Hares: G-String and Nice T*ts
Bag Car: NAMBLA
RA: Crucifux (On-Out) & Bend Over Mommy (On-In)
Scribe: Jolly Green Vagina
Late Cummers: C*m Is Kosher, Can’t Beat It, Just Jo, Bend Over Mommy
Lost on Trail: C*m T*tty
Sweat Test Failure: Public Rectum, Save A Tree Ride A Cowboy, Stinky Digit, Nipples Erectus, Just Maggie, Moaning Lisa
Weather: Hot and humid, with an occasional breeze
Pack: Spoonful of S*men, Dribbles, Stick It To The Bros, Fire in the Hole’s twin sister, P*bic Service Announcement, Just Deeley, Krusty the Meat Miser, Clam Burglar (formerly Hump and Dump), You Oughtta Blow, Wooden Eye FHITA, Schindler’s Fist, Peppermint P*ssy, Just Stina, Just Laura, Just Dan #1, Just Dan #2, Virgin Erica, Patriot Missiles, Catheter the Great, Just Mike, Just Zach, Taj My Hole, General Ass Pounder, Bisexual Bondage B*tch, Shorn Scrotum, Goes Down On Buoys, Dirty Latte Sanchez, Sucks Hard For The Money, Floppy D*ck, Hare Club for Queers, Beat By A Girl, Dude Where’s My Virginity, Merkin Muncher, Anal Beads, My Chemical Homance, High Anus, J*zz Mopper, Headmaster, Virgin Kelsey, Virgin Scott, Super Teflon Dong, Just Leeann, and possibly some other Justs that I missed but who the f*ck cares
Let me begin this Hash Trash by getting some things out of the way: Yes, G-String was wearing panties. Yes, this probably does confirm everyone’s suspicions about him. No, I’m not going to spend the entire Hash Trash discussing it. It would be way too easy, like talking about how Floppy finally got rid of the multicolored bits of dead mammals that have been clinging to the back of his skull all these years.
Trail began at Sullivan’s Tap, not too far from North Station. From what I heard, it was possibly the best Pre-Lube ever, with the Swedish Olympic women’s beach volleyball team giving out complimentary bl*wjobs in the back room or something. Of course, I got there late, and had to head out to bag car pretty much as soon as I arrived.
“Bag car” is this case was a bit of false advertising, because the thing that NAMBLA drives isn’t really what most people would define as a “car.” It’s somewhat larger than a Mini-Cooper, but still a bit smaller than a riding lawnmower. Watching 50 hashers cram their backpacks inside it reminded me of this time I was in Mexico, when I saw a show where this midget took about two dozen ping pong balls and …. well, never mind.
Anyway, after everyone finished cramming their junk into NAMBLA’s trunk, Virgin Erica got stuck with Dr Love Monkey, then Crucifux shouted at us for a while, eventually explaining that there would a “PS” on trail – this being a panty swap check – and then we were away. In a nod to the evening’s theme, Super Teflon Dong carried his bamboo pole on trail, which was decorated with leftover panties from both of the times he’s had sex.
Trail quickly turned into a cluster f*ck as assorted clueless virgins, clueless justs, and clueless hashers who should have known better led the pack in increasingly stupid directions without regard to trail marks of any sort. At one point, the pack passed a group of gainfully unemployed men smoking outside a conveniences store who graded the hariettes on their choice of panties. (Sucks Hard won.) Other highlights of the first leg included those rare occasions that we were actually anywhere near the trail that the hares had set.
Our first beer check was in a scenic back alley somewhere in the Beacon Hill area. It was a much classier beer check than the usually Somerville/C*mbridge crap, since the empties here were E&J Brandy bottles. And a security camera overlooked the place, so we felt safe. By the way, if showed up for this hash, you can probably expect your panties-and-beer picture on the front page of the Boston Herald any day now.
Second leg of trail brought us around and past Government Center and through the big brick pit, eventually leading us past the Oyster House, down Boston’s worst-smelling alley, and into Boston’s worst-smelling beer check. The aroma was a piquant mixture of the fragrance of leftover seafood from several nearby restaurants, coupled with the delicate bouquet of a half dozen Port-O-Potties, and brought into full bloom by the ninety-degree heat. Heavenly.
The third leg of trail featured not one but two Panty Swap Checks in front of horrified Haymarket patrons, followed by Song Check in front of some horrified outdoor diners. Unless you were a short cutting bastard, in which case you only got the Panty Swap Checks. After that, our clueless FRBs took over again and led us on a merry tour of the other side of Beacon Hill before finally ending at the stately Beacon Hill Pub, which apparently didn’t smell like shit, piss, or funk before we got there (see Overheard on Trail).
Bend Over Mommy took the reins as RA for the remainder of the evening, and led the hash in an outdoor-voice version of Sh*tty Trail. The hares sang “Follow the Hares,” somewhat ironically, but it was well received. Afterwards, Peppermint P*ssy, Catheter, and Floppy stepped forward to dement our virgins. Best answer of the night: when asked for the square root of sixty-nine, Virgin Scott answered “33.” Huh?
After that, Crucifux revealed that G-String had been taking off his panties on trail. His punishment was to do his down-down sucking on STD’s pole. G-String dribbled a little, but Crucifux took care of the sloppy seconds, and I think that makes two new panties for STD.
Following that, the panty-less hashers had to do a down-down, and then Clam Burglar was called in for a lost ID on trail. The last accusation of the evening rather random: Schindler’s and Bend Over Mommy had both worn Wonder Woman gear. Go figure.
Circle ended with Swing Low and a bunch of mayonnaise sandwiches. Mmm mmm slimy!
Overheard on Trail
- Wait, I thought that was JGV? -Just Jo, pointing at Spoonful of Semen
- Everyone loves some t*tties! -Just Deeley
- Babylon! Beer! Gargle! C*m! -Krusty
- Did you read my story about vampire eyes? -Secret goth harriette (name withheld for blackmail purposes)
- Oh em eff gee. –Just Zach, spelling out an internet acronym in real conversation, LOL.
- You can’t just cop a feel when I’m *expecting* it. –My Chemical Homance
- I used to live with this guy who kept his hand down his pants when he was cooking and pubes would end up on the stove. –Super Teflon Dong
- It smells like shit, piss, and funk in there. –Bar patron
- It’s the runners, man. Sorry. –Bouncer
Final note from your scribe: Lately, I’ve been noticing more and more embarrassing remarks which are “accidentally” made in a loud voice just when I’m walking by, notepad in hand. For the love of G-String, take some f*cking acting classes or something, because you guys make Keanu Reeves look like a motherf*cking Oscar nominee. Look, if you’re really desperate to get a write-up, my advice is to skip the underhanded crap and go straight to bribery. All you need is beer or boobies that you’re willing to share, and I will happily save some space in the Hash Trash for you. I promise. As long as the boobies are feminine.