that boob job or whatever it was. About this time, I was informed of the recently named 3 Way Time at the most recent wedding hash. (For those of you looking for the rehash on that one, either I need a volunteer or give me some details, since I was not there and my customized Delorean is in the shop.) Some wanking non-hasher possibly seeking a non-traditional purveyor of ‘natural goods’ at the nature preserve drove into the parking lot, looking a bit alarmed. His license plate said that he was “Able.” Maybe he thought we were Cain waiting with a scythe. Scum Sucking Fecal Feeliac took charge of the circle and introduced a transplant named John (of) Denver. No hash name and I didn’t catch the last name. The man claimed to have a fear of airplanes, which explains why he chose the hash over the Blue Ass Hot Air Show. Look for an obvious naming soon. SSFF then led the circle in yet another bastardized Father Abraham, making me wonder if there wasn’t an eighth son who just wasn’t recorded except in the forgotten last verse. Ten minutes after the hares had departed, bez elf, the pack took off after them into the shiggy. Since the elf was there at the start, it was the first snare of the day. Fortunately, trail was on a trail—of mud slicks and exposed roots down steep hills. No one was killed until the pack hit a check in a patch of nettles. Then they strangled the elf—in their half-minds. Gourmet did a muddy somersault, claiming it was intentional until he was asked for an encore. On up a hill after much confusion to a beer near (that’s a BN in the rehashes as well as on trail, John). No water. Whining. Warm beer. Flour bag recovered by Hot Tub Slut. For shame on those wily hares. Mount Me Faster remarked that she was confused by the presence of the befloured HTS, since he was not usually present at such gatherings as a BN. More whining from the person with the badge. All the blood ran out of my brain from the ceaseless droning, buzzing, grating noise. No, I’m not talking about the cicadas. This was much more, well, irritating even numbing. Fortunately, a nearby hasher revived me with beer so that I could continue to ob’serve the hash. At this point, it was related that Kunt Hunt was bitten on the neck by the person with the badge who claimed to have been “bitten by a German.” It turns out the ‘German’ was really a Transylvanian transvestite with a serious blood lust. The hasher formerly known to be occasionally kind and caring but terribly hard on ‘cahrs’ and ‘bahrs’ and ‘wahter’ and ‘mahrkhs’ had become one of the undead, sucking on others’ necks (via their ears) and draining the blood from their brains. Yes, she had been a pain in the neck heretofore, but never like this. Good thing for her that she had the midnight shift. Your scribe had never heard so much whining from a Texas Rangerette. He passed out again until the pack had left the BN. Just as he was recovering, Dah Gimp showed up late and sucked down some fine Koors Ultralight, made from filtered Rocky Mountain yellow melt water. Right, John? The pack continued through the lovely streets of College Hill and its environs until it came to BN2 at the back of some barn where the pack made some fresh manure, as it were. Much banter and yet another BN with warm beer and the ice sitting NEXT to the beer instead of the beer sitting in it. At least there was water, but I didn’t complain. I only record what was said. Open Wide was limping by now, having stepped in one of the many fresh piles laying (lying) about. Then The Unabiter attempted a thought after remarking that she had not recorded any crimes yet and it was already BN2. Kunt Hunt accused his boss lady of a blonde crime for the attempted thought. MMF and SSFF had more hands on their rears than their beers. On Out. There was an ‘On Out’ marked but no one knew what it was, since it was not briefed by the hares. Speaking of hares, a hare (a live rabbit) was snared on trail. Second snare. The next snare was the elf again. This time he was at a bus stop handing out two quarters to each hasher to take a bus, pubic transportation, to the finish. Several recalcitrant hashers decided to have a hyper BN3 instead, thus making themselves truant as well. The first bar did not work, for some reason, so they started heading the wrong direction to yet another bar that was really a restaurant. HTS, having the flour bag, marked trail. Some people at a booth knew Anal Vice, which was more than we would admit. The bag lady, I mean badge lady, grew weary from lack of blood and declared, “I am bossy” when your scribe tried to explain to our transplanted hasher that “Really, she’s not always this fussy.” So much for trying to be kind and caring on my part. She also slugged me, but not too terribly ‘hahrd.’ Then she hollered at MMF to “get over here and rub my bunions.” 3 Way Time tried to explain her involvement in a cross-town shootout, but we suggested that she pipe down if she wanted to avoid prosecution. On Out and back to the polazna tačka. As we were preparing to start circle, Beat It claimed that “we’re too good to commit any crimes” which was fuel for the fire. As the circle opened, Fagwhore got a ziggy zaggy for a mother given name (MGN). Hares drank for a shitty trail, all hares except the fuzzy one. I can say that now that Fudge has shaved his elven barbs and you will know I am not referring to him when I say fuzzy. New cummer drank. Hares drank again for no water at the first BN. There wasn’t any water, but there sure was plenty of whine. Beat It did a ziggy zaggy for something (I have that she drank for the water crime, but maybe it was for passing water. Certainly there was not a few who couldn’t hold their water this day. Okay, enough about the whining.) Here begins the fiction section of the circle. See, we operate much like a library. We have geography and reference (trail and analversaries), science and biology (namings and awards, such as the gone-missing crutch), non-fiction (crimes that I and occasionally others submit to circle), and fiction (crimes submitted by The Posse, amongst others). Here we go: Nearly Being Hit by a Cahr: Asscam, I Repo Shit. Out of order came Analversaries: Asscam 25, MMF 45, Suck This 60, SSFF 140. Alcohol Abuse: Hot Wax Me Officer & Una. Centurion Mug MIA: Gimp. .38 Special showed up just in time to catch everyone leaving for the bar. The hash reconvened at Boswell’s Alley where Repo was upset that the waitress was skinnier than he was. He had her beaten with his compression panties or whatever it was he showed everyone. I Get Around showed up wearing her dad’s shorts and stripped to the waist again. About that time, being gladan, I headed to the grill looking for a menu. While making my return, .38 passed me on her way to the washroom. She pointed at a huge dark splotch on her arm, saying that it came from “a bird.” However, when I got back, I was told by the embarrassed waitress that “someone in bermudas” had squatted on the bar to istresti. She took my order then asked if .38 was okay. I told her, “Yes, by all accounts, but I don’t think she’s your type.” HTS asked if anyone was up for cornhole. Repo heard ‘hole’ and said he was in. Food came and I napped afterward in the alley. This is all true, because you saw it in print. ....Now that you have all the details, you might be thinking that this is too much informacija. Your Zapisničar: Lube My Johnson
*Approved Croatian Lexicon: bez: without
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