Hash Trash is a recount of the events of a hash, for historical purposes. All content included therein is Hash Fact™, which is to say whatever the scribe felt like saying is therefore true.
Hash Trash is written by our scribes, a sexy band of warrior poets led by Sensititties, Soft Serve, and Traffic Tops, with the occasional assist from scribe pledge 50 Shades of Gay.
Hash Trash, 1 Jenianuary 2013, 4th Annual New Year’s Day Hash
“Come, come, leave business to idlers, and wisdom to fools: they have need of ’em: wit be my faculty, and pleasure my occupation, and let father Time shake his glass.” – William Congreve
It was the first day of the first month (Jenianaury) in the fourth year of the Quad Cities Hash House Harriers when the old and the young, the new and the nearly forgotten assembled for the annual New Year’s Day Hash run. Many had rolled down the hill from Soft Serve’s epic all-day/all-night brunch upon the hill overlooking the Village of East Davenport. More than a few heads throbbed, many an eyelid drooped and the blood, viscous with cholesterol, ran slow through my veins.
We had Mound Street Landing more or less to ourselves, and we took it like a gang of lifers escaped from Alcatraz storming a sorority house. We sprawled on the sofas, we straddled the stools and, yes, we sat on the floor . . . until we were called to attention to pledge allegiance to the hash and to bless the trail and the hares. The hares, as is our honored tradition, were Father Time (Raw Deal), and Baby New Year (Hugene Simmons). Raw Deal was as always, the sexiest of lecherous old men, held in his grasp a blunt-headed and gnarled staff. Meanwhile fresh-faced Hugene simply sucked his pacifier, let his drool pool on a bib the size of my table cloth (it barely covered a third of his chest), and tied up his baby bonnet against the frigid temperatures.
When we left the bar, the trail led quickly up hill.
Then up hill.
It’s known that Raw deal is a sadistic bastard and a lover of hills. I now know he has resolved that in the coming year there shall be no flat running. There will, however, be drinking – and on this first day of the year, the first beer stop was to be in the driveway of a stately home next to Gilda’s Club above River Drive in Davenport. I knew this well before anyone else when Scatastrophe, sherpa for the day due to his busted ass (see End of the World Hash Trash if Soft Serve ever completes it), emerged from an alley and asked if we had lost the trail because we had a beer stop a block away. As it turns out, we WERE on the trail AND a block away from the Miller High Life, the Champagne of Beers. We just had to run a half mile of hills to get there. And once there, we were greeted by the owner of the property we were borrowing. He assured us it was no problem – groups of runners congregate in his driveway all the time to drink beer and sing dirty songs before moving on. . . Seriously, he said that.
So move on we did, up and down still more hills until we found the Java Java parking lot, where our Scatastrophic sherpa had taken a position and was handing out bottles of bubbly, the champagne of champagnes. One thing about champagne is that it lifts the spirits of everything it touches. A lifting of the spirits was needed after all of the hills we had charged. As a result I practically floated into Davenport, watching a parade of knee socks and spandex-bound asses moving inexorably toward the Dam View.
Most hashers are conventional and polite. They went to the front door of the bar. I was with the contingent in the rear, though, and led the way through the back door (fact!), where there was a sign that said clearly and boldly, “pull hard.” And a firm tug was just the ticket. The air in the bar was blessedly warm and moist. Hashers shed clothing and downed beers. Captain Underpants got the number of one of the bar’s most accomplished drunks – a striking young man smelling of weed and sporting a tweed jacket and green knit beret.
From the Dam View, we found ourselves on the bike path along the river, running back to the Village of East Davenport. I moved to the front of the group, stood on the hill by the water plant, and watched the sun setting over the river as the hash stretched along the path into Davenport and came to me. In truth, hashers, it was an opportunity for me to reflect on the tremendous year of growth we had as a hash kennel, as competitors, and as friends. It was a beautiful place to do it, as well, in the cold, with clean snow underfoot, gratitude in my heart for this group and for each of you, and the sun setting over the Mississippi. As I turned toward the Village of East Davenport and the final stop at the Landing that would bring the run full circle, I knew that the year ahead could only be as good, or better. It is written that Scribes always win – and I won the hash – Dead Fucking Last, but I’m certain that I am one of the winners of the year, as well, and suspect most of you feel the same way – many of you have said so, after all, and many of you show it regularly.
The rest is formality:
We circled and sang to the hares, the FRB (Mind The Gap) and the FBI (TNB) and to the DFL (whoever the fucl that was). We terrorized the virgins (both of them), and named a new Cum Dumpster, Sausage Sampler, as a reward for being absolutely the drunkest hasher on the trail. We also sang to Busted Noodle, who plans to carry the QCH3 hash flame, like a rabid case of herpes, to Seattle and invited all of you to stay with him there in his one-bedroom apartment, rent-free and indefinitely. Finally, we adjourned, many returning to Soft Serves endless “brunch,” a warm hearth, and the end of a pretty fucling great day. Happy New Year!
Hash Trash, December 12, 2012: Christmas Vacation Hash
It was just 13 days before Christmas, and the Quad Cities Hash House Harriers were gathered together for what they were bound and determined would be a Good, Old-Fashioned QCH3 Family Christmas. We expected perfection. We set standards that no family activity can live up to.
What could possibly go wrong?
To start the holiday off right, Nacho Mama cut down the most important of Christmas symbols – no, not one of those stupid ties with Santa Clauses on it; he has one of those at home – but rather, the QCH3 Family Christmas Tree. He then proceeded to plunk it down in the middle of the patio at Governor’s. It immediately began sucking up water at the approximate rate of a hasher sucking down beer. We said grace (who, Purple Passion reminded us, died 30 years ago), and hares Raw Deal and Coochie raced off into the night. Tight n Bright was frozen from the waist down, so we waited out our 10 minutes in the bar. To cries of “On on,” we ran off in search of our Good, Old-Fashioned QCH3 Family Christmas.
And what could possibly go wrong? Well, for one thing, we lost the trail approximately 200 meters in. Venus Thigh Slap ran one way, Lance Bangstrong ran another, and the other hashers helpfully stood around doing nothing. Neither of them found the trail. It was missing, like Clark W. Griswold in the attic watching home movies. Finally, it occurred to us to cross the street, and bam! There was the trail.
The flour led us to Sherpa extraordinaire Dirty Bird. Were we surprised to see her? If we woke up tomorrow (at JAJA house, in Blazed’s case) with our heads sewn to the carpet, we couldn’t have been more surprised. She had a package for us, and it was leaking lime Jell-O – and tequila! There are no statistics on how many hashers consumed the cat kibble that Raw “Martha Stewart of the Hash” Deal lovingly garnished the Jell-O shots with, but considering how quickly we tend to down-down our drinks, that number was probably quite high.
A perfect Good, Old-Fashioned QCH3 Family Christmas includes a light dusting of snow, but it would appear that TnB and Free Willy were hoarding all of it for the Sisters’ Christmas Hash. This made the planned sled race a bit more of a challenge – and a hazard. Luckily, we had a secret weapon to coat the sled. It’s a non-nutritive cereal varnish. Semi-permiable. Not osmotic. It coats and seals the flake, prevents the milk from penetrating it.
What could possibly go wrong?
T-Mex and I took insurance information from all of the hashers and watched as they sprayed the sled and attempted to go down the hill. The hasher whose sled went the farthest would be crowned Food Additive Designer of the Year, an award almost as coveted as a Hashie.
Who won the contest? I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking it’s me, since I am your scribe, and it has been well-established that scribes always win. But, to keep you birches on your toes, I will say that in this case, I did not participate in the contest. I didn’t think I should go sailing down the hill with nothin’ between the ground and my brains but a piece of government plastic. If I end a hash with more than the usual number of mysterious drunken bruises, someone is going to call TT Protective Services on your asses. So, in this case, I will report that I did not win the contest, but the winner was the hasher who gave me the most love and affection last night: the beautiful, talented, and fast-sledding Cray Hole A. And the moral of THAT story is that you should always be kind to your scribes. Fact! Corollary fact? Don’t piss me off, Art.
Remember when Raw Deal told us there would be no hills in this hash? Well, it turns out that he is a cheap, lying, no-good, rotten, four-flushing, low-life, snake-licking, dirt-eating, inbred, overstuffed, ignorant, blood-sucking, dog-kissing, brainless, dickless, hopeless, heartless, fat-ass, bug-eyed stiff-legged, worm-headed sack of monkey shit. That is to say, there were quite a few rolling hills. And those rolling hills led us to something glorious.
It was the 19th Street Light Show, a house blazing with lights, set to music. We dedicated that house to the QCH3 Family Christmas! Talk about pissing your money away. I hope you kids see what a silly waste of resources it was. We sat and enjoyed the show while sipping hot chocolate spiked with marshmallow vodka, quite possibly the finest hot beverage in the history of hashing. We immediately started snapping photos, and Hashionista did her best to insert herself into the center of each one. The owner of the stand-in Griswold house came out, and we immediately and reflexively scrambled. It turned out, though, that he didn’t want us to get off his lawn. He wanted us to get back ON his lawn so he could snap pictures of us. A visit from the QCH3 carries enormous cachet, and he wanted to get us on his Facebook page as quickly as possible.
It was time to run faster. Burn some dust here. Eat my rubber!
After MINUTES of running, we were thirsty, exhausted, and ready to leave. But we couldn’t do that. We were all in it together It was a full-blown, four-alarm holiday emergency here. We were gonna press on, and we were going to have the hap-hap-happiest Christmas since Bing Crosby tap danced with Danny fucking Kaye. And when Santa squeezed his fat ass down that chimney that night, he’d find the jolliest bunch of assholes this side of the nuthouse.
We found Dirty Bird faithfully waiting for us again, with eggnog flavored pudding shots (delicious) and instructions to perform a dramatic reading of Clark’s request for a last-minute Christmas gift. Each and every one of us was amazing, but I of course was the best. (Vote Traffic Tops for Attention Whore of the Year at the Hashies! The more I campaign for it, the more I deserve it!)
The shitter was full, so it was time to leave again. It took longer than expected to find the bar. I don’t know what to say about that, except that it was Christmas, and we were all in misery. At last, we made our way back to Governor’s – our home, or what was left of it.
There, we congratulated FRB Down Low (still hoping that his possession of the flag will impress Buttzinga – good luck with that, buddy!) and FBI Venus Thigh Slap. With a lot of help from Jack Daniels, Purple Drank was the true victor, Dead Fucking Last. We welcomed two virgins, who were so nervous they were shitting bricks. Sorry, shitting rocks. The Cum Dumpster headband was returned to its spiritual home of the JAJA house, this time with Hashionista. Raw Deal started passing out digressions, including the worst one of all, not having seen the movie Christmas Vacation (Cray Hole A: Fuck you, I’m Jewish). And together, we enjoyed the traditions of the season in the warm embrace of kith and kin.
Hallelujah! Holy shit! Where’s the Tylenol?
Star Wars Hash
“It is a dark time for the Rebellion. Although the Death Star has been destroyed, Imperial troops have driven members of QCH3 from their bars, liquor cabinets, and brothels, pursuing them across the galaxy.
Evading the dreaded Imperial Starfleet, a group of freedom fighters led by Luke Skywalker has established a new secret base on the unmapped icy world
The evil lord Darth Vader, obsessed with finding young Skywalker, has dispatched thousands of remote probes into the far reaches of space, ding-donging the universe into a mad frenzy….”
It was fucling cold. I‘d been hanging out with the rebels for what seemed like a Coruscant solar cycle. Chewy had disassembled the Falcon and pieced it back together four times. The Rebel Alliance had picked the windswept frozen planet of Sunderbrunch as a base. The only thing colder than the weather was Coochie, locked away behind more armor than Boba Fet’s original DNA. It was time to leave.
It was time to leave, but Luke (AKA Eroticus Maximus), that kid, was missing. Som said he was laying a trail. It was clear, however, that he was lost. Being the reluctant, sexy, steely-eyed, smuggler that I am, it was clear that I needed to go find the little fucl. “The force is strong in this one -” my ass! That’s when we were first probed (hehe).
So it was that I was still among the rebels and still on Sunderbrunch when the first Imperial walker (Scat) showed up. It was clear we were going to need help. A lot of it. Turns out Luke/EM and Leia (Traffic Tops) had a lot of booze, and I know a few guys – a bunch of jolly, hearty fucls, who run for booze. So QCH3 flew to the defense, rallied around Luke/EM and Leia/TT, blessed the dead trail, the hares and invoked the force that Copus (Two Pack!) Stay Withus, Cold Beer Findus and, of course, Coitus Non-Interruptus!
Wait! Shouted Leia/TT. Get your fucling asses back in order (princesses are bossy!) And she marked each of us with a one of four letters. Most of which have been pushed from my mind by booze and time.
The planet of Sunderbrunch is a mountainous place, but the pull of booze is strong, so our force of 25 set out. Many of us were dressed as hashers, the one they call BAC was impersonating me, there was at least one cute little Ewok (hi, Sex Break!) and a second Leia, known to us as we “mounted” our expedition as NFHN Rachel. Oh! Hash Papa Raw Deal was dressed as a proper Luke Skywalker as well. Two Hans, two Lukes, two Leias: I guess heroes cum in pairs! At least they do on the planet Sunderbrunch.
It turns out the woods of Sunderbrunch are hospitable terrain for Sex Broken Ewoks and not so friendly to heavily armored Imperial walkers, so Scat quickly abandoned his double-wide costume to the trail. He was without it as we came upon our first stop: three fragile planets, hanging by threads. Leia/TT read some instructions but I was thinking about how I had done the Kessel run in under 12 parsecs and didn’t hear. I did have a B on my hand though, so went hunting for beer. Guess what? The B’s won! We found beer. By the time we returned to the party, though, the planets were in more pieces than Alderaan. So guess what? We drank beer!
Banthu milk was awaiting us at the second stop. So were some alcoholic bolas and the opportunity for each team to take down the enemy by entangling them at twenty paces. It wasn’t even close. Hugene Simmons is not so small, but he falls hard when tiny little bottle of booze are wrapped around his body. Shame he wasn’t on my team because scribes always win.
Then we were on again, and playing a game of pin the photon torpedo on the exhaust port. Several hashers went in hot and fast only to crash and burn without even scraping the rim. Someone might have used some type of force to find a way into the tiny exhaust port. It’s a tight fit. There might be a few sore exhaust ports out there today.
Dark fell in earnest as Luke/EM used the force to bend space and time, we hit the hyperdrive and arrived at the tauntaun races. Answering Star Wars trivia was crucial to getting a pole position at the races. I admit to threatening Luke/EM in order to gain entry for myself and my noble steed, Scat. I’ve always wanted to ride Scat. If any of you has a) testicles and b) a chance to ride Scat I advise you to take both a saddle and the opportunity. I rode bareback and I am pissing blood (and banthu milk). Also, I am a scribe so I am comfortable announcing the Scat/Sensititties team is golden.
Since the planet of Sunderbrunch had been invaded and defiled by the Empire we had no choice but to flee. Rest assured, we found another home. The planet Gunchies is a much warmer place. One we found already inhabited by multiple species, but one that met all of our needs. Beer was plentiful, so was food. We could shed layers. We were happy!
It was at Gunchies that we circled in the Alliance/QCH3 tradition. We drank to the hares, sang to the FRB (Moon Pie), the FBI (Poletarian) and the DFL (Cock Fight). We named a new Cum Dumpster, who I believe to be Luke/EM who delayed us as the skies grew dark on the planet Sunderbrunch so that he could run a mini-ultra marathon. Then we named NFHN Rachel who will be known forevermore as Rug Burn. We broke bread, cheese, onion rings, and rules. We danced and we sang. I however, needed to move on. I have a price on my head, after all.
Submitted with surly nonchalance,
Han “Titties” Solo
Top Gun Hash
It was a clear night, and somewhere over the Indian Ocean (or possibly the Mississippi River), brave hashers were engaged in aerial combat maneuvers, intercepting MiG-28s. One of the MiGs got missile lock on Raw Deal and his RIO, Coochie. Raw Deal panicked, and the remaining hashers had to guide him back to the aircraft carrier. Disgusted with himself, Raw Deal turned in his wings. With Raw Deal and Coochie temporarily out of the way, Commander Stinger had no choice but to send the hashers to Top Gun, to learn to fly with the best of the best.
(Note: it may also be that Raw Deal and Coochie didn’t go to the Top Gun hash because they needed to go to a school event for their biological children, but that doesn’t really fit with the narrative. So just go with it.)
The hashers assembled at Top Gun and, with a rousing soundtrack blaring in the background, were given their assignments by hares/flight instructors Scatastrophe and Her Bait. We would be tested, and we would push our limits. We would hash like we’d never hashed before. Scat and Her Bait gave each of us a set of dog tags that identified us as a Pilot or RIO and gave us a call sign, because apparently hash names were not enough. For the record, I was Donkey Teeth, which used to be fairly accurate several thousand dollars’ worth of orthodontics ago.
We began our first set of maneuvers, flying onto the bike path. At last, we got missile lock on our target: a beer near. The trouble was, it was stop #2, and we’d never found stop #1.
There was some brief discussion about skipping stop #1, which was obviously well hidden, but as Strap-On pointed out, this was not the time for our usual cowboy antics; and more importantly, somewhere out there was beer that had been paid for.
We retraced our steps, confident that the beer was at Creekside. We became even more confident when we looked in the windows and saw the bartenders looking at us expectantly. We walked into the bar, only to crash and burn. There was no beer; they were just curious about why there was a huge group of people running around in flight suits. I guess they’ve never been out on a Thursday night before.
Finally, Blasphemeat heroically led us to the Filling Station, where there was, in fact, beer for us. We attained four pitchers and about 700 cups, because apparently the bartenders there thought it would take a lot more people to drink all of that beer. They didn’t know they were dealing, of course, with the best of the best.
The first task was simple. Find a random woman in the bar and serenade her with “You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feeling.” 50 Shades of Gay scanned the bar, which was not, in fact, a target-rich environment, but managed to find one attractive woman (who was not a hasher, because of course we were all crazy hot). Fiddy sang to her, the rest of the hashers chimed in like the good wingmen we are, and what happened? Well, friends, history is recorded by the scribes. And as Fiddy is a fellow scribe (well, a pledge, but close enough) I can tell you that he banged that girl right there on the table while everyone in the bar cheered. Then he left her to enjoy her nachos and the memory of the best goddamned night of her life.
Never have hashers run so fast from one beer stop to the next. We felt the need… the need for speed. Well, and also we knew where we were going. Beer awaited us, and it was time for us to communicate with the enemy and to see a MiG 28 do a 4g negative dive from a range of about two meters. How? We were inverted at the time. RIOs were instructed to hold our pilots upside down and help them chug a beer from said inverted position – and give the bird.
We quickly divided up between RIOs and pilots. While we easily flipped Tight N Bright upside down and watched her get beer up her nose, we were presented with a problem. “Um, guys? I’m a pilot.” Hugene Simmons, the world’s biggest hasher, needed to be inverted. We considered our strategies, such as having him do a handstand while a couple of guys supported him, but again, history is written by the scribes, and history shall reflect that I held Hugene upside down with one hand. My ego never writes checks that my body can’t cash.
The third stop was one we were expecting: a sand volleyball court, and time for some homoerotic undertones (and overtones). Pilots took on RIOs in a game of shirt-optional volleyball. The pilots put an amusing level of effort into their game, knowing that without the scribe on their side, they were doomed to defeat in the annals of hash history. And so, hash history shall reflect that they were dazzled by my rock-hard abs and the RIOs had a decisive victory. We celebrated in song, recounting the days of the week, as led by Blasphemeat. Is everybody happy? You bet your ass we’re happy.
We were happier still when the trail led us to a boob check. The two virgins proved themselves to be the best virgins ever by whipping out their tits without a moment’s hesitation. NFN Paige and NFN Andrea, we salute you. They were saluted further when, at the dick check, they demanded that ALL of the men participate. Nice work, ladies. You and your boobs are welcome with the QCH3 any time.
Great balls of fire! It was time for the fourth stop. There were plans for a flippy cup tournament which my team would have won (I suck at flippy cup, unless I am writing Hash Trash, so it would have been a good night for the RIOs), but since the bar wasn’t exactly amenable to that plan, we found the Righteous Brothers on the jukebox and implored one another to bring back that lovin’ feeling. Several of us noticed that the civilians in the bar were not amused by our antics. Fearing we’d be crushed like Goose’s spine on the canopy of a fighter jet (too soon?), we down-downed our beers and got out of there.
The trail led us tantalizingly close to the bar, but it was time for another task. We gathered in a field, where fighter jets waited for us. Pilots and RIOs paired up for a race. And while we were engaged in this mighty combat, a MiG attempted to engage us in combat. Or, to put it another way, a lady in a minivan rolled up to the curb and told us that it was “time to wrap it up and go home.” That bogey was all over us, and though we outmaneuvered her, our confidence was shaken. We lost our aggressiveness and considered retiring from hashing.
But then it was time to deal with a crisis situation and rescue a communication ship. In other words, we had to run through a field lit by glow sticks while sherpas Dirty Bird and Soft Serve shot fireworks at us. We emerged victorious and returned to our aircraft carrier/bar in triumph.
There, we celebrated (while the sherpas fired Nerf missiles at us). FRB Blasphemeat and FBI Tight N Bright’s names are now on the leader board at Top Gun. The rest of us are on the alternates’ plaque, which is kept in the ladies’ room. The Best Virgins in the History of the Hash were our DFL’s. Because they were the Best Virgins in the History of the Hash, we let them take a break before sacrificing them. Eroticus Maximus crowned Down Low as Cum Dumpster for his lack of participation in both volleyball and the days of the week song. People, hashing is not a spectator sport! Back to the virgins – the fact that they were the Best Virgins in the History of the Hash didn’t stop us from pointing and screaming at them. Since they are total champs, I’m sure they understood.
And with that, we took the highway to the danger zone, flying off into the night.
Take me to bed or lose me forever,
What the Fucl 5K
December 1st was upon us for the Hash that everyone had been waiting for, The Fucl 5k. Not just any December 1st though, this was a warm December 1st. Word has it that Purple Passion sold her soul to the Purple Gods to have such a night. A night I might add that was perfect for down downs, debauchery, baby food, and racing.
We circled up and our lovely Purple Race Coordinators started teaming and distributing Granny Panties of the highest caliber to us. For a full list of teams and awards please see below. When the Purples dropped the bombshell that as a team we would both have to be connected to the panties at all times there was a look of slight puzzlement on most hashers faces. Hashers being type A personalities don’t exactly like handicaps when a competition is upon us. Though a few joked that the three legged race would happen, everyone seemed to settle on the wrist strap method of sharing. Of course we realized once we were all ready for the start that Sex Break and T-Mex were nowhere to be found. Raw Deal being a master time killer suggested we have a song check. After a few rounds of Jesus Saves and a lot of time to think about going to hell, the two GPS (to be read as Gippus, Coutesy of Down Low) deficient souls arrived.
Full Beers in every Hasher’s hands, Purple Drank gave some wonderfully detailed trail information. Something along the lines of if it say’s “go this way” to go across the street. He then merely said Shotgun the beers and go. Hashers ripped at their cans and swiftly raised them to their mouths and it was apparent in that moment that Hashers and Competition are not an ideal mix. This is where the first award of the night goes to Busted Noodle for throwing up after chugging one beer. The man didn’t even make it out of the circle before hurling chunks everywhere.
Alas we were on on and within minutes at our first stop. The stops were simple enough with only three rules; drink something, eat something, and do a physical task. The Purples being the deceitful people they are all lured us into a false sense of hope after that first stop. Eat a Hot Dog, drink a beer, and spin in a circle 10 times. Easy enough right? Well we didn’t know how wrong we were until the second stop came. Baby food, drink a Rumchata shot, and crawl down the driveway. This is where the stomach really started to tell the brain that maybe these stops aren’t as easy as once thought. Now being in the middle of the race I was trying to win as well as remember everything for hash trash some details are fuzzy. Though I do know that the top 2 teams out of the second stop were Coochie/Raw Deal and Bull Horney/ Sausage Sampler. On to stop three where we had to do a tequila shot, eat a Taquito and do 10 push ups. At this point in the trail I heard many stories of people puking. Please in the comment section share your favorite puking story. On to stop four where we celebrated with Jello shots, cupcakes and jumping jacks. At this point the leaders were Bull Horny/ Sausage Sampler, Coochie/ Raw Deal, Cock Fight/ Eroticus Maximus.
This is where things got interesting in the Trail. Apparently the Purples didn’t advertise that the run also had an optional 10k if you wanted. Sausage Sampler/ Bull Horney took the optional trail with the lead and ended up back at Purples house with our drunk Sherpa Dirty Bird. Somewhere in that optional extra 5k Sausage Sampler got so angry he shit himself, this is common amongst most German Alpha males. Cock Fight/ Eroticus Maximus not knowing that their leaders had taken a turn for the worse were only racing for a higher pole position. In the last stretch they over took Strap On/ T-Mex thinking they were getting 2nd place but were pleasantly surprised to find out they won the damn thing. Sausage Sampler/ Bull Horney weren’t the only ones to get tripped up by the trail for it took 20 minutes for all the teams to arrive safely and for many from the wrong direction.
With the greatest 5k known to man done, we circled up to crown our winners. Cock Fight/ Eroticus Maximus were presented with Crowns of Nobility and Chalices of Courage for they knew no limits and pushed themselves past the challenges of the Impossible 5k where “Impossible is Nothing”. Down Low being the most exemplary Flag Bearer to date kindly bestowed the Flag of Wisdom to our FRBs. T-Mex again got herself crowned First Bacon In. Hot Lips/ Out and Back got DFL, though took it with the honor one would expect. We sacrificed a virgin, which I might add must have been one of the most awkward things to watch ever. Then the illustrious Cum Dumpster award was given to our very own T-Mex who is obviously making her candidacy known for Cum Dumpster of the Year. Then it was Pirate Flag award time. We don’t call ourselves pirates for nothing because the most despicable, bilge-sucking, scurvy, swashbuckling acts of pillaging happened to poor Purple Passion’s awards. Not one thing was left un-fondled and defiled.
Then Armageddon happened. Eroticus in an act of pure anger threw our beloved Flag of Wisdom at Scat Mel Gibson Patriot style. Scat ducked and the flag hit the ground. I looked at Raw Deal instantly and it was as if someone had shot the man in his chest. He fell to his knees in pain. I could literally hear Steven Tyler’s voice over the yelling and screaming from hashers. Then in a move that surprised even the most veteran hashers Scat threw the flag back and it hit the ground yet again. Raw Deal was on the ground begging for the pain to stop, his chest jerking back in anguish. Coochie called and emergency Cum Dumpster session and Eroticus was immediately implicated of Treason of the highest count. T-Mex was stripped of her beloved cum band and Eroticus was our new Cum Dumpster. Such things have never been seen by the likes of QCH3. We parted quickly in hopes that this Pirate behavior would be better suited at the likes of Legends.
We ended the night Purple Style. Menthols, Hall and Oats, a million pitchers of beer, and lots of penis.
Fact- Everything Purples do is Awesome.
50 Shades of Gay
P.S. I did some digging last night and found out it is illegal to charge a member of the Royal Family for anything at all. All cases in court are immediately dropped and the person who brought said charges up are liable for charges to be brought against themselves. Hash Law is still working on a verdict in this case because Eroticus was freshly Noble and seeing what the statue of limitations are.
Purple Passion/Purple Drank- Best Race Coordinators Ever
Cock Fight/ Eroticus Maximus- FRBs
Strap On/ Tequilamorus Mex-FBI
Raw Deal/ Coochie- Hash Parents
Hot Lips/ Out and Back- DFL
Bull Horny/ Sausage Sampler- Shit Patrol
Down Low/ Buttzinga- Flag Bearers
Drippy Longstockings/Nacho Mama/ Zip Locked –Most Time Spent off Trail
Scatastrophe / Sex Break
Tight N Bright/ Boob Lay
Moon Pie/Bumps and Grinds
Busted Noodle/Blazed and Confused
Hugene Simmons/ Blasphameat
Chuck Snorris/ Mandex
Her Bait/ 50 Shades of Gay
Twisted Bangs/ NFN CJ
Rack City/Porta Pound Me
Dirty Bird-Drunken Sherpa
Hash Trash, Just a Hash, November 14, 2012
Once upon a time, there was a Little Hashling who nobody wanted.
First, the Little Hashling was going to be the Cereal Hash. The hashers rejoiced, but the hares abandoned the Little Hashling. She was devastated.
Then, the Little Hashling was going to be hared by twin sisters Gigolo Bear and Scatastrophe. But those hares, too, had to leave the Little Hashling behind. Her heart broke again.
The Little Hashling wept. “Why does nobody love me? The hashers all seem to want me, but I need hares. How will I ever become a Real Hash?” The Wise Older Hashes of the Past embraced The Little Hashling.
“Fear not, little one,” they said. “If you believe with all of your heart, the hares will come to you.”
“And then will I become a Real Hash?” asked the Little Hashling.
“No, Little Hashling,” answered the Wise Older Hashes of the Past. “It takes more than just hashers and hares to become a Real Hash. It takes a special kind of magic.”
“What kind of magic?”
“Hash Magic. A Hashling becomes a Real Hash whenever Hash Magic occurs. Have you ever seen two boys with beards kissing on trail? The glow of a hasher’s exposed ass in the moonlight? Heard the shock of bar patrons when hashers regale them raunchy songs? The music of laughter and joy when hashers find Jell-O shots in the shig? That magic, Little Hashling, is what makes a Hashling a Real Hash.”
That night, the Little Hashling put a can of High Life under her pillow. As she went to sleep, she said, “Please G. Please find me some hares. And I wish, I wish, with all of my heart, to one day become a Real Hash.”
The very next day, Raw Deal, Strap-On, and Scatastrophe declared themselves as hares to the Little Hashling. Her Hare-y Godmothers, if you will. The Little Hashling’s heart filled with hope. She hit “refresh” on her Facebook page for weeks, watching as hashers like Rack City, Hand Job, Eroticus Maximus, and Smell Me RSVP’ed yes. The Little Hashling was happy. Hash Magic was bound to occur.
Hash Magic seemed to be in the air indeed as the hashers gathered in Purgatory, a bar appropriately named given the Little Hashling’s limbo between being a Hashling and a Real Hash. The Hare-y Godmothers promised ample alcohol on trail, and took off into the night.
The hashers raced after them, clad in capes, tall socks, unicorn t-shirts, and, inexplicably, running clothes. The lack of coherent theme had the Little Hashling worried that Hash Magic might prove elusive. Her heart quickened at the first Beer Near, where the hashers quickly down-downed a bottle of apple pie shots. Her hopes soared again when Porta Pound Me and Mind the Gap seemed to be considering starting a bonfire. Such a bad decision was sure to lead to Hash Magic. But alas, good sense prevailed, but probably only because it was early.
The trail then led the hashers to a Boob Check. Like a prince with a glass slipper, the hashers sought out a harriette whose boobs would fulfill their fondest wishes. Alas! Drippy Longstockings and Rack City both kept their spectacular tits under wraps.
But then, through the mists of the night, a princess emerged. It was Skin Flute, and she offered her boobs as a farewell gift for all the hashers. Skin Flute fulfilled both the letter and the spirit of the Boob Check by not just quickly flashing her funbags, but by giving a slow spin so that all hashers could enjoy their glory.
At that very moment, dear readers, Hash Magic occurred. Thanks to the generosity of Skin Flute, and the bodaciousness of her bazooms, the Little Hashling became a Real Hash.
The rest of the night was equally magical. The hashers drank a bottle of what was apparently Nyquil mixed with lighter fluid. At the next stop, they discovered an Everclear bottle, which unfortunately did not contain Everclear, but fortunately did include more apple pie shots. They went to a bar where they drank beer out of real glasses – fancy!
The trail approached its end. Because the Hare-y Godmothers loved the Little Hashling so much, they wanted to guarantee Hash Magic. Knowing that Boob Checks are not always successful, they added a final ‘just in case’ opportunity for the Little Hashling to become a Real Hash: a Dick Check. Fifty Shades of Gay apparently also loved the Little Hashling, because he didn’t hesitate to display his meat tube to all and sundry hashers, and, to in the interest of thoroughness, continued to do so throughout the course of the evening, bless his loving heart and spirit.
The Little Hashling basked in the glow of her status as a Real Hash as the hashers toasted fast birches Hashionista and Venus Thigh Slap, taunted FRB Nacho Mama, and celebrated the slowness of DFL Fifty Shades of Gay and Traffic Tops. As delegate Cum Dumpster, Smell Me appointed Fiddy the next Cum Dumpster for reasons that are elusive, but no doubt valid. The virgins were sacrificed, but Hash Magic happened again as the magnificent Coochie arrived in time to scream at them a second time. And just as the Little Hashling was magically changed into a Real Hash, NFN Matt emerged from his chrysalis to become Booby Trap. And there was beer. And there was pizza. And there was beer. And there was Hash Magic. Because whenever hashers gather with love in their hearts and booze in their bellies, every little hashling will become a Real Hash.
And they lived happily ever after,
Pink Out Hash
Fifty Shades of Gay:
Well the pinnacle of my Hash/Sex/Scribe career had come at last. I got the call from our very own TT. “We are going to have a threesome,” she said. Now you can’t imagine the excitement and joy that jizzed over me in those tiny milliseconds. I was already going on about the need for boundaries when she interrupted not only my words, but also my very fantasy. Yes, ladies and gentleman I was on the reserve list. I would not be on the starting line-up for the ménage à trois, a glorious explosion of words reserved for the senior scribes – not a mere peon like myself. You can understand my despair when I think about Soft Serve bringing his homemade edible underwear and roofie whipped cream. How Sensititties‘ titties would be rawer than TT’s ass after the cat whip! I was getting an erection just thinking about it.
Though the good news came that I was to be naked and ready to go in the Turkish spa, to my dismay TT informed me that I needed to control my urges and just serve as a fluffer to prepare the scribes for the main event. Let me tell all you fucling pirates that whatever you have been doing up to this point sexually has been all wrong. I witnessed first hand an Opera of Sex the likes of hashers have never seen. They literally were singing concertos while performing the most lucrative positions known to man. The Arc de Triomph is hard enough let alone signing “Notte e giorno faticar” in D minor! Now the steam in the spa got too thick to see what happened for most of the night, so this is where the members of ménage à trois take over.
Because these Scribes like bondage so much they decided to bind themselves to some rules when writing such a trash as this. Obviously this is a threesome and three scribes are writing so we will be using three as the money shot today. First each Scribe must write 3 paragraphs. No more or no less. The penalty for breaking this rule is running an entire hash with a gag ball in. Second rule is they must use 3 different versions of the word “FUCL.” Punishment for not adhering to said rule is lifetime ban from using “FUCL” ever again. And finally there were three stops on the route. If you all aren’t looking for a threesome right now then you aren’t fucling pirates.
Well Fuclers, pink is my new favorite color. Pink is the color of princesses, and pink is the color of peonies. I’ve ravaged the former, and I’ve uprooted the latter (like a Viking!). Pink is the color of raw meat and of my nipples. The color of Cock Fight’s close-fitting prom dress, Buttzinga’s super-hot hair, Purple Drank’s footie pajamas, Traffic Tops’ cape, Drippy Longstockings’ tongue, X-Rated’s hat, and Nacho Mama’s tight-fitting bike shorts. It’s the color of the lipstick that was worn by each and every hasher before the night of Thursday, November 8, 2012 ended. It’s also the color of blushing cheeks, a well-spanked ass, and the very best bits in life. My new favorite color.
Of course, I’m not to be trusted. I’m drunk after all. Drunk following the Pink Out Hash, a trail unprecedented in the history of the Quad Cities Hash House Harriers. One that began at Rookies Bar & Grill in Davenport with 30-very odd hashers present (10% untested virgins, mind you), dressed to the pink gills in pink wigs, dresses, socks, pajamas, bathrobes, eye liner and head gear. A dead trail, marked and hared by Nacho Mama, Disco Balls and Zip Locked before the hashers gathered. Run and marked before they drank their first beers. Run when the sun was setting pink and bright in the sky. And so the
hares’ cocks were long and stiff as we circled and as Traffic Tops . . . none other! – for Raw Deal was absent with his “real” children (drunk), Her Bait was mastworkurbaiting, and StrapOn was fucling his own ass with his massive helicoptoring cock . . . as Traffic Tops most ably blessed the trail pink and led introductions.
The sun was gone as we departed Rookies to the cheers of the local regulars and hit the trail. “Fucl me, you’d have to be stoopid to lose the trail,” said Nacho Mama before we left the bar. Stoopid we are, hashers, especially in groups. And lose the trail we did – first thing and very well. But then we found it once again and it led to a half mile of eastbound bike path. It led into the dark hashers. It led into the woods and to the first beer stop. I know. I led the way. I also know that in those woods we rolled dice that told us to tease tits, kiss ass, and finger pink lips. So we did! Oh! – And we drank beer as well. I also know that, meanwhile, Davenport’s finest followed us down the bike path. That they found the tail end of our hash, inhabited by our noble hares, expressed concern about the crimes we were committing, waved their night sticks, blew their whistles, threatened to violate each and every one of you, learned that you would welcome it as Nacho Mama offered himself to these “men of law.” Then they moved on. It was exhilarating.
When I’m being fucled in a glorious threeway with two sextacular scribe gentlemen, I always want to be in the middle. I am the center of all of the lust, the hands, the mouths. There’s nowhere I’d rather be. So when Sensititties and Soft Serve suggested we have a Hash Trash threeway, I immediately said, “I CALL MIDDLE.” Alas, in this case, I think I made the wrong choice. Did you read what Sensititties wrote up there? The coppus chased us! And when you get to Soft Serve’s section, you’ll read about a crazy rave/orgy with pink lipstick, a vat of riot punch, and cheese sauce. That’s some great material, right there. In the middle third of the hash, not a whole hell of a lot happened. But friends, I am nothing if not a professional, so I will keep going, kind of like the boys and I do during our scribe threeways at the spa.
We left the clearing in the woods, and Sensititties passed scribe duty off to me, as symbolized by handing me a necklace adorned with condoms and a flask of spiced bourbon and apple cider from Soft Serve. And then we ran in a straight direction on the bike path and did not get remotely lost. Seriously, you guys: worst third of the hash to trash. Fucl my luck. There was a bit of excitement when both Drippy Longstockings and Sex Break attempted to become stars of the Hash Trash: Drippy by putting my beer in her cleavage and drinking it (putting Molly Ringwald’s whole lipgloss trick in The Breakfast Club to shame) and Sex Break making out with me (sad for you if you missed it, because it was hot). So there you go, ladies – your names are in print.
The uninspired middle third of the hash culminated with a beer stop – again, after we ran in a straight line and followed an arrow directly to the beer. It was that goddamned fucling simple, you guys. Since this was a pink hash, we flabongoed the beer. This meant that many hashers had faces full of frothy foam, which is as we like it. It was time to be on-on, and Soft Serve demanded scribe duties from me. I handed him the condom necklace and the flask. And, oopsie! I left him approximately four drops of bourbon and cider. Sorry, Soft Serve, but honestly, given my well-documented love of bourbon, wasn’t this to be expected? Fish gotta swim, birds gotta fly, and TT’s gotta down-down some bourbon.
Climax. Don’t let those hokey pokers kid you. Climax is what it’s all about. And not just the specific moment of apex. There’s more to it than that. The journey there, to higher and higher heights, and more intense wanting. The whole buildup is inseparable from the peak. The delicious delay. Climax is a dimension of time and space of it’s own. And as hashers, we’re lucky we live there as often as we do. And the color of climax is pink. Soft inner seashell, pink; warm, inviting wine-in-a-hot-tub-at-sunset pink; sparkling, ticklish champagne pink; hot, mind-blinding magenta. And I saw all of those shades and more, as I felt and tasted the beginnings of the pink climax. The aforementioned flabongoes were the first clue something was changing. The lubricant was flowing. The scent of arousal was on the wind. And Drippy Longstocking’s voluminous pale peach-pink bosom heaved and glistened under a low-rising moon.
For a moment there was silence. A hush. And a turn. Into a cavern, resplendent with machines and set for our pleasure. To push, push, push us further toward the climax, at the same time keeping us from going over the precipice. And maybe some little NFNs and probably the virgins quaked in fear a bit when the stern order was given by Nacho Mama to Zip Locked to close the door. Down it came slowly, locking us in our loud den of iniquity. But before the door crashed fully closed, across the threshold came Chuck Snorris sliding under Indy-style at the last minute, with just an inch to spare to reach back out and make a successful last-second grab for the QCH3 flag. The garage warmed by the heat our loins and pulsed with our fervent bloodflow. Scat baby birded riot punch to everyone with his giant, yellow, thermal portable papa bird beak. It was as delicious as the finest regurgitated bugs and worms and somewhat more intoxicating. And the beer. So. Much. Beer. And an angel, I’m sure, wafted down from the rafters with soft pretzels and Nacho Mama cheese that under normal circumstances would have been a nice treat. But in the case of drunk, horny hashers was landed on and demolished like the weekly gruel ration at a Dickensian orphanage. The warm, moist, close quarters loosened lips and hands. Buttons, zippers, belts and propriety were all undone to one degree or another. And it got louder and more bacchanalian but the minute, and we moved as a group into the beautiful cyclical plateau of zen/rise/ache/mini climax – again and again in time with our pulse and increasing moment by moment. Galloping toward the final explosion.
And gallop on we did, finally, and with a bit of regret for leaving the confines of the now musky garage stop. But on on we must, if we’re ever to find our way finally, to that petite mort. The final leg blurred by as that last thrash toward the final crash sometimes does. Maybe a G-Bear jumped down from a bridge to tackle and entangle limbs and bits with Dirty Bird, maybe DriLo was so turned on that she tried to lower herself hungrily onto a giant chalk cock and while not fulfilled, was satisfied some by a little rough pavement to clit action. But if these things did happen, they paled in comparison to the final few thrusts. Through the tunnel. Into the front door (this time) with the expected and long ached-for final explosive, pink, scorching, breath-robbing, toe-curling, face-contorting climax. This climax that lasted two tantric hours if it lasted a minute. And it included an orgiastic circle, wherein Her Bait was rightly cumdumpstered for trying to fool us that he’d been there the whole time. And the fetching virgins were fetched for sacrifice. The peak included ass-bruising spankings, Sex Breaks beautiful pink camel toe, cases of beer to sustain the expenditure of energy and essence, every body part being at onetime or another ground on every other body part. A resplendent Coochie, bending over a recalcitrant Fiddy. Teamwork, as required by Hash Law for an accurate orgy. And still, pink and glowing as far as the eye could see or the wandering hand could grab. Slowly, we settled into an easy relaxing rhythm of recovery breathing and more beer drinking. Hashers began wandering off, sometimes in pairs, sometimes in threesomes, occasionally solo, to, we can only guess, rub their tired muscled, apply ointment where necessary, lick their wounds, and start the whole process over again. If, as often happens, any of this was blacked out. I truly pity those hashers. And hope they at least were happy to wake up sweaty and covered in pink and hash love.
Submitted for your pleasure by your scribes,
Fluffer: 50 Shades of Gay
Business Time: Traffic Tops
Climax: Soft Serve
Halloween Hash Trash
As many of you may know I have been on edge lately. My duty as Scribe was coming up! I kept thinking to myself for weeks leading up it about how I was ever going to amount to the likes of the Scribe Elders? They had a presence in their writing that only few have ever been blessed with. When I read their words I can actually see them administering sexual healing. What are they healing you may ask? They are healing us all from a night of blackout, leading us towards the light of a hash fact filled night. A night so sexually charged Ron Jeremy himself would bless us. Condoms not required.
So the question was left unanswered. I had no idea how to join the ranks of the Scribe Elders. That was the case until one fateful Monday night. I had had a long day at school so all I wanted to do that night was relax. Of course the best way to relax on a nice fall night is with a nightie on, a honey oat face treatment smeared across the face, and a marathon of Gilmore Girls. Right as I was about to cry at my favorite part I was interrupted by a knock at the door. “Who could it be at this time?” I wondered aloud, slightly agitated. I got to the door to find no one there. “That’s odd,” I thought. As I was turning to go back in I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. I looked down and there was the most beautifully ornate box I had ever seen. I picked it up to admire its intricacies. The box was of an old mahogany, for that I was sure of. I couldn’t be certain but it smelled of 17th century Haitian decent. “But why is it here on my doorstep?” I pondered. I opened the lid and everything became clear, I saw the letter S.E. embedded in a fine pearl inside the box. The contents of the box were hidden behind a letter. I set the box down and further inspected the letter. Wouldn’t you know it but it’s made of fucling Egyptian Papyrus. “Who the fucl are these people?” I demanded to the gods. I read the letter and inspected the contents of the box. The word “dick cut off if any of this goes public” keeps me from sharing too many details. Though what I can tell you that it involved a Turkish spa, I had 15 minutes to get there, and my clues were used condoms.
They don’t call me 50 Shades of Gay for nothing. I tasted those condoms and I knew where I had to go. Again the location has been stricken from the record for fear of my genitalia. I arrived at a door, which just so happened to be made of 17th century Haitian mahogany. It had two knockers in the shape of quills. Before I could even knock the door opened. I walked through a lone corridor that appeared to be carved out of solid marble. Pictures of our founding fathers; Albert Stephen (A.S.) Ignatius “G” Gispert, Cecil Lee, Frederick “Horse” Thomson, Ronald “Torch” Bennett and John Woodrow, lined the walls. Apparently Dorothy Mantooth has a longer history than any of us imagined. I got to the end of the corridor where a lone door sat. In Latin the words, “If thee pass through this door and fail, a thousand life’s of pain shall come thee way”, were inscribed in the door. Not knowing how to read Latin I walked through like a schmuck, if I had known I would have fucling run.
I was overcome with steam as I walked through the door. My lungs were on fire, I was coughing and spitting, “help” I pleaded. “You want to write hash trash and you can’t handle a little steam gay boy” I heard from across the room. When I regained my sight I realized it was Sensititties lying on a bed of nails. I glanced around and saw Traffic Tops whipping some poor Turkish man about getting her massage oils mixed up. Off to her side was the Dude himself (Soft Serve) lost in some kind of trance, behind him was a pyramid of New Glarus bottles. That is when it dawned on me “ I am in the Turkish spa!” I cried aloud. Word of advice people, never say that shit if you get invited to the Scribe spa. Soft Serves eyes opened, TT stopped whipping the Turk, and ST got off his bed of nails. “This is the fucling Temple of Doom to you pledge!” Screamed TT. Now for reasons of a penile sort I can’t divulge what happened that night. All I can tell you guys is that my ass was sorer than Mr. Hands.
Finally after my weeks of anticipation Thursday came. I was ready as any scribe pledge could be. Though as I drove nearer our meeting place, and my favorite gay bar, Martini’s on the Rocks I got nervous. Walking through the doors something in me changed. I knew it was going to be a great night, I don’t know if it was something in the air or the tingling in my balls that told me so. I got it checked out guys it isn’t cancer. The first thing that really got the night going was Raw Deal. In a weeks time he had grown the most elegant set of locks I have ever seen. My Keith Urban crush instantly set my loins into overdrive. Then wouldn’t you know it but Coochie had grown an even more impressive set of legs! How could this couple get any hotter? I overheard them talking about Vegas and something along the lines of swinging, how unlucky were we not to be there!
But alas it was circle time! We had many new members to the hash. Who knew the likes of Bob Ross, Barf, some cross dressers, a couple of witches, and Nacho’s Grandma would want to Hash? Our lovely hares entered the circle and gave us some rules about witchcraft, good thing Raw Deal is certified in exorcisms. Once our hares were off something very odd happened. Coochie took Raw Deals place in teaching of the hash marks. Honestly I think it was some kind of sex-crazed power play on her part. I know she’s our Hash Momma but no one power plays my Raw Deal!
Finally whatever the hash time limit on hare leads was up. We were off in search of a sweet nectar they call alcohol. We ran for what seemed like an eternity to some park I am sure the Illinois people know of. All I know it by is Camp Soup Kitchen. It’s a camp because it’s where all the gang bangers go to have a good time. Homeless people included, so it’s called a soup kitchen. We drank the fuel of hashers, which everyone knows is High Life. It was there that Bi-Sexual healing was brought up on charges of outfit repeating. 80’s sweat suit was already taken by cockfight in a previous hash. Girl please get it together, you make all us divas look bad. Nacho Grandma was unsurprisingly a hussy who loved to take off her rather long skirt to show the whole world her “stucka”. I did catch Gigolo Bear off in the distance searching the woods alone. I have my suspicions about if he was trying to find Dirty Mike and the boys for a good time. As for NFN Cory he wouldn’t leave me alone and kept asking for the ride of his life. As if I am the dirty tramp to sleep with guys who ask me! By the way Purple Passion’s nails were exquisite.
So we departed our lovely glory hole sight and moved on to a random plot of land that’s owner is still up for debate. At this point I honestly blacked out so here come some hash facts. Purple Drank told me that my beard made his penis feel small. That’s actually a fact fact I just don’t remember where it happened. NFN Matt felt the need to go around to all the girls and grope their breasts in ridiculous manners. I mean how do you learn to grope breast whilst doing handstands? Some fucling hasher from Japan kept telling me about the intricacies of Bukkake. Ok I did it once you don’t have to remind me all the damn time.
So on forth we go after a very sexually charged stop. After what seemed like a million miles we got to our very own Dreams of Cream stop. Some kind of Halloween dress up contest happened here. I was coming back from black out to grey out at that time so remember some of it. Coochie and Raw Deal won cutest couple, like anyone had a chance against them. 3 Way and his sexy ass (which I’d tap any night) won cutest. Passion won most delicious and sorry drank I can attest to that. Though the most horrendous act took place when Lance Bangstrong bribed our dear Dreams with candy for a prize. Now I understand how this cheating hasher won so many tours! Also let’s be honest, my gaydar goes off like Asian dick watching Charlie Brown around him. I think he has an Anderson Cooper in the closet quality about him. Anyway I entered black out phase again for winning a bottle of Crown for being truest to name. We also sang something about necrophilia. I think it had to do with digging her up and hasher’s cocks. I can’t be sure.
Again we are on- on running and thinking about how we can’t wait to get to more alcohol. Finally we arrive at a church parking lot. I was told it was planned specifically for the cleansing of our souls after experiencing so many pentagrams. Again we drank and again NFN Cory and Matt were making out in the distance. I understand coming out late in life, but fucl show some dignity. All the while Drippy Longstockings was complaining about how she ruined people’s night in the village. No wonder she was cumdumpster for this hash. Though I cannot deny that I was creeping on Raw Deal hard at this point. That hair would not leave my mind.
Again we ran some more, who the hell invented the running part? Loose and I were talking about the gay club trends with Scat when all of sudden we see a fucling cat woman on the roof. TT in her ever OCD costume designing process learned how to run on roofs. Boss status if I have ever seen it. Then Dirty bird came out of nowhere and rammed her face into my head. Obviously jealous that Snorris and I have more chemistry than they do. Of course stuff had to get weirder and we come across Bob Ross painting some pumpkins in the trees. How the man has the strength to bring an easel along on a hash is beyond me. Fun fact: Bob Ross and Brian Erlacher are related? Finally the cemetery arrived and we drank and drank. Nothing in particular catches my memory here so I guess we left the cemetery quite fast. Though I do remember Free Willy had the greatest make up job I have seen in decades. In the immortal words of Fergie she was GLAMOROUS! Only girl crush I have.
As I was coming out of black out to grey out I could make out a tunnel in the distance. “Fucl Yeah” I thought. “Circle up bitches” my man Raw Deal yelled. So we circled up. The hares got ridiculed for making us run, Coochie in her ever self serving ways got FBI along with T-Mex. We sacrificed a few virgins; Purple Drank missing his days of purity insisted that he be in on the action. It’s understandable when the youngest hasher has your penis feeling small from his beard. The most distorted and corrupt Cum Dumpster trial to be ever held took place last night. Apparently it’s a crime to be gay in the hash, for which charges will be brought up next hash. Yes people the ever cum dripping 50 Shades of (I gave you all std’s) Gay got Cum Dumpster. Since I am writing Hash Trash I will tell you all that this isn’t the first time I have played a cum deposit. Though it is nice when you don’t have to clean it out of your eyes. As I was getting over how corrupt this group had become we named NFN Cory. Now all I got out of this very glorious naming session was how Cory liked to smoke weed and wake up lost. This guy is a true hasher and deserves a place amongst the QCH3! The greatest hash group to ever exist! Other than that I blacked out completely and don’ t remember shit.
I want to thank all you fucling pirates for reading my novel. This may be the only hash trash I write due to a lack of effort on my part. If I am shunned I understand. I can’t compete with my Scribe Elders! In the name of Liquor and Down Down for All!
Hash Trash: Sex Dreams Hash
On Saturday, October 19, 2012, The Quad Cities Hash House Harriers gathered at McManus Pub in Moline for a hash run that was turgid to be true: The Sex Dreams Hash. The air was cool but we were hot. We are a SEXY group, but this time we (out)-did ourselves. The roster of goodies included:
– Soft Serve as a virile firefighter (hose attached and fully functional)
– A pair of naughty referees with cleavage to the navel (DB – Your breasts and I have something special)
– One porn photographer (Skin Flute in her usual guise)
– The sexiest of wide, long meats: bacon. And this slab was filled with Tequila.
– Snorris – As himself, down to the leisure suit and gold chains
– Purple Passion in her dominatrix get-up . . . By which I mean her pajamas
– And one awfully phallic looking CrayHoleA
Hashers, I’ve been taught nearly everything I know about sex by Sir Richard Burton who had sex on four continents before the hashing was invented, who translated the Kama Sutra, who taught us about foreplay, patience and “staying power.” Burton taught me to start seductions slowly. To tease, hint, flirt, tickle, caress, pinch, and rub. He instructs us to lick, probe, then to assume one of thirty 37 positions and fill and thrust and buck and abandon all reason. To do it creatively; and to take our time, hashers, to prolong the moment. To anticipate, tremble and enjoy. It’s pleasurable work, he said.
Then, sometimes, said Burton, you should just fucl. Uprooting trees, shrubs and flowers. Like Vikings! With horns on your heads!
We fulfilled dreams, my friends. What we did on Saturday was hot, fast, without prelude and nearly without art. It left some of us sore and bruised and begging for more. It included variety, it was novel, it featured jiggling mounds of flesh, monstrous cocks and booze – and it will go down in the anals (hehe) of hash lore! It stretched each of us in ways we could not imagine. It left us with shameful memories we cannot help but revisit and revise just a little bit each time.
Enough foreplay! Thirty of us circled in the sex pen behind McManus Pub around Dreams of Cream and Sex Break, the sexiest pair of hares QCH3 has ever produced. Do not take offense! Each of us is sexy in his and her own way (and my loins ache for each and every one of you), but – stop and think – are there any Harriettes who are more eagerly sought by both sexes? Who can make seefood alluring? Who make puking look good? NO. FACT: There are not! And so we could not take our eyes from these fair lasses as their sexy asses, christened with whipped cream and bound in tight spandex, bounced up the stairs, out the door and across the street.
Left behind at the pub, we strained mightily to burst from the confines of our tiny sex pen. We yelled and screamed; we moaned and (whip)-creamed each other; we called out, until we could push through the narrow back door of McManus pub stream out onto the street in search of the trail. It’s been established that hashers are stoopid, but we thought ourselves sooo clever as we sprinted to the corner where the sexy duo had last been seen. Sprinted to the corner and stopped abruptly, like a battering ram that meets solid resistance, for our first circle. Depicted in the center of the circle was a sexual position: Doggy Style and we nominated Cum Dupmster and 50 Shades of Gay to demonstrate the technique, while Skin Flute, that sexy porntographer, captured the special moment and the rest of us cheered them on.
And so it was, every hundred yards – an exhausting array of positions: Standing, 69, Girl on Top, the Sword Fight. We were being taught by the hares, and we cheered as 50 and Nacho Mama/ CD were recorded by Skin Flute. Then, in the midst of all this sex, someone checked his or her cell phone (bored?). We had missed the first stop . . . .
Abruptly, we found ourselves in front of McManus once more, but a whistle sounded and Dreams of Cream called us on-on. “Don’t stop, ” she said. “Don’t stop!” And on we ran, to the promise of still more sex, including a hot game of Twister and a bottle of orange cream which was passed while we all agreed, under Papa’s tutelage, to “do it right-“ to run the trail again, but to do to each other what we had only watched on the first sexy trip through down town Moline.
And so it was that Moline was treated to its first-ever public orgy by the Quad Cities Hash House Harriers. We may not have done it right, but we did it. We thrust mightily, screamed lustily, and pounded mercilessly. As testament to our effectiveness one resident shouted at us to “Keep it down out there!” (TRUTH) Who can keep it down, I ask, when QCH3 is on the prowl? How can you not be even more upright, swell a bit and push on with forceful vigor and a hoarse shout of On-On! How?
And so we did. The Sex Dreams hash run was fast, brutal, and hot as fucl. Back in the McManus sex pen breasts heaved, eyes were bright, skin glistened and whipped cream was plentiful as we cheered the hares, named NFHS Jose (the former D-Magnet) with a proper name: Blasphemeat , welcomed the virgin and carried on-on with the orgy!
Deeply and Warmly,
Hash Trash, October 11: Party Rock Hash
The sleepy hamlet of Port Byron had no idea what to make of the crowd of neon colors, afros, sequins and tight pants that descended upon them one auspicious Thursday night. The answer was simple and could, like most things, be found in the lyrics of poetic geniuses LMFAO.
“Party rock is in the house tonight
Everybody just have a good time
And we gonna make you lose your mind
Everybody just have a good time”
Or, to be more direct, the Quad City Hash House Harriers were taking over the bar, and indeed the entire town, for the Party Rock Hash.
Acting as SkyBlu and RedFoo, the lovely hares Twistin’ Bangs and Coochie raced into the night, leaving the other hashers to ponder who the strange, yet familiar person in blue spandex might be. Lo and behold, Gigolo Bear had returned to us! After spending lonely nights in the wilderness, crying into his headband, missing the QCH3, he was welcomed back into our collective bosom. Never leave us again, Gigolo Bear!
Anyway, enough about our bosom (for now), because it was time for On-On! The dastardly hares immediately led us up the biggest, steepest fucling mountain in all of Port Byron, and thank G, there was a beer near! Always respectful of the rules, we gathered in the circle until all hashers were accounted for.
Sherpa Dirty Bird, having no such reverence, stood just above us, cackling and mocking our stupidity for not immediately going to her and the High Life. Friends, we all know that hashers are stupid, especially in groups. But that was low! Luckily we were not so offended as to not partake of the champagne of beers, plus Dirty Bird offered us some hotness from the Twistin’ Bangs/Coochie Swag Bag.
And what swag it was! Loose in the Caboose was magnificent in a rainbow Mohawk wig, and NFN Tyler’s Shuffling Jesus shuffled a little better in a flowing blonde wig. Nacho Mama and NFN Dylan applied tattoos to all with a combination of beer, licking, and rubbing, which was exactly as hot as you might imagine. Silly string shot all over us, proving the rule that having sticky substances shot into your hair is annoying, but in your eye is downright painful. As you bitches all well know.
Swag applied, and we were off again into the night. At this time, it’s necessary to discuss the fact that Port Byron is not exactly a thriving metropolis. It probably goes without saying that not once did we have to stop at a stop light, but perhaps more shocking was the absolute lack of any street lights of any kind. It was dark. Dark like a black cat at midnight eating licorice. Dark like Guinness mixed with espresso, mixed with Jager (note to future hares: that was not a recipe, so don’t get any ideas). Dark like the depths of a hasher’s soul. My point being, it was really, really dark. Our headlamps swept the street, desperate for any trace of flour, and any signs of civilization (read: beer).
Finally, we found ourselves at a circle, on the corner of Where The Fuck Are We and Godforsaken. There was a circle, and the promise of Beer Near, and even better, Dirty Bird waiting in her car! As I’m sure you can imagine, we were all quite parched and thus delighted to see Dirty Bird. We had passion in our pants, and we weren’t afraid to show it. But Dirty Bird denied us, and crept her car away from us over and over again. We were heartbroken… until Raw Deal revealed that we were at Wisteria Lane, a notorious Port Byron neighborhood that promised booze, key parties, loose morality, and booze. And booze!
We raced to the first house, where the sounds of LMFAO greeted us, along with a big bag of shots. We divided into two lines, and as Veer Off Wang correctly predicted, it was time for a Soul Train style dance-off. Scatastrophe executed a spectacular slow-motion version of the worm, and it was one of the most amazing things I have ever seen. The organized dance quickly degenerated into a less organized, but equally important chaos of hashers doing shots. Nacho Mama fell in love with the cougar of the house.
To the next house! There was a fire and hot cider with rum! Drippy Longstockings tried to get the family to adopt her, because who wouldn’t want their very own harriette? Several of the hashers began a dunking contest with a basketball hoop and a soccer ball. Zip Locked asked me later who won, and since I was paying no attention whatsoever, I’m going to go ahead and say that it was me. Two previously innocent children held out a feather boa for a limbo contest. Several hashers gave their best attempts at working their hip flexors to get low. Gigolo Bear got halfway under, then paused. Hashers watched anxiously for him to fall on his ass, which is always entertaining, but then the a magical thing happened. He finished his drink, then made his way perfectly under the boa. At that point, I stopped paying attention to the limbo contest, because no way would anything more awesome happen. Nacho Mama fell in love with the cougar of the house.
Last house, and there was a flippy cup tournament set up, hashers vs. harriettes. The harriettes began to cheer because when I write hash trash, my team always wins. Raw Deal conceded that this was true, but said that we had to go through the motions anyway, and also that ding-dongs would be allowed in this contest. Round 1 went to the Dicks. Round 2 went to the Cunt-Pussies. (We couldn’t decide.) And the final round, of course, went to the Cunt-Pussies. Huzzah! Nacho Mama fell in love with the cougar of the house.
We ran off through some kind of dark field where I am pretty sure we were chased by wolves and also Leatherface. Imagine our relief when we found a playground, which hashers immediately mounted and defiled.
More running, more darkness. The hashers were a blur of headlamps and tight pants. We gathered at the final circle, and Raw Deal announced that it was a straight shot back to the bar, so anyone who wanted FRB should go for it. Nacho Mama, his heart and crotch swollen with cougar love, tore off like a maniac, and the rest of the hashers followed.
Our Victory Tunnel was a source of curiosity for the civilians of Port Byron, and with a little encouragement, several of them ran through it. Our ding-dongs must have been especially good, because Civilian NFN Gary added $40 to our bar tab. NFN Gary’s heroics have prompted discussion on what the opposite of Cum Dumpster might be, because whatever that is (Cum Hydrant?), that’s him.
Circle Time! We shamed Nacho Mama for being the FRB, and the lovely Traffic Tops (objectively, I was beautiful in my neon orange lace tights) as FBI. Sex Break and Venus Thigh Slap were recognized as DFL, so far behind us that I suspect they stopped at Subway on the way back to the bar.
The designation of Cum Dumpster was assigned to me by T-Mex, a duty that I take quite seriously. I didn’t spend all of that time studying at Hash Law School to make unjust decisions. So although there were contenders such as Nacho Mama for suggesting I Cum Dumpster myself for lack of better options (if I get Cum Dumpster, it’ll be because I earned it, not by default), Gigolo Bear for trying to draft off me down the hill, and Zip Locked for being in contempt of Hash Court, the honor went to Dirty Bird, for teasing us with the lack of beer. Wear it proudly, Dirty Bird, and remember that no one is immune to Cum Dumpster, even if you don’t actually run.
Then, it was time for namings. Down Low gave a lovely tribute to NFN Tegan and changed her to Buttzinga, and Raw Deal honored NFN Tyler as Whipper Snapper. But the finest moment of any naming ever came when NFN Dylan entered center circle. Raw Deal had him show off some dance moves, then simply declared, “Yeah, I’ve got nothing to add to that. Your hash name is now 50 Shades of Gay.”
And thus, on into the night, the QCH3 made sure that Port Byron was never the same again. Because one thing is for certain: we are NEVER sorry for party rocking.
Sexy and I Know It,
Captain Planet Hash – October 3rd, 2012
At our weekly Scribe Retreat, held in a Turkish spa, Sensititties, Soft Serve, and I discussed the challenge of the upcoming Captain Planet hash. It was significant: none of us were remotely familiar with Captain Planet because, and I know it’s hard to tell because all of us are so sexy (especially when cavorting nude in the sauna), but none of us were, in fact, children in the 1990’s when Captain Planet aired.
Soft Serve took one for the team and watched an episode on the YouTubes. “It’s really preachy,” he told us, peeling a grape for Sensititties. “The show is every bit as painfully politically correct as you would imagine.”
“Goddamn millennials,” ST lamented while rubbing oil on my back. “Cartoons are supposed to be violent, not educational. Which one of us is going to write a hash trash based on this dreck?”
I sighed and paused in giving Soft Serve a foot massage. “I’ll do it.” I said. “Because I love you guys. Also it’s my turn. But mostly because I love you guys.”
And so, a smallish but dedicated group of hashers gathered at Mound Street Landing, where Skin Flute and NFN Andy told us that we had to be Planeteers and harness the powers of Earth, Fire, Wind, Water, and Heart to save the planet from pollution. Whatever. Since we are hashers, more appropriate powers would have to be Beer, Liquor, Swearing, Nudity, and Sex, all of which we employed before the night was over.
The hares took off, and Dreams of Cream and Hashionista broke with our tradition of being breathtakingly stupid and watched them for a good block and a half. And so it took us considerably less time than usual to get lost on trail. Those wily hares did do one thing to make sure they didn’t get caught, taking the extreme measure of having the world’s longest train cross directly in front of us. There was literally an arrow pointing to the trail on the other side of the train. Scat blew his whistle three times for the train to shut the fuck up, but to no avail.
Once we finally got past the train, we found our first stop, this one representing Earth (don’t count on my figuring out what all of the stops were, but I got that one). We had to clean up some trash in the park, and it was more than worth our efforts, because the hares had two big-ass handles of mudslides for us to drink. It’s super cute that mudslide was on theme for Earth, but more importantly, it was FUCKING DELICIOUS. It tasted like melted ice cream and magic and love.
On on, and we made our way to the next stop, Wind. Continuing to stay on theme, the hares left us hurricanes. It brought back hazy memories for me of the Hurricane Incident of 2000, in which Traffic Tops drank approximately four gallons of hurricanes in an hour and passed out by 7:45 PM, on a day that you millenials were probably watching Captain Planet and hunting around your houses for things to recycle. Suck it, kiddies! We were also tasked with playing a game of Suck and Blow, a simple game that it took us a long time to figure out. How were we dividing into teams? Was it boys against girls, or would we be sucking and blowing each other (yeah, I said it). Being no fool, Scat quickly positioned himself on the girls’ team. Cock Fight accused me of being terrible at Suck and Blow. I say I got to make out with Scat and drink more booze, so you tell me I don’t know what I’m doing. Anyway, because I am writing hash trash, the girls won! Fact!
On the way to the next stop, a woman stuck her head out her car window and said, “Hey, are you guys doing a hash run?” Despite Veer Off Wang’s best efforts to seduce her, she sadly did not join our group at the next stop, which I think maybe was Water? I don’t know that for sure, but I do know that we drank some High Life with a lovely view of the river.
The next stop I am pretty sure was supposed to represent heart, though maybe I just think so because Strap-On and Hashionista were there and I heart them both so much. The two of them had yet more High Life, plus a big bag of wine. We drank it and started to think that maybe Skin Flute and NFN Andy were trying to kill us. That was a metric fuckton of booze, and I guess in this case, Captain Planet isn’t looking for us to enforce the “reduce” part of “reduce, reuse, recycle.”
I believe the last stop was supposed to be Fire, because there was a bottle of some kind of cinnamon whatnot that Three-Way Fiasco, Nacho Mama, and I did our best to polish off. It was like liquefied Big Red gum and it was horrifying and delicious at the same time. There was also something we were supposed to do with putting the five rings together and summoning Captain Planet, but I was so distracted by Dreams of Cream’s spectacular towel shorts that I am hazy on the details.
It bears mentioning that Cray Hole A chose to celebrate Captain Planet by again dressing as a crayon, because why not? Her crayon outfit fills my heart with joy, and I’d like to get her a 64 box of crayon dresses, the kind with the built-in sharpener.
Oh, hey! We made it back to the bar! We celebrated the FRB, FBI, and DFL. There was only one virgin, so we sacrificed the shit out of him. Approximately 20 hashers all stood within an inch of his little virgin face screaming at him to drink, motherfucker, drink. Plus, D-Magnet has chosen to be reborn to the QCH3 and shall temporarily be known as NFN Jose. Good times.
Naming? Yes, naming. Welcome to the family Lance Bangstrong, Mind the Gap, and Sir Shags Her Not!
And then, even though Oktoberfest Cum Dumpster Deep in the V was not with us, it was time to name a new Cum Dumpster. Nacho Mama swiftly took down Raw Deal, for repeatedly mistaking him for Mandex. It’s heartbreaking when your Hash Papa can’t even remember your name. I know us white people all look the same, but there are a couple of ways you can tell them apart. Mandex rocks tight clothes and enjoys showing us his ass. Nacho Mama likes to dress like a stripper version of Elmer Fudd and is TT’s #1 dance partner. Also? THEY BOTH WEAR HEADBANDS WITH THEIR NAMES ON THEM.
I am happy to say that the night ended not with us taking away a Valuable Lesson about Environmentalism and how We Can All Make a Difference, but rather with us drunkenly careening through the bar, using our combined hash powers of Beer, Liquor, Swearing, Nudity, and Sex.
The Power is Yours, Bitches.
Oktoberfest Hash – September 28th, 2012
Dear Hashers – Oktoberfest is a traditional German holiday lasting 16 days leading up to the first Sunday in October. Copious amounts of beer are consumed alongside such delicacies of as red cabbage, fish on a stick and cheese noodles. The jury is still out on whether or not German food is a grand idea. Let us not have schism, though, because drinking huge amounts of beer is something we can all agree on. It is something we do regularly. It is something we are good at.
So in the same week during which we dispatched Free Willy and Tight-N-Bright to explore German culture (read cock) and win German marathons (by which I mean drinking games), the rest of us gathered on an autumnal Friday’s eve for a rare but epic Friday hash – when we hash on Friday it is always, without question, special. Friday, September 28 was no exception as Coochie and Raw Deal summoned us to the Bier Stube in Moline for the much-anticipated Oktoberfest Hash. First ever, mind you.
So we gathered in Lederhosen and some very fetching Bavarian cleavage. Raw Deal brought his new killer hash app and his Listenator, which looks much bigger in pictures. I counted 53 souls as we circled to bless the trail in the alley between the Stube and the hastily-erected beer hall. The Listenator was invaluable as we blessed the trail over the crescendo of music coming from a German boy band in the tent. Then the gallant hares were off and another Raw-Coochie hash run was under way. Before we began though, copious amounts of beer were consumed. Cop-I-ous. The steins were large – and this is important because, and this is for the record, Mandex puked. Eventually.
Raw Deal was haring and a raw deal was what we received, as the hares led us straight to Velie Park up the steepest of fucking trails in all of Moline. The Kone building has a gentler slope than the hill we climbed. Was there any consolation? Well, Strap-On awaited at the top with a cooler on his broad shoulders, a quick rogering was delivered to the doughboy statue (not the first), and we played a boys vs. girls drinking game involving beer, Jagermeister, plungers and a ring toss. I didn’t really understand the game, but did slam a beer. As is always the case, my team won.
It’s not common that Sensititties loses track of “what happen next” so early in a hash run. In this case, however, I drank A LOT of beer really quickly. I recall a lot of people running, dusk, several pairs of high socks, a lot of short dresses – yes, Drippy Longstocking that T-shirt is a tad small – thank you. Then we were back at the Bierstube for “not the end.”
“Not the end” is, in fact, a test of strength. And this is an important moment because what happened next was a travesty of Hash Law, a breach of courtesy, nature and hospitality. Our strongest, most manly hashers competed to see who could hold a stein of liquid at arms-length for the longest time. Competing alongside our men was our fair guest from another hash chapter – SloppierByTheCopier. She’s hashed in Arizona, motherfuckers. She came to be with us for the Oktoberfest hash. This is when Deep in the V carelessly smashed her in the face with his stein, drawing significant blood, earning the wrath of his colleagues, and drawing the attention of Traffic Tops, esq., Hash-Attorney-At-Large. Suffice it to say that as the result of his carelessness, Deep in the V (careless and unfortunate bastard) is, for the foreseeable future, Cum Dumpster.
Once again the hares departed, this time to the east. Strap On met us, once more behind the condemned train station. Was there more beer, more reading of notes? Was there a game? Was a bottle passed? Again, the fog descends over the aging mind of Sensititties. But I know that we were again on the trail, turning back west, climbing the stairs of a car park. Finding a song check and singing into the night before descending to the street and to the Bierstube again where Mama and Papa awaited us, where we circled and sang and welcomed the virgins. Where we celebrated the FRB and the FBI. Where hashers were named in record numbers, and from whence we adjourned to the thrusting, rubbing, tonguing, groping and puking (Mandex) of any epic Friday night with QCH3. On-On.
Rainbow Hash – September 20th, 2012
An anonymous, but foxy, sage scribe many seconds ago wrote these now famous words.
TT was not there
But there was glitter and beer
High Life Forever
And in the name of secrecy and in honor of my sacred Scribe Oath, I shall take her name to my bed, I mean grave. My grave.
Old Town Moline was warned. They knew in advance that we were coming. Yet still, they seemed confused and even angered by so many colors. Like gay bulls or egocentric peacocks. Made mad by fey unicorns, and glitter-choked air. Angered by striped socks of every stripe, and the unnecessary wearing of tights under assless lingerie. And most of all infuriated by things they will only understand once they inevitably turn to hashing as a lifestyle.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. That’s not where our story begins. It begins at the edge of the wood. That space between light and dark. Between fading twilight and dark night. Between sweet flat pavement and the shig of a lifetime. Where in a moment of hash transcendence, or hashscendence, the clouds parted and sliding down a ray of light directly into Raw Deal’s hands came the newest tool in the hashing arsenal. The Listenator?. All was heard. Then hashers started talking more loudly.
About the trail we were warned, as well. But were we warned enough? Sure, we were told shiggy. Even Extra Shiggy. But no one said Texas-level shiggy. And no one said Texas-style trail. There were some hints. Purple passion shivered when she heard something about three lines and dead trails, and looked at Mr. Purple with a look that said. “What the huh!?” And Sex Break squirmed a little from a major case of lady wood when D-Magnet said something about trails being blow jobs (and so saying recounted his Hash name creation story).
But nonetheless, after being Listenated? to, on-on we went. Rainbow flag unfurled beside our own. From the edge of the park into the heart of darkness. Hashers being … how can I put this politely … occasionally dumb as a box of rocks … more than half, this belated scribe included, did not bring headlamps. And while we seem to have adapted to high volumes of alcohol, and the various substances it gets mixed with, we might not have quite evolved to the point where we can successfully follow toilet paper trails along a soggy streambed in a ravine, in 10% light.
But we have developed, as hashers do, the ability to be extremely enthusiastic about everything we’re doing. So we ran and followed these Texas “blowjobs” and sometimes as can happen under such conditions gave ourselves blowjobs. And it was steep and epically shiggy. Drippy L. enthused on and on about how many times and in how many ways she was going to kill D-Mag for this trail.
And this shig? This mountainous deepwoods trail? Was also awash in enthusiasm in the form of every color of the rainbow and more. Gay unicorns and Rainbow Bright ran side by side through this Apocalypse Now reenactment. Imagine that from the wily, shig-living raccoon’s and nut loving squirrel’s point of view, the loud blur of colors and the loud shouts from hashers must have looked like a fast-moving, offroad pride parade of formerly neither asking nor telling forward combat Marines.
And like gay marines, we came out of the shig scathed and scared. But tougher for it. And on-on to another park and pavilion, hereafter to be known as Rainbow Hash Memorial Park. Where beer was near. Though not over here. Up on that hill over there. And Hashonista slaked her thirst. Her deep, deep thirst with the water of life. What non-hashers call vodka.
As hashers emptied rocks from shoes and picked sticks from various crevices, the beer was downed, a song or two was sung and a coppus lingered-us, but did not chaseus.
And on, now on road. But again a Texas-style road, with many false trails and many lost hashers. Gone was NFN Matt and we feared he might never learn of his yet to be given name, Disco Balls. But somehow he returned, though based on his love of glitter, and overall fabulousness, he may just have been running toward any rainbow flag he saw, hoping for warm arms to receive him. (Un)luckily for him, it meant us and more trail.
Running behind, is the name of a few hashers favorite sex position, but it is also what we were doing on trail that night. But when we found ourselves at another fine Moline establitory, all clocks (a few addresses, much propriety, and likely some clothes) were forgotten. And more songs were sung. Purple Drank screamed out for lunchmeat and Dirty Bird baby birded some baby birds.
The last leg is sometimes the hardest. No wait, that’s the middle leg (rimshot).
But Rainbow Hash’s last leg was a bar-to-bar sprint. A sprint won by Dirty Bird and lost by Boob Lay. But along the way, all felt the warmth of drink. And pain was gone. (Except for the pain of Raw Deal’s bike tire across asscheeks.) And shig was but a memory. Beer and karaoke were near. We invaded that black t-shirt nest and painted it a billion colors. We lipsticked it like a pig and we glittered it like a fairy. Did the residents understand what was happening? NO. But we explained and cajoled and recruited them to the bright side. Converting young and old to our cause. Convincing the bachelorettes and birthday girls alike that we were ENHANCING their night. So we circled and sang and sang some more. True, Cock Fight did lose his third favorite inflatable toy to hasher bite. But he and Nacho Mama, the alleged biter, celebrated the short life of Mic by dancing the rainbow tango. And unshigged hashers Scat-Strap-trophe-On joined, and Sex Break and Hand Job considered teaming up and starting a company called Sex Job. Everyone immediately pulled out already-filled-in applications in hopes of working there.
The purples escaped by night, through the artful slyness of waiting around a bit, though still lunchmeatless. But hashers still somehow held the attention of Moline’s finest (and I’m not saying this cop either wanted us or wanted to be us, but …), and as the last few hashers set out in search of nourishment to replenish what they’d lost on trail, coppus DID chaseus. Had we angered G., with our shig gripes? Did he not hear our prayers over the loudness of the eye makeup majesty created by Twistin’ Bangs? Nay, he must have, for at the last, critical moment, G. himself appeared on the sidewalk dressed in a sequined rainbow three piece suit with an ascot made of golden light, and a glittery moustache, waving his hand slightly, and under his breath said “These aren’t the hashers you’re looking for.” Which the fine officer repeated exactly, and then told the hashers to move along.
And thus the last of the hashers rode into the moonlight, glittering, colorful and happy.
<Cue somber, but hopeful music.>
In the end D-Magnet the master of the Texas trail. The layer of blowjobs. The sensei of shig. Was not punished for his shitty, shitty trail. He was rewarded in fine Texas style.
Herein is recounted for the official record his order verbatim, given to the VI staff slowly, repetitively and slurridley, ten minutes before closing.
“OK, OK, OK … I’ll have <waves arms a bit> … FOUR orders of sausage. And. <waves> And. OK. Two orders of bacon. And eggs. <long pause> Does that come with pancakes?”
Do you want pancakes or toast?”
Toast. Yeah. <waves arms> And FOUR orders of sausage …”
How do you want your eggs cooked?”
Over easy. And two orders of bacon. And pancakes.”
Three Way ate quietly nearby.
DM did not get pancakes. Perhaps G. did punish him after all.
It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia Hash – September 19th, 2012
(The hash so special it got 2 hash trashes)
6:30 PM on a Tuesday
It is a quiet night at Paddy’s West (also known as Shenanigans). The gang gathers around the bar, sipping beers.
Mac: I feel like we’re in a rut. All we do is sit around and drink.
Dennis: Speak for yourself. I have a number of important projects going on right now. Many irons in the fire.
Charlie: I like sitting around drinking! I’m good at it.
Sweet Dee: I do think that maybe there’s something more we could do. Should we try going back to the gym again? We know that blows, but still.
Dennis: My own physique remains sculpted and perfect, but I think we can all agree that something needs to be done about Mac’s fat ass.
Mac: I’ve tacked on mass!
Enter Frank, surrounded by a troupe of McPoyles, Paddy’s denizens, birds of war, Green Men, and other assorted loud hashers.
Frank: Holy shit, I am so fucking hammered.
Sweet Dee: What the hell is this, Frank?
Frank: These are my new best friends. They’re called the Hash House Harriers. They combine running and drinking.
Charlie: That is the stupidest thing I have ever heard.
Mac: Yeah, no way are we doing that.
THE GANG GOES HASHING
The gang, now accompanied by the hashers, runs through the streets of West Philadelphia (also known as Davenport.)
Mac: This running is bullshit!
Dennis: That is because you are a total fatass. All you do is eat burritos and work on your glamour muscles, whereas I am both working my core and blasting some serious cardio.
Sweet Dee: Shut the fuck up, you guys. There’s something going on.
The Gang glances over to see Tequilamorous Mex, lovely as a Dessert Rose, reading some kind of instructions. There seem to be cards that recall various activities related to The Gang that the hashers are attempting to recreate.
Dennis: What is she even talking about? We’re supposed to masturbate in the alley? Oh, fuck that.
Charlie (returning from the alley): Well, that’s taken care of. Blow off the rest and go get a beer?
Mac: Fuck yes.
The gang joins the rest of the hashers in the bar. The Hashers serenade the patrons with a spirited rendition of “A Harriette on the Trail One Day (Yo Ho).” After each verse, the bar patrons think that the song is over, only to discover that the song continues. Chuck Snorris passes out a combination of lighter fluid $2 tequila, and Oxycotin, delivered via squirt gun and everyone goes blind. And with that, everyone takes the streets again.
Frank: More running? Aw, fuck. I’m going to knock this kid out of his wheelchair and just ride.
Mandex lowers his shorts, letting his ass breathe.
Frank: That kid’s got the right idea.
The gang and the hashers arrive at a park where there are enormous jugs of Riot Punch.
Mac: I don’t know what the fuck is going on here, but I intend to get hammer-faced on that Riot Punch.
Various hasher tomfoolery ensues, including NFN Bob’s pitch-perfect Kitten Mittons infomercial.
Dennis: On the plus side, I think we could get some crack while we’re here.
Sweet Dee: I wonder what a recommended amount is, for a first time user?
Frank: Children, please stop being crackheads. It’s time to play CharDeeMacDennis.
The gang and the hashers converge on a pavilion. All assembled have browned out significant portions of the events, which is only right, because ChareeMacDennis is not a drinking game. Drinking is the game. That’s the whole point of it. That being said, the following events may transpire:
· Skin Flute attempts to MacGyver open a wine bottle;
· Dirty Bird dirty birding said wine into someone’s mouth;
· Snorris and Shirt Off My Black eating cat food;
· An epic Scat vs. D Magnet pull-up contest that culminated with D Magnet wrapping his thighs around Scat’s head, all while suspended from midair, and all harriettes quickly needing some alone time.
The gang and the hashers continue on the trail. Soon they find themselves at Iowa’s version of the Jersey Shore, the Mississippi River. Dee and Dennis head under the boardwalk hoping to recapture their childhood glory days. Frank and Charlie look for barnacles to boil and eat, and Mac just worries about The Implication. Under the bridge, the group happily finds NOT homeless guys banging, but rather red wine in soda cans. The hashers can continue to use their large and flamboyant gestures while enjoying a lovely beverage.
Dennis: It’s not an intervention for lack of good ideas. He has great ideas!
Next, two horrifying things happen. One is that several hashers start drinking 40’s that they found by the river. It is extremely likely that this alcohol was not provided by the hares, but rather was stolen from some bums who had squirreled it away for a rainy day. Enjoy hepatitis, everybody! The other is that Scatastrophe busts Cock Fight’s microphone and there is an extremely sexy man pile.
Cock Fight: I WILL EAT YOUR BABIES, BITCH!
The hashers and the gang make their way to a fountain, and probably stuff happens there, too, but again: brownout. Then, on-on to Boozies, and either a woman dressed like a pirate shows up for no apparent reason, or everyone took all of Frank’s pharmaceuticals and hallucinated it.
Sweet Dee: Oh, shit you guys! Flip cup! I’ve been practicing this and I’m great at it.
Dennis: Dee, you always choke.
Sweet Dee: I won’t, you guys! I swear.
Mac: If you get ten in a row, we’ll let you play.
While the gang squabbles, the hashers engage in a Flipadelphia Tournament. There is a tremendous amount of hard work at both flipping and drinking, and Traffic Tops may have fuck up her flipping like Sweet Dee, but guess what, bitches? The scribe creates Hash Fact™, so team Dennis, featuring Traffic Tops, wins that shit and everyone else drinks poison.
Traffic Tops: Have some respect for Christ’s sake… I am legend.
Charlie: Isn’t it about time to wrap this up? I have some rats to kill back at the bar.
Sure enough, the gang and the hashers find the victory tunnel, oddly located in a parking lot with some kind of moving truck because? Because reasons, that’s why!
Everyone heads to Paddy’s West, where hashers are named, beer is consumed, and justice is again served as Scat is crowned Cum Dumpster. Best of all, there is RUM HAM and a stripper pole.
I am a golden god,
Hash Trash: A Hariettes Point of View
An Excerpt from The Waitress’ Diary
I took the night off from the fair booth on Wednesday to go out. It started out pretty great, but…. then all these people kept stalking me and my friends. I think Charlie is getting more creative with his costumes and he has an awful lot of doppelgangers. It’s getting pretty terrible. But anyway, I joined my 3 friends (see, I do have friends Diary! Not just Fredrick my cat!), Sex Break, Venus Thigh Slap, and Hashonista for a mini pub crawl. I know, I know…. I shouldn’t have gone because of my drinking problem, but it’s getting better and my friends are SUCH good influences.
We started at Shenanigans, this really classy pub downtown. Nothing like Paddy’s, except for the same feeling that you might get stabbed at any moment. We were enjoying ourselves, when this big, dirty group came in screaming songs about orgies, and all yelling over each other. So, we left and decided to head the direction of Mary’s, this quaint bar that I heard about that apparently has many attractive, single men.
We strolled along to Mary’s, stopping to pay a troll toll and watch some masturbating bums, and upon arrival, we decided to get blasted. Well, by blasted I really mean we dribbled a little tequila into our mouths. But, I didn’t want to relapse too much Diary! I began talking to these two really hot guys, and they were totally vibing on me. They kept slapping each others asses, and rubbing each others biceps. They were obviously doing that to show me who was more of a man….. right? As I was deciding which one I wanted to take home, that group from Shenanigans was on their way! We could hear them from 5 blocks away! So the 3 girls flew us away, almost like eagles, those majestic birds of war.
We decided we wanted to walk along the river while we figured out which bar to go to next. So, we headed over through Centennial Park. We thought we saw the Philly Frenetic, but really it was just Charlie in his stupid Greenman costume drinking everclear by himself. What a loser. We dodged that and went by the playground, where this big black man was eating cat food, and once again it reminded me way too much of Charlie, so we picked up our speed to head down to the river.
Now, at this point, I was getting really nervous that that group was following us. Call me paranoid, but with Charlie constantly following me and breaking into my house, and Dee and Dennis trying to be serial killers, I’m really aware of stalkers and creeps. So we decided to take a break and hang out by the river. We found this bum in jorts who loves to show off his good china, but he ended up drinking some wine in a can with us so he wasn’t too terrible. He then promised to find this group of hooligans that were following us. So, we said our goodbyes by all of us banging in a dumpster, then left him on the beach. It was much better than when I was on the beach last time, Diary. No Ecstasy, and thankfully, no Charlie.
Venus had heard about a Flipadelphia contest at Boozies, so we headed there. Along the way, we played a little nightcrawlers and stole other people’s wishes by taking coins out of the fountain. At Boozies, we practiced flip cup for a while when we heard people from that group again! We looked out the window and saw them congregating in front of Boozies. Now, at this point, we knew that they had to be looking for us! There was not a chance in hell that they would show up again! Luckily, they seem to get distracted easily and can’t seem to listen, so we were able to sneak back downstairs and out the back door before they headed in.
We needed to head to our truck because we had plans to go to the Grand Canyon the next morning, but we REALLY didn’t want those jerks to see us. So we hid around the corner for a good 10 minutes watching them talk to a Pirate, get into arguments with bystanders, and then finally crawl into Boozies. We sprinted away just like one does while trying out for the Philadelphia Eagles, and leaped into the bed of our truck! However, when we opened the truck, we found two bums named B&G and Moon Pie drinking. She had him bent over with a bag on his head and a leash on, but they got out of that before SB, Venus, and Nista saw them.
It turned out the 3 girls ended up knowing those jerks that were following us. We went to Shenanigans with them, where the savages devoured a rum ham that took me hours to make. I then got blackout drunk and offered to sleep with the first person that spoke to me, but no one even knew my name.
Raw Wang Bang Cruise Hash – September 11th, 2012
Just sit right back, hashers, and you’ll hear a tale,
– a tale of a fateful trip
That started a bar called the Wunder-Y
where QCH3 gathered for a pre-run sip.
The hares were mighty sailing men,
and a bonny lass a long way from pure.
Thirty-five passengers set sail that day
for a three hour tour, a three hour tour.
Raw Deal, Veer-off Wang and Bang Bust
gathered us in for instructions,
off, into the eve, they ran
and the passengers began introductions. . . .
Onto the trail we charged,
captains, tourists and a couple of Mary Ann’s,
into Moline we sped
following a trail of flour in search of bottles and cans, in search of bottles and cans.
Our first port of call was JA-JA House,
the home of Hashonista, Sex Break – and TequilaMorus Mex beside
Bang Bust was not there, but left us wine to quaff
around the corner there was a slippery slide.
Next we set ground at Browning Field, picked teams,
and ran our first ever jello-shot mile. Not a single of us tossed.
Pickle Snatch is a beast ‘cause she won in style. Eroticus, his team lost. Eroticus, his team lost.
So this is the tale of the castaways,
they ran for a long, long time,
they tried to make the best of things,
there was more than one uphill climb.
Drinks from the tropics, then I found the way through the trails
that wind through Stephen’s Park.
It was dusty, it was steep
and it was dark. Oh, it was dark!
Waiting at the gazebo was our fearless crew
with beer and bats and plans for an uphill relay
Purple Passion picked me and Hashonista, too
we drank and span and sprinted without delay.
As you know, I am scribe
so this I can say:
Passion beats Drank’s ass each and every day.
Oh, Passion beats Drank’s ass each and every day!
No phone, few lights and some cars
passed as on we ran for a long, long time
but, oh, we made the best of things
on the uphill climb!
We shuffle-walked, ran,
and a few of us, we sang
‘til we rallied at the end,
the home of Veer-off Wang! The HOME of Veer-off Wang
A fire burned and beers were downed,
some hashers, they were named
and with the tag of Cum Dumpster
the vile Cock Fight was prop’rly shamed.
Bang Bust, who will sail away
was wished a lot of luck,
but at the same time, she is resented –
You’re abandoning us? You fuck!
So join with us each week, you bitches,
you’re sure to get a chime.
Bring a friend, bring a virgin,
it won’t cost them a dime, Oh, it won’t cost them a dime!
Tight Coochie Hash – September 6th, 2012
Sir Gerald Downton Abbeysford here, for BBC#Hash. Royal Purveyor of Hash Facts(£) since 1946.
In this week’s documentary feature, we will visit the deepest, darkest, moistest wilds of Coal Valley, a village nestled between sweeping tallgrass prairie and winding rivers. Legend has it this wilderness enclave was named for the supple cleft cheeks of the particularly naughty, native princess TeeTee.
Known for it’s diverse and unusual wildlife, Coal Valley is home to a small number of watering holes. But for reasons science has yet to explain (and we’ll hear this caveat several times during our show) said watering holes bring together a most diverse and unusual collection of creatures, some unique to this area.
As the sun casts long shadows over the plains, cricket songs slow, signaling a change in seasons and the impending arrival of a chaotic menagerie. This time of day brings out the wildest creatures, and we can watch as animals that normally might rip the entrails from one another circle up at the watering hole shoulder to shoulder, paw to genitalia, and if we’re very quiet and very, very lucky, arms encircled, hips in.
Our first stop, is the largest of these Coal Valley wildlife gathering spots. Eons ago named Crabby’s Watering Hole, most likely in reference to the infestations of pubic crustaceans rampant and regularly transferred between all of the animals that visit here, via pelvic grindings and what zoologists and pornographers alike refer to as the “ding-donging” and “chiming” being constantly performed by the creatures that frequent this place of society and sustenance.
At this Cabby’s Watering Hole all manner of species are congregating this afternoon. And we’ve deemed it necessary to give some of them names to help the viewer. This one here, a zexy zexy zebra we call Purple 1 and next to him, a tiny lioness – named Purple 2 – seem to be quite fond of each other. In fact if one didn’t know better, one might think we were seeing (if one were lucky) a most incredible example of interspecies breeding. An unusual pairing anywhere but this place. Where skunks are frolicking, exuding minimal stench, with big cats – cheetahs and leopards. And a number of higher order primates are rubbing themselves against a Russian red belted cat and the rare and lovely Magnitogorsk Gazelle. Even the graceful turtle and a bamboo-chomping panda are in attendance drinking alongside cats and monkeys.
At the back of the watering hole we can see the beginnings of a sense of order, loud and disorganized as animals might be, yet there is still a semblance of a circle. Something happening that is bringing them all together …
And what do we have here. I do believe this is a rare sight – perhaps the first documented daylight example of the cacaphonous braying of the Standard-Waving Road Chimp – this one we’ve named Raw Deal – a higher order primate with a flag-like tail, the exact evolution of which has eluded cryptozoologists to this day. Some say this strange breed is descended from the spider monkey and the loud macaw. Regardless of pedigree, this Raw Deal, has clearly taken the lead in this gathering. And while we cannot understand his barks and howls, it seems clear he is bringing order to the circle and starting some kind of animal ritual.
After plenty of back and forth vocalizing – an introduction of sorts, it appears – Two of the group are brought to the center. The rest become quiet as the monkey-bird Raw Deal seems to be trying to communicate something about the pair. The one, a sleek-coated zebra – but obviously with the warmth of heart, and prettiness of eye of a giraffe – seems excited by the events unfolding. This one we’ve named Tight and Bright. The other, a Vixen, or female fox, of obvious grace and strength, is also quite charged.And we will call her Coochie. It should be clear to even the most naive of viewer that this pair has been chosen as much for their supple haunches as their obvious state of being in heat. The result of which, as you can see, is that they together are drawing sexual interest from every member of the group regardless of species or gender.
Suddenly, at the apparent prodding of Raw Deal, the pair shake their aforementioned haunches and bolt into the east.
Again, a number of animals are brought to the middle of the circle. We’ve seen these animals in this group before, yet in this instance, they seem to be being treated as if they are here for the first time. A curious and unusual behaviour.
After a short time, the premiere primate Raw Deal barks several time loudly, and as you can see, this is an indication for the group to move on. Several get in one final drink from the watering hole and head in the same direction as the zebra/giraffe and vixen, who left like bait hares at a dog race.
We need but follow this varied herd a few dozen meters before we find them approaching Mulligan’s Watering Hole, named of course, for the golf practice of taking extra attempts to reach the hole, but in this case is more likely in reference to some of the clumsier attempts at inter-species mating seen in this diverse group of animals.
Being a common place for human visitors on safari to take in scenes of raw animal sexuality, this Mulligan’s watering hole is a busy stop for our group. A pair Coal Valley Park Rangers approaching the watering hole are stopped in their tracks by the grace and beauty of the Russian red belted cat and the sleek Magnitogorsk Gazelle. While the ranger is preoccupied and his partner waits nearby, the group of animals takes a moment to drink from the watering hole and eat some of the grass there, as well as show off their sleek coats and proud genitalia to the appreciative safari-goers.
Once again, apparently leading the group, Raw Deal waves his flag-like tail, barks orders, and the group is away.
This time the animals wind through and among some of the native huts of the people of this area, who are lucky to be safely off the street this time of day, though several domesticated canines are compelled to no avail, to join the wilder animals. In an unusual show of single-speciesism, we see at the bottom of this hill, the entire group taking on the manners of, and walking as if they were all bears. The panda appears to shrug.
And then, on through more hut settlements until we come upon a native school. Some take to the playground equipment, some paw at soccer balls, some – those lucky buggers – stop to lick their own crotches. And here, we can see one of the higher order primates – this one a silverback named Scatastrophe – jumping from the top of the highest point. Note his gloriously outstretched arms and domineering gaze as he seeks out other animals to pick up and carry around.
On the group moves now through tall grasslands and as light continues to fade from the day. Another strange stop, where seemingly spontaneously, zebra carries lion, monkey carries cat, every animal, one on the other’s back, all paired up, race to the top of a hill.
In the open field at the top of the hill, we see another circle forming and a game ensues whereby one animal picks another from the circle to chase it. And while the rules, if any of this possible mating behaviour are unclear, we see on camera that one of the primates has unknowingly dropped some shiny thing he was carrying.
The group then finds some food in the bushes. It appears to be the gelatinous and fermented remains of something. But all enjoy multiple servings before moving on. And through more hut settlements, and once again we see them spontaneously break into something resembling a duck’s walk, or perhaps that of a constipated human child.
And finally as the last of the light leaves the day we see why this group of animals has brought us this way. We arrive at the world famous Sensititties Animal Sanctuary at the gateway to West Shigton. The ranger for whom the sanctuary is named greets the animals, and they know he will, as always, feed and water them, and probably let some of the felines rub against him.
With light now gone, the animals leave the safety of Sensititties Animal Sanctuary, and move one-by-one through the narrow, dangerous paths of West Shigton, which not a town at all, is in fact the name of the deepest darkest forest in this part of the wilderness. With the help of their keen senses, and the excellent night vision of about half of them, as well as the assistance of some of the primates in getting over gorges and rivers, we lose no member of the group, though there is one close call as one of the primates takes a hand-over-hand shortcut across the gorge on a none-too-steady branch. But not to worry. this monkey knows his climbing ability surpasses most and successfully makes the crossing.
As they emerge from the dark forest, the group speeds into a long fast stretch of trail, clearly in order to elude predators from outside the group and hurry to their destination under cover of darkness. And just as they arrive they are joined unexpectedly by the rare giant dancing chicken. But they also lose a member. One of the females has been enticed by the scent of food and possibly the need for a sex break. Unable to control here baser urges for the greater good of the group, she slyly slinks off, coat gleaming under the stars, body in need of sustenance.
Finally the the rest of the animals arrive back at the safe haven of Crabby’s watering hole, ironically, a turtle leading the way. A circle forms and the leader Raw Deal seems to start a process of celebrating. And while this, as you can hear, in no way resembles human singing or anything pleasant, it does appear that they are chanting something in what might be approaching unison.
The hares – zebra/giraffe TnB and vixen Cooch are again brought to the center of the circle and barked and howled and chittered at. And them they drink from the watering hole.
Then the same group of veteran animals that were treated as new the last time we were here at Crabby’s, is once again brought to the center of the circle. But this time they seem to be being berated – particularly by Coochie the vixen – and made to drink extra from the watering hole. Again, this is strange and unusual as this group has usually brought new, untested animals for this part of the ritual.
And now another group has been brought to the center of the animal circle. The majestical mountain panda is joined by the delicious and slinky French skunk. Both of which are circled by Raw Deal as he anoints them and gives them a piece of fur from his hide for them to wear making them official members of this group of wild animals.
And finally, we see the punishment of the transgressor, this stray, who left the group for people food and most likely, by the looks of her, a sex break. Endangering herself and the sanctity of the group she is being harshly punished, and now she will be made to wear the mark of shame.
At this point we observe the group descend in to chaotic screeching and dancing, with plenty of crotch grabs and the lustrous and lusty giant chicken proudly displays her chicken breasts and many primates surround and lift the gazelle.
And look! Quite unexpectedly, out of the mists of time an apparition is appearing among the beasts. A vision in yellow and flowers. And guessing from the sleek dark coat and sinuous bipedal walk, half pantheress, half human. Clearly we are seeing for the first time ever on British television or anywhere, the great Princess TeeTee – the posterior of whom, this magnificent place of interspecies mingling is named.
A glorious ending to a glorious day in glorious Coal Valley, as we watch these animals and this princess make their way back to their dens and tree hollows for much needed passing out and possibly some awkward attempts at post-hash lovemaking.
Thanks much for watching. This has been Gerald Downton Abbeysford for BBC#Hash. On our next broadcast we will explore the equatorial oceans and on-board habits of hashers released from the rigors of their everyday lives from aboard the cruise ship the Pacific Princess. AKA, The Love Boat.
Wayne’s World Hash – August 30th, 2012
The following is, near as we can tell, Fact™, Science™ and has been communicated to us after sacrificing newts to the Oracle and reading their entrails. We know you bitches and see you in our dreams. You cannot hide.
The members of the Quad Cities Hash House Harriers and assorted no names and virgins attempted a Wayne’s World themed hash on August 30, 2012. All gathered at the Clubhouse, wearing their finest Aurora Basic Cable t-shirts, horn rimmed glasses, and flannels. There were 40 odd hashers in all, including 6 Garths, 5 Waynes, 5 Cassandras, and a Noah Vanderoff carrying a “Sphincter Boy” card.
With a blessing of the trail, the hares were off. Then, because we never run with strangers, introductions were made. The very few rules of hashing were reviewed, donuts were consumed, and, with ten minutes flown past, the hounds were on the trail.
I don’t know if you know this or not, but hashers are stoopid. Especially in groups, so it will be no surprise that false trails were followed. Hashers, however, also have strong noses for alcohol and a drive for disorder, so the horde was soon on trail. They drank and shuffle-ran, leap-frogged, skirted the law, lifted their skirts, hacked into a satellite system, burglarized two homes, ding-dinged and chimed through Bettendorf. There was Beer Near. There was a play area. There is always a play area.
Ultimately the group decided to do a Mega Happy Ending, and returned to the Clubhouse for circle time, down downs, and namings. It is true that Strap On and Cock Fight failed in their attempt to demonstrate that platonic love can exist between two grown men – here’s graphic photo evidence:
(join us and you can have access to this lovely picture)
It’s also true that Skin Flute fetched a bag of California Cornflakes she had stashed in a tank in the toilet at the Clubhouse (she keeps a stash in each and every bar in the QCA).
There was free love, there was music, there was even a camera, but it still it was quiet. Too quiet. . . . Finally, the hashers realized what was wrong: the most awesome and sexy hashers of all, Sensititties and Traffic Tops, were not there.
“Fuck this. Let’s go home,” they said.
And so they did. Bitches.
Traffic Tops and Sensititties
69th Trail: Viking Hash – August 25th, 2012
Traffic Tops: If there is one thing I have learned over the years, it is that, no matter how hard you try, you cannot do a 69 alone. That is why, I have brought my laptop to the motherfucking bar, so that all the other dirty pirates and I can form an O-R-G-Y, and use our teamwork to create a brilliant hash trash… and to give Hash Mama (and all of you other impatient bitches) the instant gratification you need. Instant, by the way, depends on if Bier Stube has wireless internet. Either way, onward.
So, it was a glorious day in Valhalla and on Earth as the Quad Cities Hash House Harriers gathered, like Vikings, with horns on our heads (who said head) gathered at Blackcock Forest Preserve to lay… a trail, at least for starters. Hopefully some of us will lay other things… the night is still young.
The Allfather Odin blessed us with 12 innocent and lovely virgins. That’s 22% of all the hashers present, right, Eroticus Maximus? We gave them our usual cursory instructions on how to hash, and it was on-on.
Sensititties: On-on, in a flash of lightening and with a roar like thunder we set off across the broken terrain (rocks) leading deep into Blackcock State Historic Site. Be advised, gentle hashers, that Blackcock is not a state park and has no rules against drinking, debauchery, rape, pillage, whoring, fire, Viking raids, nudity, fun, running or drinking. Be further advised that no longer will anything grow on the land that was traversed by the QCH3 Viking horde. Fires we set yet smolder in that park.
We climbed onto the trail, our column of sixty-odd, horn-headed Vikings. We charged hills and we kicked up dust. Eventually we mounted one bitch of mountain. We scandalized civilians, and we played in swings while the horde caught up (hashers love to play). Then it was on to the City Limits Saloon. . .
Traffic Tops: As has long been established, hashers, while lovely people, are dumb as boxes of rocks. (Especially in groups.) Happily, our hares (Scatastrophe, Raw Deal, and Strap On, for those of you who are keeping score… heh, heh… score) are aware of this fact and worked their best to work around this sad fact. And thus, before we started running, Coochie marked our hands, each with a D and a V. Why D and V? There was speculation that they were warning us against the dangers of VD. I had an alternate theory and pounded my own D against Sex Break’s V. That felt right.
So very, very right.
What were we talking about? Oh, right. The hash.
Anyway, it turns out that the D’s and V’s designated us as Dragons and Vikings. And the Dragons and Vikings were to engage in glorious battle throughout the course of the hash, starting at City Limits. Each team of mighty warriors was pitted against one another to see who could destroy the pitchers the fastest.
And guess what, bitches? Sensititties and I are both Dragons, so I think we can agree that the Dragons won. Right, Sensititties?
Sensititties: How right you are, Traffic Tops! Dragons Rule!!!!!!! Dragons also stuffed hammers down the Vikings’ throats at City Limits, ravaged all the patrons, slit their throats (Coochie was in charge and she ordered it), then were on the trail again. It was on to the left. To the left, into the scariest of Quad Cities ghettos, West Rock Island. We tramped through what was already a wasteland. At this point I ended up distracted by the mighty Asian ass of Eroticus Maximus then caught sight of Purple Drank’s form fitting leopard skin shorts. I lost track of five minutes then regained consciousness at a boob check. (Sex Break. Beernicorns, sorry – psychotic break) Also, Rearview ignored the circle and the boob check and headed into the woods and found true trail. A cum-dumpster move in my opinion since it deprived the women of the Viking horde an opportunity to bare their breasts. Then we found ourselves in the shig once more, surrounded by trees. . .
Traffic Tops: Sensititties has broken off mid-sentence, but don’t worry, friends. He is alive and well and looking at the scantily clad ladies in the bar. Bless him, I’m sure he’ll be fine.
Anyway, we descended into the forest, and friends? It was dark. It was dark like the blackness of the night. It was dark like the soul of the average hasher. It was dark like…
Wait, what’s that? Beer near?
Yea, verily, my fellow Vikings! I have seen the light!
We arrived in a clearing, and Coochie ordered the Dragons and Vikings to again engage in battle, this time in a tug-o-war. And those not participating in said battle were armed with water balloons, all the better to distract their opponents.
I, a crafty Dragon, procured all of the water balloons and began to distribute them amongst my fellows. Purple Passion tried to do something called “sharing,” which Vikings and Dragons most certainly do not do. She and I engaged in our own tug-o-war, and in the end, I’m sure, once again, the Dragons reigned victorious, and if anyone wants to disagree with that, then, well? Maybe one of the Vikings should fucking take over the laptop and contribute to this hash trash, but none of you motherfuckers are, so I suppose history belongs to the dragons.
We did some more running, which I’m sure Sensititties can tell you all about, right?
Sensititties, here. Sorry, I’m easily distracted. By boobs.
It was dark. Very dark. Roots reached up and grabbed us and stones and giant trees sprang up in our way. Thank God PortaPoundMe had a headlamp. Bless his tiny, tiny penis. He and the handful of Dragons who had similar magic lights saw us through the woods and into the parking lot of the Rock Island Fitness and Activity Center where the hounds split. Flaccid cocks headed don 24th avenue. The few Rigid cocks among us charged through the shiggy woods. We all emerged in the same place, though. Some scratched, bleeding and sweaty, some still glowingly sexy. Into a field where Coochie read out final instructions. . .
Traffic Tops: The valiant Dragons once again took on the puny Vikings, this time in a contents involving some sort of Jell-O shot relay. You know what happens next. The Jell-O shots were delicious, and the dragons won. And again, if any of you Viking motherfuckers disagree with his idea, then maybe you lazy sons of monkeys could try writing some hash trash. Seriously. The laptop is right here in the bar, and any of you fuckers could jump in at any time.
Yeah, I didn’t think so. So, we Dragons utterly destroyed the Vikings and pillaged all of their villages and made them do Scandanavian shit like putting together entertainment centers from IKEA or whatever. One thing is certain: we all ran on-on.
We ran to the finish line, and everyone touched our asses. And we liked it. And we celebrated, as Vikings (and even better, Dragons) do, by drinking to the FRB, the FBI, and the dozen beautiful virgins. Strap-On was crowned this week’s Cum Dumpster. And that brings us to the present moment, in which we are all at Bier Stube helping Chuck Snorris celebrate his dirty thirty by drinking the sweet milk of Valhallla.
With horns on their heads.
Head? Who said head?
Traffic Tops and Sensititties
Back to School Hash – August 17, 2012
Back To School Hash 68
August 17 2012
Quad Cities Hash House Harriers
As the days are getting shorter, and there is just the hint of crisp autumn nip in the air, children in Bettendorf are packing their backpacks with fresh spiral notebooks, unsharpened number two pencils, and diagonally cut peanut butter and jelly sandwiches ready for another year of learning in the classroom. And as they walk the sidewalk, past the well manicured republican lawn of Mr & Mrs Drew P. Wiener, (sorry Booblay) on the way to the bus stop, their innocent hearts, full of curiosity and wonder, will have no way of comprehending the fresh chalk and flour markings of what was a bold and intoxicated Hash adventure through the most prude of the Quad Cities. The type of good time unbecoming of a PTA member or any other pillar in the community. Shameful.
We gathered on a Friday evening at Pints, a small pub located just on the wrong side of the tracks in Davenport. Hashers greeted each other excitedly after a long Summer Vacation (it had been 9 whole days since our last Hash). All of the usual characters were there. The jocks, the nerds, a few just back from band camp. Purple Drank, who dressed as a crossing guard ( a crossing guard legally forbidden within 500ft of a school or daycare) made sure we all made it through the parking lot safely. Too many sexy schoolgirls to mention caught my eye, but none more alluring then Scatastrophe in long blonde pig tails, short skirt, and a wild look in his eyes. I tried to avoid the creepy lunch lady with the hairy mole one her face, but Purple Passion was quick to ding-dong us all with her sloppy joe spoon. The new kids (virgins, 2? Maybe 3?) stood nervously in the corner hoping to not be noticed but I did see plenty of them take a rapping between their thighs with the yard stick.
Raw Deal, never afraid to stand up in front of the classroom (even with his awkward erection) blessed the trail and our two wonderful Hares, Rearview & Smell Me, took off… after ten minutes, with no one around to stop us we ran in the halls after them, one girl with scissors!
We curled through a series of strip-mall parking lots and quickly came upon BEER NEAR! at Los Agaves Restaurant. We all were pretty hungry but didn’t feel like waiting around 50 minutes for a table, so our mob instead pushed through the isles of booths and tabletops seated to capacity with wholesome family types and stacked ourselves 6 deep against the bar. The staff was surprisingly tolerant of us as each elbowed to the front to down pitchers of margaritas and beer. Back outside we graced the patio with a rendition of O-R-G-Y-! and were on our way.
The trail turned east into the residential streets of Bettendorf. After a 6 mile long straight away we were lost. As a few Front Running Bastards took off in every direction, the mob did their best to not get a ticket for loitering while waiting on the street corner. They waved nervously at minivans and sports cars passing by and tried not to step on anyone’s lawn. Finally Two Pack (who was really on his game that night “brown-noser”) found the faint pink chalk scribble that led us to Paul Norton Elementary School and BEER NEAR! We drank our beers and sang that song where we have sex with a dead lady. Fathers at the near by park held there kids a little closer, and had to answer questions like, “What does Fuck mean?” on the way home.
One family did approach us, and after initially panicking as their adorable little daughter smiled and walked right into the middle of our vulgarity, we discovered they were cool and typically jealous of our fun. “As soon as I push out this baby I’m totally doing this!” said the very pregnant mother. A light bulb turned on in her husband’s head as he recalled a “Patriotic parade, or some sort of 5k… definitely under-the-influnce, stumbling through our back yard a few weeks ago.” (Olympic Hash. I have heard stories of Hash Sightings from many confused Quad Citians lately, and I like it. We are like Big Foot… Sasquatch Hash?)
Next we got lost again, were distracted by a radar gun trailer (18 mph, is the official Hash Record), ran through more nice neighborhoods, wheel barreled each other through a busy cross walk while Purple Drank held traffic for 10 minutes, stopping cars 4 blocks deep with his orange flags (Bettendorfians don’t question authority. Bettendorfers?) Twisted Bangs definitely did not ask permission to use the restroom when she decided to pee in the front yard along the busy street. She did hide herself well behind some giant round evergreen shrubs, but did not escape the view of the two confused corgis in the large picture window. Another long straight away (I blame Rearview).
At last BEER NEAR! at The Clubhouse. Seeing the keg and stack of cups, Hashers quickly flipped a switch to ON AFTERS mode. Coochie threw herself on the oversized sofa, and her sweaty posse quickly piled on. We played Jenga, intense matches of foosball, we pet the turtles, and Hashers knocked a few balls around (mostly on the golf simulators). Finally, the group realized the Hares were nowhere to be found… a keg on trail?! This assignment is unfair! While a few panicked (me) others stepped up to task at hand. It’s a little too blurry to name names but I do remember this, one hasher after another keg-standed that full keg dry like their final grade depended on it. (Full keg, Hash Fact). Let it state on Eroticus Maximus’s permanent record that he is the current keg stand champion (27sec, official Hash Record).
And oh how we celebrated! Once the Hash Heros had done the heavy lifting, I having done no kegstands myself, held the empty barrel over my head. Jubilantly we danced, we fondled, we stumbled (really it’s amazing no one broke a hip on the beer soaked concrete floor). The people of Bettendorf in crisp dress shirts tucked into their pleated pants looked on, jaws open, confused and amazed. It is the same uneasy look you see on my face before every Hash. Years of being raised in Bettendorf can leave you too afraid to act a fool in public.
(Okay “House Pimp” it’s time to have “Fun”… Heel – toe. Heel – toe.”)
We woke up Erocticus on the couch and we were ON-ON.
The sun was setting as we steered our course toward the horizon. As Hashers this is when we hit our stride. Too inebriated to feel our legs, too blind to look both ways for traffic, laughing too hard to realize we are tired, and our stomachs somehow no longer sloshing with booze. Full steam ahead we charged west on 53rd street. If it was not for that bag of wine I believe we would have caught our Hares… More groping, lot’s of ding dongs.
It was around this time I hypothesized that Smell Me had put a full keg on trail to slow us down long enough for him to get a room at The Staybridge Inn Suites near Pints and seduce Rearview. While I thought this was hilarious it made most other Hashers uncomfortable. I suspect it was because my fondness for Smell Me’s handsome well kempt beard was showing through.
Story Problem: If two Hares take of in the same direction, both running in a straight line & subsequently 10 minutes later a pack of drunken Hashers stumble after them, how long will it take for them to arrive at the same destination?
Answer: It depends if they stop at McDonalds.
It’s going to be a great year!
Purple Hash – August 8, 2012
That was a lot of fucking purple.
Purple pants. Purple suits. Purple sports bras. Purple tutus. Purple hair. Purple Drank’s purple beard. Purple cups full of beer. Purple balloons covering Scatastrophe and Venus Thigh Slap. Purple sunglasses. Eroticus Maxiumus’ purple tights, bulging with what was absolutely his purple veined dick, and most certainly not a sock, no sir.
And while we’re on the subject, quite a lot of penises. But I’ll get to that. Let me assure you, friends: Traffic Tops NEVER forgets penises.
The point is: purple. There was so much purple it was like going suit shopping with The Joker. There was so much purple it was like standing in the middle of Prince’s closet. There was so much purple it was like a Barney the dinosaur orgy. I know, an orgy takes teamwork, but in this case, it also takes purple.
And, in conclusion, purple.
Okay, fine. I’ll keep writing, because I know you want to hear about the penises. Seriously, I’m not going to forget about them. Calm down.
Anyway, we gathered at McManus Pub, and although many hashers had never been there before, it was pretty easy to be sure we were in the right place on account of all of the purple, which I really cannot stress enough, there was a lot of. Eight virgins were ready to be sacrificed. Two of them had pinned cereal boxes to the front of their shirts (guess what color their shirts were!), along with a bunch of grapes. What’s up with the cereal? They were serial grapists. Welcome to the hash, virgins! You obviously get us. Tits R Treats joined us as a face on a stick, and Strap-On as a hermaphrodite blow-up doll, which is how he would have wanted it.
Purple Passion advised us to look for purple flags on trail, to try to collect packets of purple Kool-Aid for a prize (if you are worried, I will tell you now that the prize was not mass suicide from cyanide-laced purple Kool-Aid), to ding-dong each other where the trail was marked with DD, and to grapevine across the street where it was marked with a GV. Luckily, these instructions were fairly simple, as hashers can be quite dumb sometimes.
Don’t get defensive. Objectively, it’s true. Like, for example, when Raw Deal was trying to explain to us what hash marks look like and we were too distracted by a purple beach ball to pay any attention at all. We are all lovely people, but as a group, we be stoopid.
So, we started running, and in a surprising show of competence, did not get lost heading to the first stop. I know, I’m proud of us, too! The trail led us up a steep-ass hill, where a group of small children cheered us on. Purple Drank later told me that he told the children that “a race” would be coming by and that they should make sure no one took the “prizes” he had hidden in the woods. Since the “race” was a bunch of degenerate hashers, and the “prizes” were beer, I’m sure the children will be just fine and not at all scarred for life. Let’s not worry about what they might have thought of the cloud of beer-scented purple glitter that ran past them.
First task! Two teams of five were issued pool noodles, also known as lap hogs. Each participant was to shotgun a beer through the lap hog, then straddle said hog and run up a hill. While this happened, the other hashers were to drink the rest of the beer and give grape Ice to the virgins.
In a foolish move, Raw Deal selected me for his team. Friends, I am good at many things. I am good at folding t-shirts into perfectly congruent rectangles, explaining complicated software to new users, baking sugar cookies, and naming stuffed animals. I am not good at chugging beer. (Drinking, yes; chugging, no.) But I did not want to let my team down, so obviously the smart thing to do would be to cheat. As Raw Deal and Cock Fight did their legs of the race, I inconspicuously drank about half of my beer. When it was my turn, I handed my beer to Veer Off Wang, saying, “Here, this one is already open.” Sweet, innocent VOW evaluated the weight of the beer and thought, “Gracious, this beer feels light! I would hate for Traffic Tops to not get her fair share!” So, he opened a full beer and poured it through the lap hog for me. Why? Because hashers are dumb, that’s why. So, I did my best, down-downed that bitch, mounted my hog, and ran for it. And I can tell you that it felt quite wet and slippery between my legs. What? It did!
On we ran through another dirt trail, down a steep set of stairs, and under a bridge. There, a bottle of Purple Passion was waiting for birthday boy Three Way Fiasco. While we helped him drink it, Moon Pie and several other gentleman hashers jumped up, grabbed hold of the under girders of the bridge, and shimmied across it. I thought that looked like fun, too, but I wanted a challenge, so I went ahead and had Scat climb on my back (like Yoda in The Empire Strikes Back), and zipped to the end and back. You didn’t see it? That’s a shame, because it was amazing.
The trail then seemed to lead us to the Economy Inn. Several of us got it into our heads that the Purples wanted us to go to the bar in the hotel, so our horde of purple dumbness dutifully wandered into the hotel looking for beer. Now I know that with a name like Economy Inn, you think the place is going to be VERY fancy, but I’m sorry to say that perhaps this particular establishment has seen better days. It smelled like Cheetos. Purple Passion’s sister said, “Wait, this can’t be right. [PP] is a total germophobe. She’d never come in here.” It’s a good thing she thought of that, because I think we were seconds away from being murdered by those creepy twins from The Shining.
Having dodged that particular bullet, we found another circle under another bridge. And now, here is the part of the hash trash you all have been waiting for: there were penises hidden all over the place! Purple Passion and Purple Drank were visiting an adult book store, trolling the bargain bins for discounted sex toys (like dildos with only one ball) and DVD’s (dubbed in Korean with German subtitles), and discovered a treasure trove of heavily discounted penis paraphernalia. There were penis whistles, penis squirt guns, and little naked penis parachuters. So! Many! Penises! As you can imagine, we were delighted. The boy hashers seem to be quite fond of their own penises, and we harriettes LOVE penises. I showed off my own naked parachuting man, and Hashionista and Dreams of Cream decided he needed to be more purple. DOC lubed him up with spit (resourceful lady that she is), and Hashionista sprinkled purple glitter on his nether regions.
I then realized that I was so distracted by the penises (penises, yay!) that I was not paying attention to some kind of hash challenge that was occurring at that very moment. This also could be attributed to general hasher dumbness. Considering that I had already said I would write the hash trash, I figured probably I should know what was up, so I asked my fellow scribe Sensititties. Sensititties not so helpfully said, “I don’t know. Something with purple Jell-O and dog bowls. But come look at this!”
My mother has always told me that when you are under a bridge surrounded by penises, and a man says, “Come look at this,” no good can come of it. Well, you were right, Mom. You were right. Sensititties led me to the remains of a deer, missing an eye, which apparently at one point had a purple flag in it. It was horrifying, and you’re welcome for the mental image. Desperate to un-see what I saw, I downed a purple Jell-O shot and looked for more penises.
More running, this time to Parkside. The Purples paid tribute to Coochie by having a shot of Tequila Rose for her, along with beer for the rest of us. NFN Marlo looked strange, almost unrecognizable, which I later realized was because he was wearing a shirt.
Hares are always afraid they’ll be caught and resort to a number of tactics to avoid such a thing (forgetting that it is unlikely, given how dumb hashers are). Purple Passion and Purple Drank have topped all other hare attempts to outsmart hashers by arranging to have a train cross our trail. Kudos, Purples! Raw Deal wisely diverted our pack of morons with, “I Used to Work in Chicago,” rather than toying with the train.
When the train had at last passed, we found our way to another task. There, we hashers proved ourselves utterly incapable of dividing by two, taking a ridiculously long time to split into teams. We paid absolutely no attention to the instructions, which had something to do with passing beers behind our backs and shotgunning them with a flabongo, because we were too busy playing with that damned beach ball and our new penis toys.
Somehow, we got through it, and then 95% of us immediately lost the trail. By Hash Miracle™, we found stop #5. There, hashers had to put on enormous pairs of men’s underpants, stuff them with purple water balloons, and run a relay race. Also throw water balloons at each other, also drink bags of wine. That was an awful lot of directions for such a pack of idiots, but we got through it just as the suckers who somehow remained on trail joined us.
After an exhausting run across the street, we came to our final task. All the lucky hashers who’d found purple Kool-Aid were narrowed to a smaller field with a brutal game of Rock-Paper-Scissors. The finalists raced up to the top of the parking garage, and I have no idea what happened up there, but I do know that X-Rated came flying out of there on an adorable purple bike, a beautiful smile on her face.
OMG, finally we made it to the bar and to the Victory Tunnel! There, we serenaded all, named NFN Jason Loose In the Caboose, and covered each other in purple glitter. And played with our penises, but that part probably goes without saying.
I never meant to cause you any sorrow.
I never meant to cause you any pain.
I only wanted to one time to see you laughing.
I only wanted to see you laughing in the purple rain,
Olympic Hash – August 2, 2012
In 700 BC, the Greeks invented athletic contests and held them in honor of their gods. I believe they also drank. These were the first Olympics. And so, 2700 years later, 34 members of QCH3 gathered in Bettendorf to honor their god, beer.
On the second day of the games the Greeks held a foot race. And so QCH3 held a longish, slowish run commemorating the efforts of the ancients. All of this was the brainchild of the hares, House Pimp and Rearview, and can be attributed to Rearview’s insane affection for the Olympic Games. By the way, hashers, it is the Olympic season and you can watch muscular Olympians from every country compete for glory, honor and the favor of Zeus on every television station and on the Internet. There’s something for everyone, including, boxing, running, gymnastics and cheating at badminton.
So we gathered in Bettendorf. We circled. We blessed the trail. We introduced ourselves to four virgins. We drank both beer and jello shots. Then we were on the trail. We were on the trail for exactly ten seconds before we found the first of eight events. EIGHT EVENTS, so I may not recall them all clearly, this is hash truth, though, and an official record. What write here will define quadrennial hashes for the rest of time and it is HASH TRUTH. It is also backed by the thunderbolt of Zeus. Dispute it at your peril.
At the first stop we were required to spell something. I’m not sure what. I just rolled around and groped people. Refer to the pictures which were masterfully taken by Moon Pie perched atop a children’s jungle gym. Then we were onto the trail in earnest, gymnasts, and swimmers, ancient Greeks and modern hashers. We darted through some Bettendorf yards (we were noticed), and onto the lily white streets of the poshest of the Quad Cities.
The hares laid a trail that quickly took us off the streets of Bettendorf and into the wilds. There were fields and trees, several playgrounds, jello shots and beer. The Olympic Hash included several notable events:
1. Olympic Dog Greeting. Each and every hasher entered a dig park and introduced him and herself to each and every animal in the park. The dogs were true to their nature and most accommodating. Tight N Bright was true to HER nature and refused to leave them until dragged away.
2. Swimming. Cock Fight, Eroticus Maximus, Moon Pie and one other brave hasher took to the deep in order to fetch beer, drag it from the bush, and haul it home. Cock Fight was particularly heroic in this endeavor. Yes, Eroticus, you found the beer in the bushes where no one of us could see you. I believe you. Really.
3. Gold Digging. Who knew that Purple Drank had such a nose for booze. It’s a total surprise to me, but it was he who waded a stream to unerringly locate a bottle of Goldschlager hidden in the poison ivy. Purple Drank is a hero in my estimation.
4. Somersault Racing. Still dizzy. Everyone disqualified.
5. Wrastling. Moonpie and Bumps-N-Grinds lathered up with baby oil to strive for Olympic glory. In fairness, I think BnG can hold her own in almost any contest, but thought that a small amount of support was required considering the Moon Pie’s advantage in reach. I smell baby oil as I write. Moon Pie holds the wrestling title in his well-oiled grasp.
6. Triple Jump: D-Magnet showed us how it is done, The rest of us fucked it up.
Oh, we also drank a fair bit, which is why I can only remember five events.
Eventually, it was on to the ancestral home of House Pimp (where his parents live and his hot sister was waiting for us). Up to the very tip (just the tip, though) of Mount Olympus upon which the house is perched, and down the wettest slickest slip of a slide that ever was. I did my best to plant my hand on every ass that flew down the hill, so check your ass now, hashers, for the red hand of Sensititties. Treasure it.
We moved on to Caddy’s for circle time, food, camaraderie and awards. We are content in our victories, for when one hasher wins, all hashers win.
Trifecta/Ragbrai Hash Trash 7/26/12
All good things come in threes (amiright, Three Way?). Three wishes. Three wise men. Three blind mice. Three-toed sloths. Three nipples. Whatever….you get the point, three is awesome. So of course when three hash groups of Iowa cum together, it is glorious. (Side note: there were actually hash groups from Texas, Maryland, Delaware, etc. etc. in attendance as well, so really more than a threesome….can I get an O?) These are the hash facts as I remember them, if you disagree, you can suck it.
With Her Bait as our captain, Sex Break, Chuck Snorris, NFN Jazmin, and yours truly travelled to Cedar Rapids and met up with fellow QCH3ers Rack City, Porta Pound Me, NFN Nathan, NFN Jay, House Pimp, and fashionably late Rearview. We found ourselves in a park where there were inflatable jumpy things and a magic show going on for children and were at first confused by all of the innocent laughter and frolicking, but soon found a group of degenerates in the back corner of the park with coolers of beer and Apple Pie shots and then knew we were in the right place. We were all quickly ushered to sign in and throw down some hash cash, and realized that QCH3 may be the least organized of any hash group. I know we have a sign in book in existence, but I think I’ve only seen it twice? This group was ON IT. Every trail, every hasher….crazy. And as if their incredible organization wasn’t impressive enough, the harriette then opened up her trench coat to display all their merchandise for sale! Socks, cozies, t-shirts, Rolex watches, diamond rings….seriously guys, these groups are legit. But no other group rolled up in beautiful white-ish headbands proudly displaying their names, so we’re still winning. I’m convinced that they don’t wear headbands because literally every other hasher had the words fuck, shit, dick, cock, cum or cunt somewhere in their name. It took us months to even make a Cum Dumpster headband! I almost felt like a virgin all over again. Almost.
We circled up, learned there are way more hash marks than my simple mind can process (did you know other hash groups use BVC, be very careful, to warn their hounds about dangerous intersections?! silly), found out there is a thing called “Chain of Pain” that the FRB from the previous run has to carry on trail (let’s do this!), and saw chad and beer poured on the feet of virgins (the Coochie yell and point might be scary enough). There was no blessing of the trail or Pledge of Inebriation….it felt sinful and un-patriotic. The hares were then off after giving us the delightful news that this would be a very short trail in honor of all the overachievers riding Ragbrai. You guys are cray, but I’m forever thankful that because of you there was a much shorter distance between us and beer. A Texas harriette flashed her boobs at a train, and then we were ON ON.
It was approximately .276 miles (but without Eroticus and his garmin, who really knows?) before the first beer near. We followed the hasher with the voice like thunder (Fucking Beaver Shit or something like that I think his name was?) as we were quickly ushered out to the patio of the bar. We found boxes of Bud and Miller Lite and sang and heard hash songs from around the U.S. Her Bait….we need the crabs song and the huge twat version of it’s a small dick added to our rotation….go! Our angelic voices and laughter called out to other hashers in the lovely town of Cedar Rapids as we had several more join us for the rest of the trail. Down down we did, then on on we went.
A song check and another .38 miles brought us to the second beer near. We had to give the password to the door guy (still don’t know what the password was..) and we received tickets to go retrieve our beer. At this point the 9 servings of trail mix Sex Break, NFN Jazmin and TnB consumed on the ride there were starting to digest, so duh, we were hungry again. NFN Jay to the rescue! He first scavenged us some garlic bread and then told us he was going to go find a “mom type” and whine about how hungry he was to get food. I must admit I was skeptical, but I soon found him, SB and Jaz peep peeping on some nachos at the bar, so apparently it worked! A successful con and nachos (and maybe several beers) are all it took to get that man on the dance floor and OWN IT. He seriously got jiggy with it (do people still say that?). There was also a beautiful song about Jesus hashing being sung….Her Bait…we need that one, too. Down down. On on.
Another song check (I ? these), .282 miles, and a Rearview brought us to our final beer near. And at this stop, the hash gods were shining down on QCH3 in particular because they gave us High Life!! Really Mama and Papa, we are all either really well-trained or brainwashed because no group of people has ever grabbed for that champagne faster. We also got to ice some virgins, which never gets old. And then a horrible thing happened. I have yet to hear anyone say “down downs are great, but you know what would make it better….” because, come on, how can you mess with the perfection that is beer chugging, especially when it is Miller High Life? But one hasher (sorry, I really sucked at remembering people’s name without headbands!) did mess with perfection and down downed a beer….WITH HIS NOSE. A full beer. All of it. My nose hurts and my eyes water just thinking about it. The rest of us down downed our beer the old fashioned way, and then we were on on home. Until…
So you know sometimes when we’re running and there is a statue or landmark or tree or sign that we feel we need to stop and climb and take pictures on? We found a stack of inflatable jack o-lanterns. Unusual for July, but we just celebrated Christmas, so who are we to judge? Of course NFN Jazmin and Sex Break did it right and stopped to thrust on said jack o’lanterns (we did so much thrusting for you, Hashionista!) and I, of course, took pictures. And then we realized why there were Halloween decorations. A man, nay, a MONSTER, came slinking out of a nearby building, whipped out a baseball bat, and started banging it on the ground. I love haunted houses, but I’m also a wuss and I was terrified. I think I ran faster than I ever have ever and I wasn’t even thinking about trying to find beer anymore. That thing chased me down, started breathing down my neck and banging his bat on the ground until, in an act of unwavering bravery, Sex Break came to my rescue and ding donged that beast. I mean, she ding donged him good. Or so I hear…I couldn’t really see it while I was laying on the ground crying in the fetal position. SB, I am forever in your debt. But I’ll only pay you back in sex breaks. Deal?
After I peed my pants, we jumped back on trail and made our way back to the park for circle time. We sang to our lovely hares, saw the Chain of Pain passed on to the new FRB, celebrated the brilliance of the DFL , and then sacrificed some virgins! Mama, we were so ready to yell and point at those virgins in your absence, and we did! But guess what else happened? Those virgins were showered with beer straight from the mouths of deflowered hashers. Her Bait….that song too, yes. Sex Break had long and beautiful eye sex with one of those virgins while we all watched. Someone finally sang a song to Rearview about small boobs. Each hash group had their moment in the spotlight to sing a song, and I don’t even remember what we sang, wah wah. What I do remember is that when we got back to the park, those jumpy inflatable things were deflated and knowing how much hashers like to play, that was not okay. As they were inflating back up I heard one hasher shout with glee, “I can’t believe they filled these back up for us!” And I was never prouder to be an effing member of QCH3 because I knew Chuck Snorris and Her Bait were the ones that pirated the shit out of those inflatables and brought joy to all. Well done, you two.
We played. We had jello shots. We drank beer. We climbed stuff. We danced (good, like, really good). We ate a million pizzas and Chinese food and gyros.
And the moral of the story is, hashers everywhere are wonderful, but there’s no place like QCH3. See you mofos next week!
A Hash Trash Carol, Christmas in July Hash, July 25, 2012
It was Christmas in July, a time of joy for all hashers… save one.
Ebeneezer Cum Dumpster was a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous, old sinner without the spirit of Christmas in July in his heart (the sinner part was pretty awesome, but otherwise, he was a dick). While other hashers made merry, Ebeneezer Cum Dumpster simply complained about the hash. The hashers insisted, “A Christmas in July hash will be awesome! We can wear ugly sweaters, and maybe the hares will leave us peppermint schnapps!” Ebeneezer Cum Dumpster tossed his beer can to the ground and scowled, “Bah! Humbug,” refusing to join in the hashing festivities.
That night, Ebeneezer Cum Dumpster entered his home, a dark and dank place. In his bedchamber, he heard a mysterious noise.
“Hey, what’s up,” said a voice. “We are your two old hashing partners , now long departed.”
“Shouldn’t we just say that we’re Sensititties and Twistin’ Bangs and that we’re going to hare this bitch?” asked Sensititties.
“Dude. Traffic Tops is trying to do a literary homage here. It’s Charles Dickens (heh, dick). Can you just go with it?” responded Twistin’ Bangs.
“TT, is that true? Which one of us is Jacob Marley, then? And who is Ebeneezer Cum Dumpster in this story? Is that Veer Off Wang? I’m confused.” Sensititties wondered.
“You guys are both Jacob Marley. It totally worked in A Muppet Christmas Carol to have two Marleys, so I’m doing it here. Ebeneezer Cum Dumpster is just a metaphor. Also, quit asking me questions. I am trying to be an omniscient narrator here,” said Traffic Tops.
“Let’s get back to the script, Titties,” said Twistin’ Bangs. “Ebeneezer Cum Dumpster, you have lost the spirit of Christmas in July hashing, and you totally need it back because you’re being a miserable bitch. Tonight, you will be visited by three spirits.”
“And they are Jose Cuervo, Jim Beam, and Jack Daniels,” added Sensititties helpfully.
Twistin’ Bangs sighed. “They are the ghosts of Hashing Past, Hashing Present, and Hashing Yet to Come.”
“Heh. Yet to come,” snickered Sensititties. “Heed their lessons, Ebeneezer Cum Dumpster. On-on!”
“Humbug,” scoffed Ebeneezer Cum Dumpster. Then suddenly, a chill filled his bedchamber as the first spirit arrived.
“I am the Ghost of Hashing Past,” intoned the Ghost. “Hold tight to my headband, and see the glories of hashes long gone.” Ebeneezer Cum Dumpster did as the ghost commanded, and with a “Whoosh!” they were transported back in time, and to another place.
“Hey, aren’t we in Chicago, at the old department store?” asked Scrooge. “I used to work here.”
“That’s right,” answered the Ghost.
“A woman came in to see Santa,” recalled Ebeneezer Cum Dumpster.
“To see Santa, at the store?” wondered the Ghost.
“Santa she wanted, my North Pole she got. I don’t work there anymore.”
Whoosh! The ghost transported Ebeneezer Cum Dumpster to past hashes. He saw Strap On lifting his red dress to show off the good china. Whoosh! He saw dirty fucking pirates hoisting a trophy. Whoosh! He saw Coochie grinding Dreams of Cream (he saw that one a lot). Whoosh! He saw Scatastrophe pulling himself up on various vertical objects throughout the Quad Cities. Whoosh! He saw several hashers experiencing temporary blindness from Bud Light Platinum. Whoosh! He caught Her Bait’s frisbee. Whoosh! He watched a mud-coated Hashionista hugging clean people. Whoosh! Three Way Fiasco was pelted by a water balloon. Whoosh! Soaking wet hashers chugging Rum Chata. Whoosh! Beer! Beer! Beer!
“Okay, spirit. I get your point. Hashing is pretty fucking great. But it’s July, and it is not Christmas,” scoffed Ebeneezer Cum Dumpster.
“I will take leave of you now,” said the Ghost of Hashing Past, “Not only because my time with you is done, but also because Traffic Tops has been going on for a really long fucking time and has yet to get to the actual hash at hand.”
Just as Ebeneezer Cum Dumpster muttered, “Humbug,” the Ghost of Hashing Present arrived, handed Scrooge a beer, and Whoosh! Took him to Poor Boys.
There, Ebeneezer Cum Dumpster saw festive hashers gathered on the patio, drinking pitchers. “This is the hash of the present,” intoned the Ghost. “You are going to see how much it kicks ass.”
Whoosh! The hashers raced to the first circle, where they became minty fresh with Peppermint Schnapps and risked life, limb, and coppus chaseus by retrieving Her Bait’s Frisbee from a barbed wire encircled area. Whoosh! The second circle offered some seriously goddamn delicious Jell-O shots (seriously, what did Twistin’ Bangs put in those things? Vodka, Jell-O, and heroin?) and a rousing rendition of “Frosty the Pervert.” Whoosh! The hashers arrived in hash favorite bar Kavannah’s.
“Have you guys noticed that Ebeneezer Cum Dumpster is just whooshing from place to place,” asked Sex Break. “That is totally bullshit because it is a billion goddamn degrees out, and the rest of us are running. I am kind of pissed at this omniscient narrator.”
Sex Break was clearly forgetting the awesome power omniscient narrators have, as the narrator rewrote the hash trash so that she had to run the entire hash in a pair of black leggings that probably made her sweat to death.
“Fuck. Never mind, narrator. Carry on.”
“Spirit, who is that lovely harriette over there?” wondered Ebeneezer Cum Dumpster.
“That’s Tiny Coochie, our hash mama,” replied with Ghost.
“Why is she suffering so?”
“Tiny Coochie has allergies and asthma that are kicking her ass. See, Raw Deal is leading her home.”
Tiny Coochie was heard to say, between sneezes, “Bless us all, every one!”
“Please, spirit! Will Tiny Coochie be okay? I must know!”
“How would I know? I am the Ghost of Christmas Present. I can say that your being a miserable prick and complaining about the Christmas in July hash isn’t exactly helping.”
Whoosh! The hashers arrived in front of the library at Augustana. The hares had devised a clever method for slowing down hashers: make them do math. First the hashers were directed to divide into 8 teams, a process which took approximately seven hours. Then it was discovered that there were only 5 pairs of pantyhose, so the hashers reformed into five teams, which took another four hours. The further finding that there were only four packages of balloons prompted the hashers to hit the Hell With It™ button and just get to work. The task had these directions: drink, blow, stuff, and run. That is, drink the wee bottles of flavored vodka. Blow up the balloons. Stuff them into a pair of pantyhose. Put said pantyhose on your head (who said head) in manner of antlers, and run to the snow-ringed tree and back. The hashers performed admirably, especially considering that it was as hot as the surface of the goddamned sun, and vodka isn’t exactly known for its hydrating properties.
Whoosh! At Lincoln Park, the hashers were faced with another task, this one simpler. Drink yet more flavored vodka, unwrap Hershey’s Kisses while wearing gloves, and eat the chocolate. This task left the hashers’ mouths full of sticky goo, like a harriette after a night on the town.
Whoosh! Dehydrated and spent, the hashers made their way across the campus of Alleman High School. Smell Me currently holds a position (yeah, he does!) there as the hottest math teacher in the history of the world, and such did his best to keep a low profile.
The hashers stumbled across the street to the Corner Tap. There, Hashionista retrieved an enormous box (not a euphemism for vajay) and handed out sweaters for awkward hasher pictures. The hashers drank the beer, but also enthusiastically ordered pitchers of Virgin Vodka (also known as water). D-Magnet was de-lighted to be handed an enormous beer, rather than the Virgin Vodka he was hoping for.
Whoosh! At last, the hashers returned to Poor Boys. Ebeneezer Cum Dumpster looked on as they sang to a civilian, congratulated FRB Purple Drank, watched FBI’s Free Willy and Tight-N-Bright grind (which was not at all creepy, given that they’re sisters), cheered for DFL Strap-On, and welcomed the virgins. Ebeneezer Cum Dumpster wiped away tears as he watched hashers fill in for the departed Tiny Coochie in screaming at the virgins.
Just as Ebeneezer Cum Dumpster was starting to enjoy On After, the third spirit appeared and wordlessly moved him to the future. Through a window, Ebeneezer Cum Dumpster saw the silhouette of a lone person, sitting on his sofa, watching Big Brother on TV. “Spirit! Who is this pathetic bastard? Can he not be saved?” The Ghost of Hashing Yet to Come simply pointed to the mailbox, which read Ebeneezer Cum Dumpster. “Noo!” cried Ebeneezer Cum Dumpster. “No Olympic hash? No Purple hash? No Viking hash? Please spirit! Please give me another chance!”
Ebeneezer Cum Dumpster was back in his bedchamber. He walked out the front door and called out to a small boy playing outside. “Please! Tell me what days is it today?”
“Why, it’s the 25th of July,” replied the boy.
“The 25th of July! Why then I’m not too late! Boy, do you know that case of beer at Hy-Vee?”
“The one that’s bigger than me, sir?” asked the boy.
“Delightful boy,” chuckled Ebeneezer Cum Dumpster. “Yes, that’s the one. Bring it to the hash. And Merry Christmas!”
And so, Ebeneezer Cum Dumpster learned the spirit of Christmas in July Hashing and kept it in his heart. Tiny Coochie made a full recovery. There were many years of hashes, and Ebeneezer Cum Dumpster stayed true to his love of the hash, running many a trail, and down-downing his beer.
Bless us all, every one,
Tubing Hash Trash tahe 2 July 19, 2012 from the back of Scat’s truck.
Corn. Nature’s toothbrush. Gyrating. Jogging. Rain. Beer. Boobs. Don’t drink the water. Dress. Mexican.. Fucking birds. Nature. Pirates. Rauders. Lost shit. Rock river. Rain. Lost a lot of shit. Egggggggggggs. Also The Purples in a motorized canoe. Drunkenly submitted,Cooch
Skin Tight Sex Hash Trash*: July 19, 2012
*Warning: Long and Hot Hash Trash follows. Consult a physician before reading this if you have a heart condition. If, after reading this, your erection lasts more than four hours call your friends and brag.
It was a sultry evening when the Quad Cities Hash House Harriers gathered at Mac’s in Davenport, Iowa to get lubed up before the Skin Tight Sex Hash. Each and every hasher, there were 40 of us there, knew what was cumming would be hot, wet and sticky. Each and every one craved it. I know mine was not the only loin astir.
You know what they say. . . “Anticipation makes the hard on longer,” and we were patiently trembling in anticipation while we blessed the trail and the hares. It’s best not to run, or break sex, with strangers (not safe), so as Skin Flute, Tight-n-Bright and Sex Break took their tight sexiness onto the trail, we began an epic round of introductions.
Each hasher was in his and her tightest outfit. Bulges and ridges, clefts and curves abounded in the circle beneath all the clinging apparel. There were a tremendous number of viiirrrgiiinsss! to whom I say, don’t worry, it only seems kinky the first time.
Ten minutes seemed an eternity, so when we finally charged through the narrow doorway it was with the brute and eager force of a thick and heavy battering ram breaking into virgin territory. But just the very front of our column made it out the door before we found a circle. Frustrating? Maybe a little. But beer was near, and beer is a social lubricant. Really, you can’t have too much lube, can you? So we lubed some more, down-downed our beer, then hit the trail with rhythmic strides, feet pounding and slapping through Davenport’s downtown to Lindsey park and the bike trail. Along the way we began to find wonderful surprises left by our coy hares: pictures of hashers in enticing and sexy poses struck at previous hashes littered the trail! One of the best things about a good sex hash is the novelty, and this was a novel little treat!
Our second stop was behind John O’Donnell Stadium where strong young men swing hard timber and balls fly every which way. TitsRTreats read from an eloquent little note and we quickly located a piñata and a weighty cudgel. We enlisted the help of some of the denizens of JOD Stadium to tie up our piñata, then Twstin Bangs took a swing and weakened the thing A LOT. Free Willy went next with a blow that was calculated to compromise the shell. So it was really nothing for Scat, in his skintight red suit, to bring it home and bust the piñata all the way open. Candy and alcohol flew everywhere. NFHN Jazmin used her innate knowledge of piñata breakage and Mexican reflexes (Speedy Gonzalez?) to pick up roughly half the liquor before any of us could react. Never fear, though, there was Tequila Rose in the mix, and your Hash Mama got at least two bottles.
We down-downed everything under the watchful eyes of baseball fans of all ages and we were onto the trail again. Snaking our deliberate way along the bike path, sweat began to drip, our skin began to shine, our eyes were bright, clinging fabric became moist and breasts, asses, balls and cocks began to bounce and swing freely with the renewed rhythm of our steps. Then rising over the horizon out of Centennial Park was the most perfect conical hill. Davenport’s nipple. I was there first, and I circled the hill. I was careful to go deliberately. I used some force, just enough, but disciplined myself and hung back just a bit so the others could see me. When I found our third circle, I pushed hard for the tip of the hill with firm purpose. With the firm mound beneath seeming suddenly even taller and more perfectly upright, I flitted across the level surface and called for the pack.
I’m not absolutely certain that TitRTreats pulled our third note from her glistening bosom, but this is how I choose to remember it. Repeatedly. She read us a note from our fare hares to simply PLAY. So the wet got wetter. Some small children watched us closely.
They will never forget us and are destined to become porn stars.
We, however, had more beer to drink, so we were on the trail once more. On-on into the shig we had been promised. Dry and dusty shig it was, but hashers love a shiggy trail. On the trail we were! And the trail opened before us! Wide, just a little rough, a bit stubbly at the edge. I began to get a funny feeling just below my navel. I know I’m not the only one. We called to each other. Something was close! We could feel it. All of us! Our pace quickened. On we pounded. Faster! On! Faster! On! Faster! On. On. On.
And we were on circle number four. Tits read to us once again and we were into the weeds for beer and a tightly wrapped box. A gift of July Christmas from our harriettes! Sweaters, jello shots, beer and cabbage! Just what we had been hoping for. Thank you! Thank you! Oh, God, Thank you!
Many a hasher’s mouth found its way to those hard little cabbages. Hot, eager tongues edged pudding shots from their holes. There was slurping and swallowing.
Somewhat awkward pictures were taken. Then a deep long whistle sounded. What was this? A train! The worlds’ shortest train. Possessed by the impulses of a true hasher, NFHN Jason charge to the tracks and played chicken with the train. Hashers, it is said that kinky is using a feather and perverted is using the whole chicken. NFHN Jason is a pervert, a pervert who has never seen how Chris O’Donnell buys it in the movie Fried Green Tomatoes. Fortunately he does not yet possess the alcohol-dulled reflexes of a core hasher. This will happen, though. He laid an offering upon the track and sprinted away while receiving abuse from the train engineers.
Harriettes like it rough, and those were some rough neighborhoods we ran into next. Hard men with hard eyes, and, yes (sigh), hard bulges in their trousers, watched us run though the industrial part West Davenport where we found a cute little place. I think I may have had sex on the hood of a car with two or three of you before we busted down the door and demanded beer? We collected ourselves and eyed the regulars. They were a little afraid of us and a little excited. Or maybe startlingly indifferent. It was hard to tell.
After we downed our beer, we were on again. On again, and feeling the excitement build once more as we turned east toward the on-after. Slowly, but steadily, buildings rose on the horizon, straight and tall. Upright. Erect. Filled with promise.
There was a last stop, though, hashers, an unprecedented fourth beer stop. The name of the place escapes my fully-blown mind, but we partied under the rainbow flag and under watchful (male) eyes and it was good. It was different, but thrilling. And we began to vibrate again with renewed vigor and eagerness, so we were on once more.
Some bodies jiggled others throbbed. It had cooled down, but it was feeling suddenly warmer as we picked up our pace into downtown. We jogged north for a block, then were on the straightaway, on to the warm embraces of Skin flute, Tight-N-Bright, and Sex Break. On into the tunnel of love they were building for us at the front door, once more, of Mac’s.
From here, hashers, you know how it goes. There’s groping and tongueing and licking and clawing. Slapping and screaming. All the usual stuff. There’s also circle time, though, and a final climax! I must mention four, FOUR, namings:
– NFHN Kyle is now Cock Fight.
– NFHN Wade has been christened Deep into V
– NFHN Eric is known as Chuck Snorriss
– Henceforth NFHN Jacque can only be called Pickle Snatch
Not surprisingly, I need a nap.
Dash Trash, July 14, 2012: Warrior Dash
Way back when I was a senior in high school – when Traffic Tops was just a glint in Raw Deal’s eye and I was just “Betsy” – I found myself at an all-school assembly to learn about Project Graduation. Project Graduation was a party designed so that after commencement ceremonies, we would all have a safe place to Have Fun And Not Do Drugs™. The presenter assured us that it would be great fun, adding, “Many people say that it is the best party they’ve ever been to in their lives.”
I remember thinking, “I seriously doubt that will be true, at least not in my case.”
Similarly, the Warrior Dash promises to be “The craziest frickin’ day of your life.” Seriously, it says so on their website. As hashers, our lives have considerably more crazy frickin’ days than those of civilians. (And we would not be afraid to say fucking.) Indeed, throughout the day, it fell upon the mighty warriors of the Quad City Hash House Harriers to show the legions of no fucking name bastards around us how it is done, hasher style.
Dionysus was smiling upon us when we arrived at the Dash, because with thousands of vehicles there, all hash transports happened to park near each other. We circled up and hoisted both the Jolly Roger and several beers, wisely hydrating before the race. It’s also important to carb up before an endurance event, which we did by eating many, many rummy worms – I’m sure Coochie can confirm their nutritional value for us. Science!
Civilians walked past us and gawked with interest. Is it okay to have a pirate flag? Where did they get all of that beer? Is playing Frisbee in the parking lot… allowed? Are these hashers doing that thing we’ve heard about called, “having fun?” As we launched into a rendition of “A Harriette on the Trail One Day (Yo Ho)”, several of the civilians looked on with nervous smiles on their faces, thinking, “Yes, that does look like fun. Could I do that?”
It was time to line up for our race. Several harriettes stuffed rummy worms into their bras, for later. As you do. We passed the Beer Recycling Station, and Free Willy asked, “Can we get a bathroom break?” Sex Break immediately wondered, “Can we get a sex break?” Porta Pound Me was already scoping out that situation, but I don’t think Rack City was into it. Or maybe she was; I can’t watch them all the time. No judgment, either way.
We lined up and continued to demonstrate Fun for the civilians, placing muddy handprints on Dream of Cream’s glorious ass, shouting out several rounds of “Head?” and, of course, pledging inebriation to the Quad Cities Hash House Harriers. Jets of fire signaled that we were on-on. Note: Raw Deal, please look into the possibility of getting us fire cannons for future hashes.
It was blazing hot in Des Moines that day, and long stretches of the trail offered no shade or any hint of a breeze. And because it apparently hasn’t rained in hundreds of years, every step kicked up clouds and clouds of dry dirt. All of us agreed that mud would have been much better than what we were experiencing. The dry dirt clouds began to accumulate everywhere, and it was not pleasant. If I wanted a mouthful of desiccated dust, I’d blow Hugh Hefner, am I right?
Obstacles were no match for hashers. A rope bridge was met with a, “Well, will you look at that? That is neat.” Purple Passion informed us that the early settlers thought pine cones were tree poop. Fact! Science! History! The civilians smiled nervously. Were they making jokes? Was that allowed? Surely it’s not okay to play Frisbee along the way, is it? Wouldn’t that slow people down? And when Her Bait opted not to climb over the old cars, but rather to open their doors and crawl through them, the civilians wondered why they had not thought of such a thing. Because they’re not fucking pirates, that’s why not.
All hashers know that the best kind of party is an orgy, and that an orgy doesn’t happen without team work. After every obstacle or two, we’d circle up and gather the troops. It should be noted that House Pimp and Rearview did their best to curb their natural speed and stick with the group. I think they only beat us by an hour or so.
We crossed creek beds that should have been full of sticky slimy mud. Many of the hashers became disoriented, having never run for so long without a beer. But we persevered, and came together beautifully (that’s what she said) on the giant warrior wall, cheering one another on, especially Purple Passion, who threw in some spectacular stripper moves as she descended.
Just as the hashers were about to burst into song about the S-H-I-T-T-Y T-R-A-I-L, we discovered the final two obstacles. The penultimate obstacle (penultimate means “fucking awesome,” you illiterate fools) required hashers to leap fire. Boom, done. What else have you got?
OH, YEAH: IT’S ABOUT FUCKING TIME. Mud! We dove into a muddy trench of barbed-wire topped shig and swam/crawled our way through. NFN Marlo felt like he was back in the ocean, and gamboled about like a happy little fish. Veer Off Wang may have had mud kicked in his face and was temporarily blinded, but he pushed on. We then clasped hands like the loving family we are and crossed the finish line. Huzzah!
We drank this stuff called “water,” which is kind of like vodka, but not as fun. Then of course, we took some pictures, because what is a hash without photographic evidence?
What to do next? We found our way to the hose (the hos were already with us) and were thinking about cleaning up, but we got distracted. NFN Marlo and Veer Off Wang began a mighty mud wrestling match, and Hashionista, and more harriettes than I can count piled on. The civilians watched in interest. Was this more of the “fun” they had read about? Was it allowed? Then we forgot all about the plan to get cleaned up and decided to go drink beer instead. Smart plan!
As we hash together more and more, we learn of each other’s special Hash Talents. Skin Flute, for example, is a master of the hula hoop. Purple Drank can sniff out a Beer Near, and Veer Off Wang is a professor emeritus of down-downs. At the Warrior Dash, we learned that Porta Pound Me is amazing at eating turkey legs. That boy can suck a meat popsicle clean like nobody’s business. And yes, OBVIOUSLY we have agreed that at some point, a hasher needs to be named Meat Popsicle, so let’s toss that into the mix next to Cum Dumpster, mmkay?
Hashers continued to demonstrate this notion of Fun. Obviously, drinking beer was part of it, but so was playing tug-of-war, leading a huge group of people in the Dougie, and scoping out the hotties around us. Hashionista took it upon herself to seek out the cleanest people she could find and defile them with her filthy, muddy hugs. Hashers! We’re here to help!
The afternoon grew long, and the beer grew warm. It was time to head (who said head?) out. I drove my mud-caked self back to the Quad Cities to prepare for a Traffic Tops Family Vacation, and the other hashers, all tuckered out, got into their cars to return to the hotel. It was probably close to 7:00 PM by the time they got back, so I imagine they all showered and went to bed, and absolutely no fun happened after I left. I’m sure no one will dispute this Fact™.
And speaking of Fact™, the fact is, as hashers, we have fuller life experiences than civilians do. What is the craziest frickin’ day of someone else’s life is just another day at the office if you’re a member of the Quad Cities Hash House Harriers. We did not have to run the Warrior Dash to be warriors. We were already warriors. Now we just have the Viking helmets to prove it.
Shootin’ at the walls of heartache, bang, bang; I am the warrior,
Hash Trash, July 11, 2012: Mario Hash
“To give anything less than your best is to sacrifice the gift.”
Let’s just get this out of the way. Bisexual Healing and Good Vibes have never hared a hash before, and it became perfectly clear during the Mario Hash that they were depriving us of a truly amazing gift from the great hash god, Dionysus himself. The level of precision and the complexity of the gameplay that they brought to the Mario Hash was truly astounding, making this particular run a shoo-in for Nintendo Power magazine’s coveted Video Game-Themed Hash of the Year. If you were considering a Frogger or Sonic The Hedgehog hash, you might as well just pack it in now.
I’m getting ahead of myself, aren’t I? It happens.
The hashers gathered at Roosters Bar in Rock Island, dressed in an impressive array of Mario-themed costumes – from multiple versions of Princess Peach, to mushrooms, to a Koopa Troopa only a Hashionista could create, to warp tunnels, to bombs, to mystery boxes (possible euphemism for vagina, btw), to Yoshi, to Luigi, to our hero himself, Mario. Three-Way Fiasco was Wario, and for a good half hour, I was sure that his purple overalls were the greatest goddamn thing I had ever seen… until later, when I saw something even more awesome.
New hares Bisexual Healing and Good Vibes, along with Mentor Hare Free Willy, instructed us to look for coins and mystery boxes on trail. Then they took off, and once again, like a bunch of morons, we failed to pay attention to which way they went. After quick rounds of introductions (and also beer), we cried, “Here we go!” and raced into the night.
We quickly found the trail… and our first level, at Murphy’s Bar. A Hash Hush™ fell over the crowd, and every single one of us murmured, “I have always wanted to go in that cave.” Tight-N-Bright read from the player’s guide and showed us a key, with instructions that we must not lose the key. Why? I have no idea, and honestly do not remember that key coming up ever again. Those tricky hares! Also, the cave was locked. Cue level ending music from Veer Off Wang.
The level was complete, and we hit save quick before moving on. The second world was Desert World. T-N-B’s player guide gave instructions: Three-Way Fiasco was to dress as a desert bear (as you do), while the rest of us chugged box wine and pelted him with water balloons. Remember when I said that Three-Way’s purple overalls were the greatest goddamn thing I ever saw? Wait, you don’t? It’s three paragraphs back. You bitches SERIOUSLY need to work on your reading comprehension. Anyway, the point being, the purple overalls were eclipsed by the spectacular sight of Three-Way Fiasco pulling a furry brown Snuggie over his purple overalls and attempting to run away from a barrage of water balloons. As for the wine, it was cold and fruity (like a guy I once dated). Level complete, and on on!
Fucking Bowser carried Princess Peach up a big fucking mountain, apparently, and all of our calves screamed for mercy. We spent a few minutes resenting the hell out of the hares, but then we found the next level. Isn’t amazing how Jell-O shots will cheer you right up? And the hares went all out, color-coding the Jell-O according to beloved characters and drawing little icons like mushrooms and 1-ups on the sides of the shot glasses. See what I’m saying: they have a gift, a gift that must be shared with the world.
After we powered up with the shots, it was time for a Battle Royale. Each hasher got a balloon, and we were instructed to pop one another’s balloons, without having our balloons popped first. This was surely some kind of personality test. Some of the hashers were relieved to have their balloons popped so they could get out of the fray. Others were aggressive, finding plastic sporks and other weapsons to pop others’ balloons. Still other hashers did their best to blend in to the background, biding their time until most of the competition was eliminated. In the end, we narrowed the field to the playground equipment, and Bumps & Grinds informed the remaining players that the wood chips were lava and could not be stepped on. In the end, I think it was Purple Drank who prevailed? Was it? Fuck if I know; let’s say it was Purple Drank.
Now seems as good a time as any to note a new bit of enjoyment the hares introduced to the hash: icing the virgins. At each level, a bottle of refreshing Smirnoff Ice was presented to a lucky virgin, who was, of course, required to drop to one knee and chug said Ice. Seriously, you guys: why the fuck did we never do this before? I’ll tell you why: because Bisexual Healing and Good Vibes were depriving us of their fucking gift, that’s why.
On on! The next level was tucked away in a beautifully manicured back yard. The hashers rejoiced when they saw tarps, dishwashing liquid, a hose (not a euphemism for penis, at least not this time), and a set-up for Flip Cup. We divided into Boys vs. Girls, and each hasher slid across the soapy tarp, chugged a beer, and flipped the cup. I am sorry to say that the Boys won, probably through use of some kind of cheat code.
Tragedy struck level five: someone stole the booze. Hare Mentor Free Willy later reported that there was beer, plus a big pitcher of Hawaiian punch and vodka. I bet it was delicious. But what was not stolen were the Mario Karts and weapons for the next challenge.
And it is here that your scribe Traffic Tops must pick a bone (euphemism for handjob) with all of you sons of bitches. Remember at the Fifth of July Hash, when the hares were all, “You should make Mario Karts and run with them?” I KNOW YOU GODDAMN REMEMBER IT, YOU DEGENERATES. Everyone was all, “Great idea! I’m going to spend all day building my kart!” I know I did… but then when I arrived at the hash, I was the only one with the ovaries (ovaries are just as cool as balls) to hash while wearing a kart. GODDAMN IT.
I knew you were all a bunch of dirty fucking pirates; it’s what I expect of you. I can’t stay mad at you. Hash hug? With reacharound? That’s better.
So, anyway, eight hearty hashers donned their karts, and raced around the track. The other hashers pelted us with banana peels, silly string, and the like. When pelted, we were required to spin around two times, then continue running. And guess what? I totally won! I was, like, a mile ahead of everyone else. And if you remember differently, then you can write the hash trash next time, bitches. Because when I write it, I WIN, SUCKAS!
Up, up, down, down, left, up, a-button: level saved, and on on.
We arrived at Ghost World, light a few hashers who somehow wandered off. There was beer (complete with Mario Brothers stickers, because these hares are really fucking talented), and of course Virgin Icing. And then the player’s guide told us to just run back to the bar. Excellent work, hares. At that point, we all know where the bar is, so let’s just get our asses there for down-downs, am I right? You know I am.
Sex Break and Dream of Cream wedged themselves into Purple Drank’s warp tube (all of that was a eumphemism for sex, obviously) and minced their way back to the bar; the rest of us ran more conventionally. And there, at the bar, was the final challenge. Goddamn Bowser was there, with a big water gun. We hashers needed to defeat him with water balloons to save the lovely Princesses Peach, and even more importantly, the beer.
I hope you all have learned a valuable lesson from this hash. If you have the talent, the aptitude, and the faculty to get your fellow hasher drunk in beautiful, creative, and entertaining ways, you have the responsibility – nay, the DUTY to share that gift with the world.
5th of July Hash Trash:
The hashers are cumming! The hashers are cumming!
Cum we did, brought forth by the call of Moon Pie and Bumps & Grinds. It was for a rare 8:00 PM hash run that QCH3 gathered at Kavanaugh’s Hilltop Tavern for the 5th of July Hash. Each of us was bedecked and bespangled in red, white and blue, and each of us looked ahead into the steamy night and saw pyrotechnics, beer, and jello shots.
As is our custom, we circled to bless the trail, but given the momentous occasion BnG requested that we begin with the Star Spangled Banner (https://www.facebook.com/
Then the hares’ 10 minute grace period expired and we were on trail in our flag-bound glory, crossing the street and hitting the trail. Within minutes we lost then regained the trail, before finding our cooler and our first round of pyrotechnics in an apartment building parking lot. Eroticus Maximus pulled a sodden envelope from his scanty shorts and read to us of rebels and tea parties before we downed our beers and blew up the parking lot with an impressive array of sparklers and heavy grade bombs.
The trail turned south then west across the top of the hill until we came to Reservoir Park in Rock Island. Again Eroticus read, again there were fireworks and, again, there was beer. Let me pause here, gentle hashers and say there have never been more reliable hares than Bumps and Grinds and Moon Pie. At every stop there was booze and fire. All the booze was on ice. All the missiles fired. All promises made were kept. It is worthy of note that at this stop we had not just ice, but dry ice. Tight-n-Bright used this to tattoo her forearm (https://www.facebook.com/
From Reservoir Park we charged onto 20th street and uphill to Lincoln Park. Again EM yanked an envelope from his shorts and, amid patriotic babble urged us on to the ghetto playground at the bottom of the park. Enroute I gave Mama and Papa a little ride on the merry go round and thought how much better if we had some Scat power or a Rambo boost to really give the equipment a whirl. When we arrived at the bottom of the hill, what did we find? Beer? Maybe. Booze? Not quite. What is most memorable, hashers and strikes all other beverages from my memory, was the most amazing red, white and blue jello shots! Dainty, cute, and so fucking patriotic that every hasher dripped a bit wetter. Under the watchful eye of Rock Island’s finest, parked just across the street, we slurped our jello and played nearly to our hearts’ content. Then it was On and On again.
Hashers do you remember the Red Dress Run (http://qch3.com/
There IS air condition at Cool Beanz, but we’re hashers by golly! And there were fireworks to be had, so we went outside to circle, serenade BnG and her Pie-ness for the shitty trail. Also sang to the FRB (was it Three-Way Fiasco?), the FBI (NFN Jacque (again)), the virgins and the DFLs (cool-chested Robin and NFN Matt?). We toasted the dirty fucking pirates who pillaged the Hospital Bed Race barely a day before. We sang a round of Yogi Bear. We were joined by BnG’s upstairs neighbors and nearly killed them when our post-circle pyrotechnics fired into the crowd. At this point BnG’s neighborman went back to his apartment to smoke a tremendous spliff, the police came but seemed unimpressed by the threat we pose. BnG sweet-talked them and they drove off into the night. Eventually, so did each and every hasher.
Isn’t this a great country? ‘Merica!
Hash Trash, July 4, 2012: Firecracker Run Hospital Bed Races
“Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate’s life for me.
We pillage, we plunder, we rifle and loot!
Drink up, me hearties, yo ho!
We kidnap and ravage and don’t give a hoot!
Drink up, me hearties, yo ho!”
Avast, me hearties, for I have a tale to tell ye of the heroic adventure by the dirty fecking pirates of the Quad Cities Hash House Harriers. It was a steamin’ day in July when our crew of scurvy dogs marooned on the shores of East Moline. The crew soon learned that the landlubbers were engaged in some sort of sportin’ tournament. The promise of glory and booty lured us away from our cache of doubloon-hued beer to show those bilge-sucking dogs what pirates can do. Y’aar!
Led by Cap’n Sensititties, four teams of hearty pirates we formed, outnumberin’ the addled fools of the landlubbers. At the sound of cannon fire, gangway! The pirates were off! Against teams of saucy landlubbers in tutus, squabs in Elvis jumpsuits, and bilge-sucking lubbers with no theme at all did the pirates race!
Flying the QCH3 Jolly Rodger, our ships we sailed down the road, and around a cone and back. A bonny pirate wench did leap off the plank and to an obstacle race. Handsomely the wenches did traverse a treacherous course of tires, a tiny bike, and a pit filled with balls and a hospital gown afore racin’ back and divin’ back onto the ship. Shiver me timbers, and the pirates did reverse their course, down the road, around the cone and back. All the way, the other pirates did lay siege with water-filled cannons, silly string, and in the case of me proud beauty Purple Passion, star glitter.
The mighty pirates did swab the poop deck with team after team of landlubbers. And sink me, I must say that several teams of pirates did fall as well. Dead men tell no tales, but they do continue to drink the beer and yell for their fellow pirates.
Finally, but one team of landlubbers did remain, the shark bait blaggards known as Brooke’s Boys, who had won the booty in the previous contents. Our addled band of pirates consisting of Purple Passion, Purple Drank, Bench Press, Senor Rambo, and Cap’n Sensitties vowed to avenge their fallen crew members and win the treasure. No quarter would be given.
Cap’n Sensitties gathered all dirty fecking pirates for final words of encouragement. Said he:
“Good morning. In less than an hour, aircraft from here will join others from around the world. And you will be launching the largest aerial battle in the history of mankind. ‘Mankind.’ That word should have new meaning for all of us today. We can’t be consumed by our petty differences anymore. We will be united in our common interests. Perhaps it’s fate that today is the Fourth of July, and you will once again be fighting for our freedom… Not from tyranny, oppression, or persecution… but from annihilation. We are fighting for our right to live. To exist. And should we win the day, the Fourth of July will no longer be known as an American holiday, but as the day the world declared in one voice: We will not go quietly into the night! We will not vanish without a fight! We’re going to live on! We’re going to survive! Today we celebrate our Independence Day!”*
And with a mighty Y’AAAR, the pirates did rise up as one and did vanquish those foul landlubbers and win the booty. Our treasure was one broken trophy and endless glory. All bands of pirates did celebrate, for when one hasher wins, EVERY HASHER WINS! The beer we did pillage, and hash shanties we did sing.
“We’re rascals, we’re scoundrels, villain, and knaves!
Drink up, me hearties, yo, ho!
We’re devils and black sheep and really bad eggs,
Drink up, me hearties, yo, ho!”
*Not pirate-themed, but too awesome to pass up.
Hash Trash, Luau Hash, June 22, 2012
It has been said that Hawaii is paradise. That’s why it seems only fitting that one of the absolute best hashes ever had a luau theme.
The natives of the QCH3, along with quite a few tourists (also known as virgins), gathered at the Edenic estate of one Three Way Fiasco. We were also graced by the presence of the Two Captains: Underpants and Caveman. Clad in the beautiful colors of birds of paradise (this observation is not limited to Twistin’ Bangs’ hair), the hashers prepared for the run with the usual beverages. Raw Deal did his best to explain the rules of hashing to all assembled, but the natives were restless, the tourists were confused, and we were working hard to find our way to Drunk. Eh, whatever; we’d figure it out.
And so we took off through the sun-drenched streets of the Isle of Rock (that’s Rock Island to you, kids) in hot pursuit of Three Way Fiasco and Free Willy. The hares were obviously terrified of our sweet running skillz, because they had a task for us about four feet after the start.
And thus, the first Battle of the Sexes challenge began: a hula hooping contest. The boy hashers attempted to stack the odds in their favor by cramming their full team of five into a single hoop. But I’m pretty sure they touched pippers and got nervous, so they reverted to the original plan, which was to pit five hashers against five harriettes. Skin Flute stepped up first for the ladies, and her skill? It was prodigious, bitches. One by one the men fell, while Skin Flute calmly kept hooping. Then, a family of onlookers decided to give it a try. The woman proved almost as talented as our Skin Flute, so the hashers lei’ed them before running on.
Every single one of us promptly and confidently ran several blocks in the wrong direction. We were beating ourselves up over our group stupidity (note: not a euphemism for orgy in this case) when we got good news: BEER NEAR.
The hares left us a cooler of beer and Jell-O shots, along with instructions for Round Two of the Battle of the Sexes: dizzy bat. The women, once again, utterly destroyed the men. And speaking of things we utterly destroyed, that beer did not stand a chance. Tight-N-Bright reminded us that all beer needed to be consumed on trail, but that beer was long gone. And with that, so were we: ON-ON!
Did you know that the highest peak in Hawaii is Mauna Kea, at 13,796 feet above sea level? Duh, of course you did. Everybody knows that. It’s just a little something that was going through my head as the trail led us through the highest peaks in all of Rock Island.
It was on one of those peaks that we found more BEER NEAR, and the home of the lovely Good Vibes. Round Three of the Battle of the Sexes was ON-ON. It was a poi eating contest. What is poi, many of you dogs pondered. (1980’s alt music shout out, what, what!) Well, I will tell you. Polynesian poi is mashed taro root. Samoan poi is more of a dessert, made from mashed bananas and papayas. But this was poi native to the Isle of Rock, which near as I could tell was Oreo puddin’ shots. At this point, we harriettes were starting to feel sorry for the boys, so we let them have this particular win. I mean, please: like we could have lost with Dream of Cream on our team. And the boys, with their grinning faces covered in cream, looked as happy as five dollar hookers during Fleet Week.
In addition to Isle of Rock poi and beer, the hares left us more Jell-O shots! And instead of serving them in Dixie cups (or the citrus rinds favored by the Martha Stewart of Hash himself, Mr. Raw Deal), the hares provided them in hard shot glasses. Poor Boob Lay seemed utterly perplexed, apparently not used to having to work with something quite so hard. I demonstrated my winning technique. You see, first you’ve got to finger it, just a little bit, to get it ready. Then, it doesn’t work to just suck it. You also really have to work it with your tongue. So, finger, suck, tongue, and it’ll come for you. You’re welcome.
Always game for slightly inappropriate behavior, the hashers soon found themselves running past a church to a playground. Veer Off Wang discovered the cooler in the shig and accidentally knocked over the tray of shots of what appeared to be donkey semen/Bud Light Platinum shots. While he doled them out, Dream of Cream and I determined to face off against Eroticus Maximus and Sensititties in the Final Round of the Battle of the Sexes. The task was simple: suck down a margarita in a coconut shell. Then, balance said coconut shell between your two bodies, without using your hands, and run to the finish line. DOC and I totally rocked the house in draining that coconut, because if there is one skill in which women are indisputably superior to men, it is in drinking margaritas. We then quickly balanced the coconut between our own coconuts and raced for the finish line. Eroticus Maximus and Sensititties, coconut balanced between their turgid pork swords, were in hot pursuit. Obviously, DOC and I crossed the finish line first, creating a 3-1 victory for the harriettes.
It should be noted that Eroticus and Sensititties might remember the outcome of that particular race differently and believe they crossed the finish line first. To that, I say Sensititties shouldn’t have let me write the hash trash. Take that, suckas!
After a few minutes of playing on the equipment (not a euphemism for sex… at least I don’t think so; I wasn’t able to keep too close of an eye on Purple Drank and Purple Passion), we were ready to go. All of us were acutely aware of how close we were to the finish line, and we engaged in the always risky behavior of trying to get into the minds of the hares. Surely we’re going to turn left here. Straight? Son of a monkey!
After squeezing past Isle of Rock Academy (Rock Island High School to you mainlanders) and up Mount Kiluea, we finished the hash. All of us stripped down to our unmentionables as quickly as possible and cannonballed into the pool. It was glorious. We congratulated FRB Sensititties, FBI Tight-N-Bright, about 17 guys all claiming to be DFL, and serenaded the virgins. Reverend Raw Deal baptized Moon Pie, Bench Press, and X-Rated. We drained the flabongo (euphemism for blow jobs). And for on-after ate a ton of delicious food (shout out to Pokey’s bean dip), let Scat and Senor Rambo flip us around in the pool, and celebrated another night in paradise.
An attempt at Relay Trash: 6/13/12
The longest hash run in the history of QCH3 was in store for 10 fearless drunks as they assembled in a parking lot in central Davenport last Friday evening. Raw Deal, Venus Thigh Slap, Strap On, Scatastrophy, Smell Me, Sr. Rambo, Three Way Fiasco, Free Willy, and yours truly (Sensititties), assembled outside the hive home of Eroticus Maximus. Our ignoble steeds included a Green Econoline van of uncertain vintage and Three Way’s family Trailblazer.
We loaded our vehicles and split our party. In the Trailblazer were FW, 3-Way, El Sr., VTS, and the odiferous one. It was a sausage-fest in the van, with RD, Scat, EM, Strap On and I. Before we left, Missimus Maximus plied us with brownies, cookies, pretzels and other carb-loaded foods. Sr. Rambo demolished the brownies in the parking lot with very little assistance, and we were off.
Within the long green beast, we quickly broke the seal on cans of Miller High Life as
we hurtled west. And my schooling began.
Did you know, hashers, that there is a smartphone app called The Chive? That each
day to the Chive the most riveting and mind bending photos are loaded? That these photos contain the loveliest and the grossest, the most base and the most heavenly of people in the most compromising and revealing positions? It’s true. This was certainly news to both Raw Deal and I. There are some pictures which will never again leave my mind. Thank you, Strap On.
After at least two beers apiece and several hundred photos off the Chive, our tiny caravan pulled of I-80 in West Des Moines at 86th St. NW where I introduced hashers to Planet Sub. We received some excellent advice from the wee lad behind the counter and Venus Thigh Slap received a free sandwich.
Our bellies full, we loaded ourselves back into our respective vehicles. Over more beers, the men in the van quickly formed a secret society. I’m the words of the great runner, Forest Gump, “That’s all I’ve got to say about that.”
Time flew and the sun set as we neared Iowa’s west coast, and Sioux City. We checked into our motel around 11:30 and as we unloaded our vehicles, discovered members of another relay team. Two men, shirts tucked deep into shorts pulled well past the navel, walked past. These were gentle Minnesotans and members of one of the other relay teams. We were low on beer, though, and asked them for some advice on where to buy more. They had clearly never heard of nor purchased such beverages, so we locked them into their RV and went to a liquor store to resupply.
The motel was foolish enough to provide the 10 of us with two adjoining rooms. We quickly adjoined, cracked open our fresh High Lifes, and began to discuss matters with make me blush to recall. Those of us who had been in the Econoline quickly inducted the rest of the team into our secret society. The worst kind of adult videos were watched by the most youthful among us. I was entertained just by watching them scar themselves. Sometime during the evening Sr. Rambo consumed three pounds of pretzels that had been lovingly made by Missimus. In the wee hours, security came and gave us a stern warning about noise, threatened to throw us out then scurried away in fear. We stacked our empty’s neatly into a two-deep pyramid of Miller High Life, curled up together like piles of puppies and slept what was left of the early morning.
By daylight, most of us found our way to the pool area, peed in the hot tub, swam in the pool and had another beer just to wake up. We were on a mission though, so by 8:30 began to ready ourselves for a short drive to Sgt. Floyd Memorial park. Raw Deal was particularly pleased to view the tribute to the only member of the Lewis & Clark expedition to die. Truth.
It’s also true that the memorial represents nothing so much as a giant erect penis. That seemed appropriate to us since we all had hard-ons for the race at this point. Sorry, for the RELAY. We were told in firm language that the Relay Across Iowa is NOT a race. It is so.
We took pictures, made a pyramid and may have even sung a song or two before making a tunnel and sending Eroticus Maximus onto the trail as our inaugural runner. It’s worth noting that the race required us to wear reflective vests and a tail light at all times while also carrying a GPS locator on an elastic band. We quickly flaunted most of these rules as well as most rules of common sense that say you should not drink large amounts of alcohol while exercising vigorously in extreme heat. We are hashers, after all. It should also be noted that nine teams started ahead of us by as much as three hours. A team known as the DUMMIES, projecting a fast pace, started behind us.
Our first leg was nearly seven miles apiece for each runner, and crossed the noon hour. We were quickly passed by the Dummies who started right behind us. We ran in last position for several hours.
I was in a rhythm, a mile and a half into my first leg and sticking close to one of the DUMMIES ahead of me when I felt a sharp pain in my heel. Thinking it was gravel, I tried to shake it to a different part of my shoe. It was stubborn gravel, though, and wouldn’t move. So I stopped and watched the DUMMIE pull away as I removed my shoe and discovered blood and a piece of glass the size of Connecticut sticking through the sole. I couldn’t work it out with my fingers and had to use my teeth. It took a couple of minutes before I could do this then limp after the runner who was now a speck far in front of me.
Have no fear hashers, I did slosh through that first run, my shoe full of blood. Sensititties brought an extra pair of shoes, though, and his heels are not so sensitive as his sweet pink nipples. Also, Free Willy was waiting for me at the hand off with her mad trauma skills. She took my health history and applied a band aid. Venus helped me tie my bloody, perforated sock to the antenna as Scatastrophy receded on the eastern horizon.
And so we proceeded through night and day. Eroticus to Raw Deal, Raw Deal to Sensititties, Sensititties to Scat, Scat to Strap On, Strap On to Three-Way, Three-Way to (and this is where I’m a little fuzzy) Smell Me, Smell Me to Free Willy, Free Willy to Venus Thigh Slap, Venus to Rambo, Rambo to Eroticus. Over and Over. Across miles, over hills through sunrise and sunset. Any time our minds grew idle or our spirits lagged, The Chive revived us. Along the way we began to talk about slowing our pace. Each time we said we would do this we increased our speed. We ate up miles. We also ate up other teams, leaving them broken and gasping behind us on Iowa’s country roads. The relay is not a race, but we were running hard, kicking ass, ignoring names and drinking beer.
Not just beer, though, we also acquired a bottle of Templeton Rye and quickly broke the seal. It sustained the five of us in the green van through the hottest day, and we took it to our teammates in the Chevy and shared with them. I believe it was the whiskey which healed my perforated foot. It also healed Rambo’s broken leg, Free Willy’s upset stomach, and Scat’s badly bruised hamstring.
One of the greatest things about this run was the way in which the two groups picked eachother up as we charged across the state. There was nothing better than coming in from a hot run to nine hashers calling us into the exchange. No other team had as much fun as we did or cheered each other as much or as obscenely as did we.
Highlights included, sleeping under the stars in public parks, however briefly; drinking beer while another team drank power smoothies; one hell of a beautiful white stallion in the morning sun standing atop a verdant hillside; hiding our beers so we could have a couple of amiable discussions with the county sheriff; the way in which SCAT was ridiculously fast as we powered through short sprints at the end of the race, . . . er relay; and the race director’s inability to grasp how very much alcohol we consumed during his event.
Before we knew it, Tight-n-Bright, Her Bait and Skin Flute were by our sides, and we were cheering even louder through our final runs. Then we were awaiting Strap On to end his final leg at Eagle Point park in Dubuque, 337 miles from where we had started 49 hours before. We charged across the finish line at Strap On’s side, chanting O-R-G-Y, scarring Christian missionaries and children with our cleanest songs and having a truly grand time. One of the best. Truth.
Braveheart Hash 6/7/12
“In the Year of our Lord 1314, patriots of Scotland – starving and outnumbered – charged the fields of Bannockburn. They fought like warrior poets; they fought like Scotsmen, and won their freedom.” – William Wallace
Th’ quad cities hash hoose harriers gaithered, aiblins thirty strang, at th’ bier stube oan June 6 tae battle tyranny, declaur their humanity an’ bevvy a metric fuckton tm (nod to Traffic Tops) ay swally an’ assorted liquors. . . . The Quad Cities Hash House Harriers gathered, perhaps thirty strong, at the Bier Stube on June 6 to battle tyranny, declare their humanity and drink a metric fuckton TM (nod to Traffic Tops) of beer and assorted liquors. The most spirited defenders of freedom wore kilts and brought what weapons they had in their modest homes to join the battle for freedom.
Beer downed, blessings spoken, Scatastrophy and Raw Deal, our fierce hares, charged into the soft evening on the shores of the Mississippi. They did not depart, however, before laying the seeds of a schism among the hounds. (That means they split us up, you dirty-minded fucks!) Before they left, a conceited few were identified as English, while a dirty and desperate rabble were designated Scots.
Standing in our tartan Kilts, faces painted blue, the hounds completed introductions, discovering four virgins among the pack. Then, downing ale and securing our pleats about us, we headed out in pursuit. The trail flowed north first, quickly joining the bike trail and heading west along the river.
At the first circle, we heard a tale of beer in the shig and of a pending battle. Booze – something red – was quickly dispatched, mostly by the greedy English, and we were on.
“Aye, fight and you may die. Run, and you’ll live… at least a while.” – William Wallace (again)
Nane waur surprised when th’ trail split an’ sae did uir ceilidh, intae noble Scots an’ Sassenach bastards. . . None were surprised when the trail split and so did our party, into noble Scots and English bastards. Quickly, the Scots found an armory of water balloons among the junipers and launched an attack on the crude invaders. Battles among neighbors are sometimes forgotten quickly. Not, however, for Rearview and House Pimp, English both. They began pelting the Scots with cabbage, red and green, and shouting their disdain. This continued throughout the ensuing scenes and acted as a yolk and burden upon the Scots.
At the entrance to the slough, the hounds were pleased to find yet more beer near, contained by Raw Deal’s filthy (and well-used) silver steed. Also, another clue portending yet more bloodshed to come.
“Go home. Some of us are in this; can’t help that, now. But you can help yourselves. Go home.” – More William Wallace.
Ontae th’ green islain we strode an’ quickly separated ance again accordin’ tae uir national allegiance . . .Onto the green island we strode and quickly separated once again according to our national allegiance. At this point, Strap On, battle hardened tactician that he is, led the Scots through the woods to discover the dirty English ranged behind a wall in a dirty battle tactcis. Needless to say, the Scots attacked without fear, moistening the brows of many English and moistening themselves in the process.
From there it was On-On through the woods, and into the shadow of the radio tower – to yet more beer and an uphill climb for select champions. It’s difficult to say, in the heat and flying balloons of battle who wins in every case. In this case, however, suffice it to say, that our champions climbed and all the beer was consumed. By this point, also, several us had let some blood. Alas! Our mothers cry for us, but we were on yet again trekking along the wooded trail, and, eventually across the bridge to yet more booze and to a . . . VIRGIN SACRIFICE!
**Royal Magistrate: The prisoner wishes to say a word.
Jello shots an’ a swally bang awaited in yit anither cooler; an’ a wee host ay innocent onlookers watched as we took jello shots aff th’ hairy belly ay a bauld no-nam virgin.. . .Jello shots and a beer bong awaited in yet another cooler; and a small host of innocent onlookers watched as we took Jello shots off the hairy belly of a bold no-name virgin. Having endured this final trial, the hounds headed back to the trail and directly to the Bier Stube where the hares awaited. They spanked us all in with their broad swords, and we circled to celebrate Strap On as the FRB, Free Wily as FBI, and Porta Pound Me as DFL.
Most importantly, No Fucking Name Rolanda, was named Rack City, for obvious reasons (and with great appreciation on my part). Then Two Pack stepped to the center of the circle to rhyme an epic story about No Fucking Name Ali, and to bestow the name Sex Break upon her. Her grand children will be proud.
A barrage of announcements ensued and well sustained round of old Chicago was sung before the closing blessing from Her Bait released us to beer and (thank you!) food.
Hash Trash 6/2/12, Simple Dimple Hash
“Listen, hash children, and I will tell ye
Of the simple hash of QCH3.
On the second of June in the town of Moline
Clad in red shirts that mostly were clean
(Excepting B&G, of cake she did stink
And Free Willy, who decided to wear pink).”
Yes, gentle hash readers, I begin our tale by quoting the great poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, not only because the redcoats in his masterpiece “Paul Revere’s Ride” brought to mind QCH3’s red shirts, but also because both his first and middle name would make fucking killer hash names.
We learned several things in our gathering point of Twenty. We learned that Twenty does not sell pitchers, which makes it a non-hash-friendly environment. We learned that Free Willy claims to be a unique kind of colorblind that prevents her from distinguishing red and pink. And we learned that Raw Deal has trademarked the term Listen™, and each time someone uses it, Raw Deal earns five cents. With sufficient accounting resources (and the enforcement of a robust legal team), Raw Deal will not have to speculate how much money he’d have if he had a nickel for every time someone advised, “Listen™.”
Oh… and we learned that Scatastrope and Strap-On are dumbasses who forgot to bring flour and instead had a small amount of sugar with which to mark the trail. We wondered if they had enough to sufficiently mark the trail. Spoiler alert: they did not, at least from the perspective of the hounds.
No sooner had we started running that we got lost. This happened time and time again, with the piles of sugar few and far between, and with the hares concealing tiny chalk arrows in tricky places.
We finally made it to the first Beer Near and enjoyed a pitcher of oat juice while watching gymnasts wipe it on America’s Funniest Home Videos. Is watching AFV the most sophisticated venture we could have undertaken? Perhaps not. But if you can watch a gymnast smack her chin on the high bar, then knock her ass on the low bar, I don’t know what’s wrong with you.
On-on? Yes, on-on. But where in blazes are those markings? Oh, of course – as small as possible, written on top of a brick in a retaining wall. Where else would it be? Raw Deal and I agreed that this was a Total Dick Move.
Her Bait demonstrated some prodigious talent as a hasher. From across a busy street, he spotted a miniscule Beer Near fairly concealed under a shrub. He’s like Rain Main, only with useful beer detecting abilities replacing that bullshit math. He led us to an alley, where we found a cooler of beer waiting for us.
My beer measuring instruments have not been calibrated recently, but I am fairly sure the amount of beer left for us was a metric fuckton of beer. The cooler was stocked mainly with The Champagne of Beers, but there were also a few bottles of Bud Platinum. Did you know that Bud Platinum contains turpentine and causes temporary sterility? I read it on Wikipedia.
It took some time to get through all that beer, so we had an informal talent show. Bumps and Grinds sang for us, and it was truly lovely. Busted Noodle and NFN Lindsay drew a pearl necklace.
More importantly, NFN Brooke told us some excellent stories about her job as a Professional Ball Scanner. (I think her business cards might say Ultrasound Technician, and she should totally get that changed). Sounds like this lucky lady may have earned herself a hash name sooner than expected.
We finally finished the goddamn beer and took off running, which was difficult because we all had webbed feet, which is a side effect of Bud Platinum. The boys totally failed to produce in the Dick Check, but they did track down what at that point was better than a Beer Near: a Porta-Potty near. We checked quick to make sure Porta Pound Me wasn’t banging anybody inside and took advantage of the facilities. Our urgent need to pee was no doubt caused by the Stress Incontinence common to users of Bud Platinum.
Boob Check? Thanks, Bumps & Grinds!
We made our way back to downtown Moline, at this point thinking it would be easier to find Scat and Strap than to find any of their markings. Free Willy and I were dead positive that they would be at Poor Boy’s, so we ran as fast as we could. We were feeling incredibly smart and planned for her to be the FRB and me the FBI. These delusions of grandeur, I later learned, are a common side effect of Bud Platinum. Other runners actually did manage to track down Scat and Strap… but the hares sent them back to Christopher D’s, where more pitchers were waiting for us. We down-downed it as quickly as possible, then followed NFN Tom and NFN Paige to the finish.
The hares quickly bought our goodwill by sharing some pizza and by procuring 98% of the bar’s available pitchers. Circle Time was special, as we welcomed two virgins, and then turned NFN Paige to Skin Flute and gave NFN Tom and NFN Lindsay a rare matching set of hash names: Purple Drank and Purple Passion. For On After, a number of hashers joined us, wearing Civilian Clothes and smelling a bit nicer than we did (Bud Platinum increases one’s natural body odor, according to Wikipedia), and if you followed the command to Smell Me, you’d learn that he smells delightful.
Belated Disney Hash Trash 5/30/2012
Once upon a time, the three fairest ladies in all the land invited hashers of the Quad Cities for drinks, running, and merriment at their Hilltop castle, Kavanaugh’s. Princesses, fairies, beasts, superheroes, and princes RSVPed YES and showed up in their finest Disney attire.
After the pledge and a blessing (which we royally sucked at, sorry Mama Hash…we’ll do better next time!), our lovely hares were off and the hounds enjoyed many a beverage and introduced themselves. We welcomed a seasoned hasher, but QC virgin, D Magnet but felt a little empty with no real wirgins to sacrifice. But as usual, beer dulls the pain, so down down we did, and on on we went!
We followed a trail of flour and glitter (LOTS of glitter!) through the land of Augustana and down the slough path until our first circle and BEER NEAR! We were BLESSED with Miller Lite, which somehow magically turned our normally fearless and strong hash princes into some of the whiniest princesses I have ever seen. But between their sobs, they managed to choke it down and then we were once again off to chase our glitterified hares. But wait! Not long before leaving our beer stop, we found a bottle with, could it be? Champagne?! These hares be classy! And not only that, we found Frisbees a-plenty and a crown for NFN Tom, who never looked prettier!
After leaving the land of Augustana, we played it cool for a moment (as cool as a bunch of people dressed as Disney characters can play it) so the cop-us no chase-us, and then it was on on again! Of course our princess hares would never fail to lead us to a playground! Those Frisbees got tossed and Princess NFN Tom shared his champagne from a-top his tower with the peeping princesses down below.
On on again all the way to the castle Corner Tap and another beer near! Pitchers were down downed, glitter bombs were thrown, and hashers were getting DRUNK. This may explain why we then on on-ed for what seemed like miles and miles and missed treats and drinks and saddest of all, Disney karaoke at the castle of Traffic Tops! I knew Fairy Godmother B & G would NEVER allow such a long straight away, so it was clear in all of our hashing foolishness we messed up, but I was too busy being a knight in shining armor and getting my chariot to rescue our damsel…er, duke in distress Senor Rambo to be of any help on trail. Sorry lovely hares, again, we will do better next time!
Eventually every critter and royal hasher returned to the Hilltop castle, Traffic Tops rescued the goodies from her house to share, and we circled up for down-down. B & G and NFN Ian were mysteriously missing, so no shitty trail was sung to B & G after her first haring, but we still serenaded our beautiful Tinkerbell Coochie and Incredible Traffic Tops. NFN Andy stepped up as second FRB, and DOC just got in the center to support with glitter galore! NFN Bridget and FBI received a sweet melody for the last time as a NFN and has now become Poke n Sniff. DFL’s Strap On, Boob Lay, and Scat ran in holding hands as only true gentlemen do. TnB and Senor Rambo got called out for auto hashing (QCH3 first?) by QC virgin D Magnet, and then we sang to D since we had no other virgins to sing to.
And the rest is a blur of glitter and beer and pizza.
And they lived happily and drunkenly ever after.
Tight N Bright
Wetter is Better Hash Trash 5/28/12
Fresh on the heels of the out of school hash, QCH3 assembled for what NFN Alex,NFN Julie and TnB promised would be the wettest and bestest hash of all time. Clearly in league with the dark arts, the clouds darkened and rain started to fall as the start time arrived. Luckily for us, mother nature proved ignorant of the phenomenon of hash time. By the time we were ready to begin festivities, the rain had departed, leaving us damp and more than a little frightened of the supernatural powers of the hares.
Chalk talk was joined by two animals and one mythical creature: a portly dog with a propensity for knocking down trash cans to get at bits of candy wrappers, a small horse and a lovely mermaid who looked strikingly similar to TwistnBangs. Reverence greeted the pledge and prayer. The hares made vague comments about the first half of the trail and informed us that they would be using leaf and plant colored paint to mark the trail. Before we could raise any objections, the hares flew off.
The remainder of chalk talk was spent on introductions (three wirgins) and a particularly raucous version of yogi bear in which BoobLay had poor Cindy doing things that shocked even the most hardened hasher.
Off along a gravel trail the hounds ran until an arrow pointed ominously into the woods. Scat, never one to hesitate, dashed into the woods and, after an appropriate amount of hesitation, the rest of the hounds followed. We weren’t in the woods for more than two minutes before the sweet sound of “beer near” filled the air. A few more steps and we were greeted by a cooler filled with jello shots and beer and the game twister. The note instructed us to play twister until the booze was gone or someone felt violated. The hares were forced onto the twister mat and NFN Camille ignored the spinner and did her best to ensure that the violation occurred. She accomplished this mission in an impressively short time.
With only a few beers to finish, a virgin said that she wanted to shotgun a beer and needed something sharp and pointy. Before our mouths could form the words of an appropriate joke, Scat had dashed into the woods and found a screw. “You can use this dirty screw” he offered. At this point Wang’s head exploded from the joke possibilities. Beers were finished and on on we went.
Enter confusion, my old friend. We followed the trail up a creek until it became impassible. The FRBs dispersed and searched all the points of the compass for the trail. Hot Lips had a bout of insanity and insisted that we follow her back down the road where we started. Wrong. At some point, NFN Dave ventured into the depths of the shig and managed to find three spots of paint. Up the creek we ran, only to be greeted by a tunnel. I am almost sure no hasher was permanently injured as we passed through and ferociously consumed the bottle of booze on the other side.
On again… This time we passed through a big field. The FRBs were hot on trail and started yelling about beer. The other hounds spotted a different true trail and mutiny ensued. The FRB, thankfully, abandoned their ground and joined the hounds. Otherwise, we might have missed what turned out to be my favorite beer check.
The hares had led us to a pond and left a note indicating that there was beer in the canoes that were floating on the other side of the pond. Further, any hasher who retrieved the beer could trade it for clothing from the other hares. Splash. The mad dash to the canoes ended with Scat paddling with this hands while Three Way and I provided outboard power. We pulled the canoes to shore and, my heart filled with sweet expectation of Miller High Life, retrieved the prize. We were shocked to discover that, instead of MHL, the prize was that tepid piss water known as Miller Lite. The booze was distributed. A couple shirts were ditched to reveal sports bras, but all of the other harriettes refused to play this reindeer game. NFN Betsy bitch slapped the last beer out of Scat’s hand and off we ran.
So, it turns out that the FRBs were right. We ran directly back to the spot they had abandoned earlier. Scat grabbed me by the shoulders and said “we get to climb”. Sure enough, two bottles of booze rested beneath an obstacle tower. Three Way and I formed a ladder so that Scat could retrieve a climbing rope. Much to Strap On’s relief, Scat abandoned his climbing plans and a rope swing whirlwind ensued. NFN Dave had the sense to read the note left for this location. It instructed us to balance on a giant teeter totter. Mission accepted. Mission accomplished.
Stupid running. Stupid field. Beer near!
I had stayed behind to direct traffic, so when I arrived at the stop, Her Bait was prancing about a large field, frisbee in hand. He had that “I get to play frisbee” look that we all know and love. Before I could join him I heard a blood curdling scream of ” there are human fingers in the vodka”. A shell shocked hasher stumbled towards me with a bottle. I quickly assured the poor drunk that the “fingers” actually were hot dogs. We made a noble effort to drink that evil concoction, but failed. Thankfully, the pudding shots cut the taste. After a quick game of ultimate frisbee in which shirts dominated skins, we took off into the (now dark) woods.
The next stop had all the fixins for s’mores and a cooler. But, much like this hash trash, the trail was taking way too much time. We scooped up the supplies and kept running.
Within a few minutes we were greeted with a soapy slip-n-slide and our lovely hares. The usual insanity occurred. I’m fairly certain we managed to set a world record for simultaneous chimes while sliding between legs on a slip-n-slide. I have a call in to Guinness.
The hares pointed us to the pool area for circle time. Her Bait barely removed his shoes and splashed into the pool. A bottle of purple passion was tossed to him and I could tell by the look on his face that he had a trailgasm.
Circle time was a bit more chaotic than usual. This was not at all unexpected given that the hares had brought a playground to it. The clear highlights were the coronations of three hares. NFN Betsy is now our lovely Venus Thigh Smack. NFN Alex is now Hashonista. And, NFN Dave entertained us all with an impromptu rap after being named Two Pack. Her Bait could tell that the hashers were getting restless with so much pool nearby, so he released them into the wild.
The slide was opened and hashers slid and climbed away. Her Bait and I tried to play volleyball with the empty purple passion bottle. NFN Marlo showed up with a keg. Strap One looked sexy as hell in his speedo. You know, the usual.
At one point, I was standing next to the pool with Scat – towels wrapped over our shoulders, teeth chattering. It reminded me of when I was a kid, the whole of summer ahead of me, splashing loudly in a pool while the adults shook their heads and made comments about “crazy kids”. In that one little moment I realized what I like so much about my fellow hashers: none of us will quietly surrender to the monotony of work or the trials of age. It reminded me of my favorite quote by Jack Kerouac:
“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes Awww!”
…and I might have had a teeny little trailgasm of my own at that point.
School’s Out Hash Trash 5/24/12:
The days are getting long, the temperature’s rising, and Rearview is on the loose. Being a hasher, she assembled us at 6:30 PM at the 11th Street Precinct. Being organized and considerate, Rearview handed a 40lb pack of booze to Scatastrophy (to be opened later), “special” name tags to all the named hashers, and not so special ones to a host of No Fucking Names. Being half-human, Rearview made a mistake. There was no “special” name tag for Hash Mama. Rearview claims it fell out of the bag (whatever). Coochie was hardly bitchy about it at all, so everything was as it should be.
Turns out 11th Street Precinct allows civilized folk to reserve their patio, so 37 of us circled outside to bless the trail, dry. We held our imaginary beers over our imaginary hearts, then Rearview bounded off into the evening. Up a fucking hill! It’s not safe to run with strangers, so we had introductions before beginning our vertical chase.
At our first stop, near the top of Mt. Davenport, we scoured the hillside until Veer Off Wang, that boozehound, scored a huge amount of warmish beer. We also scored two random runner-walkers who happened by and thought we looked like fun. QCH3 is like a beer-soaked snowball rolling down hill, picking up whatever is in its path! And, bellies tight with beer, the hounds rolled downhill in pursuit of the Jill (that’s a female Hare, btw).
We saw the high income and low rent districts of Davenport. We drank, and I’m fairly certain we drank a lot. It all kind of blends together in a hash montage in my mind.
Here’s what I recall through the haze:
Scat has a camera and seems to have a bottomless bag of booze trudge uphill I puked a little but just in my mouth no one needs to know This is familiar Tight N Bright’s ass running away from me F U Rearview more hills Bumps is truckin’ downhill didn’t know she could run that fast Booze! Veer Off Wang is really cool I’m falling in love with each and every harriette Coochie pretending to be pissed off Gatorade jug full of purple passion how did that get here and who put it here how will it get home Wave at the old people Train tracks I think we’re lost SCHOOL’S OUT FOR SUMMER!
Then the haze clears a bit.
We did an Indian run along the bike path, a very Rearview touch, then came to the playground and tower in Lindsay Park. Parks are like catnip for hashers , so we climbed everything for what seemed an hour before someone remembered we were on trail. We discovered a mysterious # 3 in chalk on the sidewalk. Some genius looked at Scat’s back and found the backpack he’d carried for 14 miles and found some numbered clues. There was something about an obstacle course, but we gave ourselves credit for that (school’s out after all), and drank a bottle of booze.
It was a struggle to find the trail away from the playground, some of us ran an extra mile. . . This may be where we went wrong. Anyway, we did stumble on a #4 in upper Lindsay park so we could do a special Hash gym class (FU Rearview) involving pushups, planks, stars and a search for some special beer.
Many of us laid on the plushest lawn in Iowa and fed this year’s of chigger population before finding the trail once more. In truth, it was an arrow pointing back the way we came. But House Pimp took over. “We might not be on trail,” he said, “but we can run in the mean spirit of Rearview’s Hash.” We took a steep hill and drank the last of our booze before arriving back at 11th Street Precinct. That place is WAY too classy for us, though, so we adjourned to the Stockade.
Being hashers, we circled and sang. Most notably, Wilder is a no name no longer and will forever wear the name PortaPoundMe. Suffice it to say he is the most romantic of hashers. Also noteworthy: Rearview received a special purple headband and had at least one orgasm right there in the circle. Purple is her favorite color. After that chaos and karaoke ruled the night.
My knees hurt,
80’s Birthday Extravaganza Hash Trash, May 18, 2012
“It’s 106 miles to Chicago, we got a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes, it’s dark… and we’re wearing sunglasses.”
–Jake and Elwood Blues, The Blues Brothers, 1980.
The Quad City Hash House Harriers descended on the Great River Brewing Company on a Friday night, prepared for revelry. It was a night not just to celebrate the hash, but also to celebrate the lovely ladies of the QCH3 celebrating May birthdays: Tight and Bright, Free Willy, Dream of Cream, Twistin’ Bangs, and Hot Lips. After a quick warm-up that consisted of dancing to “Maniac” on the boom box provided by Sensititties, it was time to on-on. We were 151 miles from Chicago, with a full case of beer, half a wit about us, it was getting dark, and we were wearing neon.
We scampered down the streets (yes, there was scampering involved) and followed the one night only Crescent Moon hash marks directing us to moonwalk through the River Center. Those of us who were actually old enough to have any real recollection of the 1980s (read: me, Sensititties, and Hot Lips) and to explain to the young whippersnappers that it is not just walking backwards. Michael Jackson had more going on than that. These kids today!
We ran and ran, for perhaps as long as a quarter mile until FINALLY we arrived at our first beer stop. We were exhausted! And so very thirsty.
“Sometimes you gotta say ‘What the Fuck.'”
–Miles, Risky Business, 1983.
Have you ever contemplated what it’s like for the patrons of a bar when the QCH3 suddenly shows up? You’re relaxing, enjoying a beverage, maybe watching the game, when all of a sudden, the place is lousy with people in tight pants and big hair, guzzling beer and laughing loudly. They play “Rebel Yell” on the juke box, then somebody blows a whistle, they chug their beer, and vanish. Sometimes, you gotta say, “What the fuck?”
On-on we ran. The trail led us to an intersection, one direction of which was up the Gold Coast hill, a hill so steep that if you leaned slightly forward, you would scrape your nose on it.
“I have a bad feeling about this.”
–Han Solo, The Empire Strikes Back, 1980
Gentle reader, if you did not experience the 80’s themed Raw Coochie hash (or indeed, any Raw Coochie hash), you can assume that if ever the trail intersected and gave us the choice of up the world’s steepest hill or anything else, that we had to run up the motherfucking hill. If you saw that hill and had a bad feeling about it, that feeling would prove accurate every single time.
The trail led us through a park where a family was playing soccer. Bumps and Grinds took the field, stole the ball, and booted an amazing goal. At least, that’s how I remember it happening. But on this next topic, my memory is crystal clear. Hidden in the shaggy was a glorious treat: cake flavored Jell-O shots, made by the Martha Stewart of hashing, Mr. Raw Deal.
“I can’t believe this. They fucking forgot my birthday.”
–Samantha, Sixteen Candles, 1984
Our harriettes knew that no one had forgotten their fucking birthdays.
On-on? Yes, on-on.
On the sidewalk at a busy intersection, we discovered a love note and some instructions from Raw Deal. Raw Deal was kind enough to help some of the gentlemen indulge their curiosity by having them kiss. It was tender and romantic.
“I’d rather kiss a Wookie.
I can arrange that.”
–Princess Leia and Han Solo, The Empire Strikes Back, 1980.
That’s right, bitches: I quoted The Empire Strikes Back twice. It’s my favorite movie not just of the 1980s, but of all time. You sons of monkeys should just be grateful that this entire hash trash is not just a list of Things In The Empire Strikes Back That Are Awesome. So shut the fuck up and keep reading.
Anyway, we ran some more. And then, looky… a bar! With beer for us!
“No, maybe I can’t win. Maybe the only thing I can do is just take everything he’s got. But to beat me, he’s going to have to kill me. And to kill me, he’s gonna have to have the heart to stand in front of me. And to do that, he’s got to be willing to die himself. I don’t know if he’s ready to do that. I don’t know.”
–Rocky Balboa, Rocky IV, 1985
There was also some kind of challenge involving a Barrel of Monkeys that culminated with Scat doing pushups on a table. He cranked them out, no problem, so to challenge him further, Rearview perched on his back. Scat barely seemed to notice it. Granted, Rearview weighs about 12 pounds, but it was still impressive. Scat’s a fighter.
“First of all, keep him out of the light, he hates bright light, especially sunlight, it’ll kill him. Second, don’t give him any water, not even to drink. But the most important rule, the rule you can never forget, no matter how much he cries, no matter how much he begs, never feed him after midnight.
–Some random extra, Gremlins, 1984.
Lo and behold, we came upon (probably not literally, but I’m not sure; I can’t watch everybody all the time) Raw Deal’s truck. And in said truck there were delicious beers and… puddin’ shots! It was before midnight, so it was okay for the hashers to be fed.
Inexperienced hares often worry that the hounds will catch them. There are many strategies to keep this from happening. Take advantage of your 10 minute head start and include a circle within the first mile. Have as many intersections as possible to slow the pack. But perhaps the easiest way to keep the hounds at bay is a simple one: take the trail through a playground. Playground equipment is to hashers as kryptonite is to Superman. Sorry, let me put that in terms you’ll understand. Playground equipment is to hashers as Purple Passion is to Her Bait.
Did I mention that Free Willy and Tight and Bright had Purple Passion in their bras? Because they did, and it was glorious.
“I do have a test today, that wasn’t bullshit. It’s on European socialism. I mean, really, what’s the point? I’m not European. I don’t plan on being European. So who gives a crap if they’re socialists? They could be fascist anarchists, it still doesn’t change the fact that I don’t own a car.”
–Ferris Bueller, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, 1980
For the final test, Raw Coochie finally decided to mix things up and let us run down a hill instead of up one, which was a novel change of fucking pace. And that hill led right to the finish. Huzzah!
There was drinking! There was singing! There was groping! NFN Amy rocked the fucking house by making us cookies. We named Good Vibes and Bear Gigolo. And in the end, didn’t it bring us all a little closer together?
“Brian Johnson: Dear Mr. Vernon, we accept the fact that we had to sacrifice a whole Saturday in detention for whatever it was we did wrong. What we did *was* wrong. But we think you’re crazy to make us write an essay telling you who we think we are. You see us as you want to see us… In the simplest terms, in the most convenient definitions. But what we found out is that each one of us is a brain…
Andrew Clark: …and an athlete…
Allison Reynolds: …and a basket case…
Claire Standish: …a princess…
John Bender: …and a criminal…
Brian Johnson: Does that answer your question? Sincerely yours, the Breakfast Club.”
–The Breakfast Club, 1985
Don’t you forget about me,
White Trash Hash trash 5/3/12:
It was the shiggiest of trails, it wast the worst of trails. This is the story of how we lost our hash daddy but found ourselves, deep in the wilderness of Rock Island.
Our story begins on the deck behind City Limits Saloon in Rock Island where QCH3 assembled in Jhorts and Wife Beaters as instructed. For those of us who needed alterations, NFHN Alex brought her shears and nicked nary a testicle. For those of us who needed lube, Strap-on had both a tube and a keg on tap.
There were roughly 60 bare arms and legs in the circle as Raw Deal blessed the trail and we released the hares, Strap-On and NFHN Josh, into the hood. Introductions were completed, two new virgins were discovered, and NFHN Wilder was sweetly serenaded in honor of his 28th year before the hounds gathered themselves for the pursuit.
As we headed on to the streets of Rock Island, we sniffed out trails more false than true before finding ourselves on trail, behind an old motor inn and diving downhill and into a fetid swamp of a pasture. How could this not be the way?
And it was! Across the field and into the dark woods of Black Hawk State Park. Up hill, over fence, through shitty smelling pits of mud to a landing for beer and more beer. But where was our hash daddy? Where was Raw Deal? Someone had seen him charging uphill without fear. Someone else had seen him swimming the river. Another scaling the cliffs. No doubt he was above us on the hill. Testing us to make certain we stayed true. We whistled and called. We searched and shouted? Some swam in the rock. We drank, drank some more, and Bumps phoned Coochie. Alas, Raw Deal could not be found, but this was the Hash Daddy. “Its RAW DEAL,” said one. “He’ll be fine.”
So on we went. Up the hill and down, sliding through mud, leaping logs, tracking through a stream. As the dusk and mist gathered around us we discovered not one, but two gallons of ramchata sitting on the bank of our extremely wet trail. Covered in mud and smelling of sewer, we drank and became bold and brave. Bravery we needed as we charged into the darkening forest, splitting off to find true trails. Shouting and whistling. Miraculously, we lost no else before bursting from the trees to a bag of red wine, a well-greased slide, and a swing set. We drank and played and drank some more so as to leave no alcohol on the trail before leaving the park for the bar once more.
The hares were there.With eyes too bright and wife beater too clean, so was Raw Deal. As it turns out we lost our Hash Daddy before ever entering the wood, perhaps at the first turn. He gathered us in, spanked each of us once, and led us in song and circle.
Circle time was marked by the naming of NFHN Jake, Smell Me forever more, by a long and rousing round of I Used To Work in Chicago, and by a second attempt to wish NFHN Wilder a happy fucking birthday.
In sum, a shiggy shigfest of epic proportions. On on.
Submitted with apologies to Coochie for the loss of Raw Deal,
Death of Funky Feet Hash Trash: 4/26/12 from Coochie’s Point of View
Approximately 50 hashers came to pay their condolences to Funky Feet. Named, NFHN, and virgins alike were in appropriate funeral running gear with a few exceptions. Coochie just wanted to wear her new Wonder Woman shirt and purple running skirt, and she figured Funky Feet wouldn’t have cared. House Pimp was master of ceremonies and decided to show up fashionably late to the funeral. Raw Deal filled the time with the arousing song “On Trail One Day”
When hare House Pimp finally did show up about 20 minutes late, he was accompanied by Rearview who passed out black balloons while asking solemnly, “Will you be joining us at the cemetery?” He also had a fine double jogging stroller full of Miller High Life, Paps Blue Ribbon, and WATER?? We’re still not sure what the water was for, but we used it to wash our hands after going through the shiggy. Funky Feet’s remains were propped up in the center of the cans of beer with his headband wrapped around the urn (which also reminded Coochie of a shaker one would use to mix a Gin and Tonic).
House Pimp took off with a look of fear on his face, and we gave him an extra 2 minutes while we all introduced ourselves. There were piles and piles of virgins. I don’t remember their names except NFHN Marlo who took his shirt off for us for the first time but definitely not the last. Coochie hopes he just stops bringing a shirt for future runs.
Scatastrophe deserves a mention. He was dressed in an all black suit (head included) (Who said head?) With white shorts and a tie on top…classy shit. And he brought with him a video camera. As we ran, he filmed. The entire hash was documented. At first seeing the all black videographer was creepy. But it time it came to be expected.
We took off with black balloons flying and came to circle #1 where we had to “elephant walk” across the intersection. This is no easy task with 60 some hashers, but we got the deed done. Hands between legs? Hey hasher, stop teasing me!
Her Bait was the first lucky hasher to push the giant stroller of booze. He did it with such grace the memory still makes me giggle. We ran through Hyvee where NFHN Wilder feared he may get fired…but no need to fear because Governor’s was near. Beer Near! Our giant group of 65 hashers descended upon a busy Governor’s and the bartenders looked at us with fear. But we’re hashers, by golly, so we went to the patio and drank our beer quickly and On-On we went.
Eroticus Maximus took over stroller duty. He had to resist the urge to ride the stroller like a Hyvee grocery cart. We didn’t want to flip Funky Feet’s remains onto the street or anything, God rest his soul. The next circle had instructions to play Rock, Paper, Sizzors (perhaps a throw-back to Funky Feet’s youth?) with the loser running the steep Bettendorf Hill. We split up into a line of guys vs. girls. Some of the hashers had problems with this game but lots of beer had been consumed already so we won’t judge their intelligence too harshly. And the girls won this game, On-on!
Tight N Bright took over stroller patrol and we came to some Shiggy. We had to take care of the baby and carry the stroller across a small creek. The sound of Bumps And Grinds complaining could be heard all through the forest, but she made it out alive and I think only mildly scraped up.
The next circle was the home of Funky Feet’s parents. His mother had prepared peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and some of the yummiest lemonade every consumed (and certainly spiked). Rearview, Dreams of Cream, and Coochie shoved sandwiches in their mouths declaring that Funky Feet must had had the best childhood ever. We called Funky Feet’s parents to the center of the circle and serenaded them with our least offensive song “Hashers, meet the Hashers!” I hear Funky Feet’s parents invited all 70 of us to come back any time! Dreams of Cream and I are going to show up some Sunday afternoon for PB and J.
Now was the time that we said our goodbyes to Funky Feet remains. Senor Rambo did the honor of spreading the ashes on the lawn of Funky Feet’s parents. Heads were bowed, a few tears were shed, and all enjoyed the smell of hazelnut coffee creamer. Rest In Peace, Funky Feet…for there can never be too much cowbell. You will be missed.
The sandwiches and lemonade were all gone, and we had to go. After a round of hugs with the best parents in the world (and bye bye to that adorable dog! Sorry you can’t have any of my sandwich) we were off. We ran down some Bettendorf streets and then what was that in the distance? Matthew McConaughey? Michael Buble? Yes! It was our very own Michael Buble with another challenge. This time Beer Pong. So in celebration of Funky Feet’s college years (or high school?) we played beer pong on a slanted sidewalk (an impossible feat, by the way). It was Tight N Bright and Free Willy vs. Senor Rambo and Strap On, and in my memory the girls kicked ass!
We went On-On with more elephant walks across intersections (Hey, hasher, you’re hittin’ the spot!) and through sidewalks where a few Bettendorfians gave us glares. We came to a circle with instructions to form human pyramids. This time I must admit the guys won. I was glad to get down as I felt myself crushing poor Free Willy (why was she on the bottom?)
Then it was On-On to the finish… BUT WAIT! We had not finished the beer in the baby carriage. Tight N Bright insisted we follow Hash rules and drink all the beer. And drink it we did (with that lady with her hands on her hips glaring at us).
We were instructed to hold hands and run back to the bar. And we did! And we liked it!
We circle up and sang Shitty Trail to House Pimp (although this was one of my favorite trails if truth be told). Senor Rambo was FRB, 3 Way Fiasco and Strap On were DFL and 3 Way was on Strap’s back for an unprecedented finish. Scatastrophe prepared a special poem for NFHN Rick (a.k.a. Dad) which brought tears to our eyes. NFHN Rick guzzled beer so fast we all knew he must be Scat’s Dad.
We sang to the virgins (Coochie only remember NFHN Marlo’s name, my apologies), and then a drunk rugby player from Indiana (or so he says) joined the circle. He had his shirt tucked into his shorts and belted (who does that?) and he decided it was a good idea to take his shirt off (just like Marlo?) Oh it was a sight indeed…one burned in my memory.
It was time for digressions on trail, so I pulled Bumps And Grinds into the circle. I was told by an anonymous source (I will never reveal the hasher’s identity even if you had a gladiator sword to my neck) that BAG was insulting Miller High Life on trail. I scolded BAG like I would my own child explaining that Miller High Life is the drink of the hash and the champagne of beer. Dreams of Cream joined her friend in the circle and we all sang to their Big ‘Ol Boobies.
The rest is fuzzy, but this much is true. Funky Feet, you’ll be missed even if you were always misunderstood and really just wanted more cowbell. Rumor has it your headband did not get burried that night but lives at the house of Dreams of Cream. We can only hope you’ll make an appearance again at a hash in the future…
Raw Coochie Hash 4/19/12
Coochie demanded that we dress to impress, so we did. We ladies were feeling lovely as always in our assortment of dresses and tutus, and the gentlemen (in theory, hashers can be gentlemen, though perhaps not in practice) were also fetching in their ties, newsboy-style knickers (that was hot, Sensititties), and so on. We felt good about ourselves… until the Scatastrophy had to show up and completely outshine each and every one of us. Really, you think you look nice, and then Scat shows up looking like Marilyn Monroe singing “Diamonds are a Girl’s Best Friend” by way of Jason Statham. It was ridiculously hot.
We pledged our allegiance to the hash, blessed the trail (note: Strap-On may have had his fingers crossed behind his back when he said “Cop-us no chase us”), and watched Raw Deal and Coochie race off.
Before we knew it, we were ON-ON. A few lucky hashers found adorable little bottles of Schnapps that the hares left us on the railroad tracks… though come to think of it, I don’t remember Raw Deal or Coochie ever claiming responsibility for said booze, so we may have stolen some hobo’s stash of Sour Apple, in which case, our apologies.
We wound our way through the alleys of East Moline. Some men hanging out in their garage admired Scatastrophy’s dress. Scat snagged one of their beers.
The hashers began to grow restless. I Dream of Cream showed worrying signs of dehydration. We were dragging. NFN Wilder began to regret wearing a suit jacket. And then! The sidewalk had a message for us: BEER NEAR! We perked right up and raced to the nearest bar.
The patrons of the bar were ready for us and were very intrigued by our quest. A man in acid washed jeans that nicely complimented his mullet seemed particularly moved. “Beer, running, and bad decisions? That’s like, my life, man. Except for the running part.” We invited him many times to join us (surely the acid washed jeans would not be harder to run in than Senor Rambo’s dress shirt and tie tack) but he declined. Her Bait retrieved the Frisbee left for us, and though Acid Mullet (that would totally be his hash name had he gotten up from his stool) was dying to know what the note said, we followed the hares’ mandate and did not open it until then next circle.
On-on! A horrifically steep hill led us to a park and a circle. The FRB was challenged to a couple rounds of disc golf, the results of which we diligently tracked. Well, some more diligently than others… we may have been distracted by the playground equipment. Teeter tooters: still totes fun!
Down another hill, we found another circle and another BN. Tight And Bright demanded the eager hashers cease their search for the treats so we could read the note. The note directed us to have one Jell-O shot for each shot the FRB took at disk golf, then take formal photos with the bridge in the background. Was that supposed to be punitive – was that note supposed to get us to carefully track our gelatin consumption and increase it from what it otherwise would have been? That was rather unnecessary, because we ate all those shots.
And the shots themselves? Freaking adorable. I Dream of Cream rightly dubbed Raw Deal “The Martha Stewart of hashing” for serving the shots in actual rinds of citrus fruit. Not only was the presentation impressive, but it also protected us all from scurvy. We vowed to pin the recipe on Pinterest, and on on!
The next bit of the hash is a bit of a haze for me, though I distinctly remember quite a lot of swearing due to the mountainous terrain. “Damn you, Raw Deal,” we all cried, knowing that our sweet Coochie Hash Mama would NEVER subject her babies to this torture.
But lo! Another BN sign, this one especially for NFN Annette! It was a special night for Ms. NFN Annette, as later on in this hash trash (SPOILER ALERT), her Nerd Name would be revoked. And what better way to celebrate than with a bigass bottle of blue hooch? While Scatastrophy talked to a little girl about his pretty dress, we helped NFN Annette overcome her made-up blue dye allergy.
On –on we ran! Down the hill and back to the bar! Huzzah!
Several of us made the wise decision to pick up the pace, while the rest were stopped by the cops and cited with… running? Poor fashion choices?
We circled up, and not only did we congratulate the hares on their S-H-I-T-T-Y T-R-A-I-L, but we also watched a touching ceremony in which they renewed their vows, hash style. I am an ordained minister, so that shit legit. Threeway Fiasco and Scatastrophy tied for FRB, so they were joined by FBI Tight and Bright to create another threeway fiasco. I composed a song to honor our virgins. NFN Annette was re-baptized and shall henceforth be known as Bumps and Grinds. Coochie transformed to Lezi Gaga and gave I Dream of Cream a second hash name: Angelina Jolly. And just when we thought business time was over, Coochie and Raw Deal passed out some stunning hash jewelry, with a bottle cap for each hash we’ve hared (it must be said: Raw Deal’s is so blinged out he looks like Mr. T). We’re putting that shit on Pinterest, too.
Sister’s Hash Trash (The TRUTH as I recall it):
Hash Mommy and Hash Daddy were out of town, so Hash Baby and 17 other souls congregated at the Belgrade in Moline on Wednesday Night to do what we do. Tight & Bright and Free Wily waltzed in at about 6:30 and efficiently down-downed a cheap beer apiece before Her Bait mutilated the blessing of the trail (missed you, Raw Deal) before the Sisters sprinted off, ponytails streaming.
After 9 minutes the hounds moved outside and did a speedy round of introductions (we are so sloppy without adult supervision, but cannot run with strangers) before pushing off into the soft evening. Turns out we had three virgins, a crowd of other keen NFNs and handful of named hashers. This hash also marked the return of Eroticus Maximus, sure to be seen again.
In no time, we found ourselves atop Prospect Park contemplating a rhyming note from our fair hares inviting us to find an Easter treat in the woods. It seems we got there just in time, because a sketchy looking disc golfer was “standing guard” over our Easter beer. A party broke out on the hillside as the 18 downed 20+ beers while golfers flung for the chains, then it was back up the hill to 16th Street where we continued south. We found empty plastic Easter eggs, evidence of an aborted attempt by the Sisters to treat us to Easter shots.
At McDonald’s, Strap-On stopped for a photo op with some very regular McDonald’s customers before we followed the trail over to the Greenbriar for several collegial pitchers. Ten minutes later (or was it twenty?) we staggered out of the Greenbriar and wove back to 16th street.
The next thing I remember is that we were back at the foot of Prospect Park looking for a special treat the hares had left for Her Bait. A giant bottle of Purple Passion was located in the hill side. We all shared a bit, then, to my astonishment and his credit, Her Bait finished about a quarter of the bottle. He seemed to suffer no ill effects. Meanwhile, Traffic Tops broke out into a cold sweat remembering her high school XC training runs up the hills of Prospect Park.
Now sozzled, the horde charged the hill, without regard for the sacred trail. NFN Taylor and I found the trail and whistled the mob back to a rallying point atop the park. With our wits about us once more, the hounds sniffed out the trail and wound through byways and alley’s back to the Belgrade where the Sisters waited with cold beer and bright smiles. We took our beers outside to circle and derided the FRB (NFN Taylor), the FBI (were there two or three no-names in the circle?), and the DFL (Strap-On), giddy at the prospect of having people sing to him. In the midst of our ceremony, we were ordered back inside by the staff of the tavern, so we circled inside. The highlight was singing to a random patron of the bar who found her way into our circle. Oh; (CAN I GET AN O?) and at some point I was knighted.
For the record, there was skin lost on the trail last night. NFN Flynn, soon to be named, flayed the bridge of his nose while cutting through heavy brush in the park to get back on the trail, and Yours Truly was smacked upside the head by a traffic cone in the search for Her Bait’s Purple Passion. It left a mark.
Even the wounded are still standing.
Leap Day Hash 3/1/12
The leap day hash was hopping! We all rounded up at The River House just in time to see Bubbles sprinting away. We were expecting a large pile or virgins so I prepared a motivational speech (All of the note cards said- Its just for fun). As I freestyled a eloquent speech the hares were on their way. After ten intense minutes of drinking and chatting we were on the trail. We then proceed to run up and down hills for what seemed like hours until we found a nicely placed BN underneath the bridge. None of the hills mattered any longer. We all enjoyed the High Life and relaxed bum style. Then it was ON-ON. We coasted down the hill the rest of the way to a long flat straight away. Sweet……. Nope back to the hills. I then decided I was going to take the lead. I was flying. Could have been somesort of recorded as I blew by the arrows right past the booze and into the cemetery. Everyone was scared, a few were running around trying to find the trail. Then Tight and Bright noticed my mistake. THEN WE GOT BOOZE! I believe it was Zombie Juice, some sort of blue devil. We all filled our red solo cups and had a sing along. This where the shame comes in. NFN Annette says she is allergic to blue coloring. So we let her slide.It was a fat lie! Then all of the ladies starting throwing the blue devil on the ground! It was shameful. I cried. Then it was On-On once again. We then went down the steepest hill in the continental US and ran a long straight away all the way back, where Free Willy back came the first person to win FRB, FBI, and biggest cheater ever not leaping to the finish. We sang songs, played with my bowling ball and had a right chipper ol time.
Hash Trash, Red Dress Hash, 2/11/12
It was a hash of epic proportions.
Every Goodwill and Salvation Army Store within 60 miles of the Quad Cities was out of red dresses. Mysterious piles of flour littered the town of Rock Island. Paparazzi were in full force.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Fifty (give or take) hearty soles gathered in the Daiquri Factory, all adorned in beautiful red dresses – and varying degreess of layers, depending on their intelligence/toughness… you make the call. Coochie, Raw Deal, and Her Bait staged a press conference in an attempt to explain the concept of a ‘hash run’ to the media – no easy feat.
The clock struck On-On O’Clock, and Alpha Raw Deal led the hashers outside for the first circle. After a quick Hash Tutorial, Coochie and Her Bait ran off in terror, knowing the scores of hounds that would be after them. Raw Deal, who knows not to run with strangers, demanded that all present introduce themselves. We were graced with a vertiable army of virgins ready to be sacrified, along with hashers from the Quad Cities and the deparved denizens of Cedar Falls. Anticipating the horror that was to await us, Raw Deal taught the group the hash hymn “S-H-I-T-T-Y T-R-A-I-L.” So that Rear View, a mere slip of a lass who gets cold easily would not kick his ass, Raw Deal then led us inside to have a pre-run beer.
Faster than you can say, “I’ll have another,” it was ON-ON, and a swarm of red dresses took to the streets of Rock Island. Her Bait and Coochie need not have worried that the hounds would catch them, as we got lost approximately two blocks outside of the bar.
We proceeded through the streets of Rock Island, listening for whistles and cries of “on on” and finally found the lovely Sherpa and the first circle. The crowd of reporters was another clue we were on the right track. Sherpa demanded that we jump rope for heart and passed out the world’s tiniest jump ropes. Senor Rambo had an impressive vertical leap as he attempted to clear it, while Junk In the Trunk considered the compromise of jumping over a red scarf instead.
Jumping complete, we hit the streets again. Funky Feet encountered a woman with an empty baby carriage and yelled back to the hashers, “WE ARE MISSING A BABY! EVERYBODY, LOOK FOR A BABY!”
As we all anticipated, the trail led us up a very steep hill, where the FRB had to blow up balloons, which he naturally stuffed into his dress.
We neared the Augstana campus, and several frozen hashers went into Kavanaugh’s, hoping in vain that cold beer and warm beer awaited us. No such luck.
Just as we were about to freeze to death, we found Pretzel waiting for us next to a giant rock, armed with The Champagne of Beers, and better still, Tequila Rose. I myself have never had this particular beverage before. The first shot tasted like a delightful combination of Strawberry Quick and booze, so I had another to make sure that was accurate. Tight and Bright theorized that Tequila Rose is, in fact, amoxicilian, which is great news for all of the hashers who contracted ear infections running in the frigid cold. Then, we joined hands and passed a hula hoop around the circle. The two virgins in the matching red prom dressses took the final pass of the hoop and… ON-ON! As for the Tequila Rose, Ivana Runalot forced me to take another shot with the stern and convincing argument of “You should have another one.”
Down the hill we ran, and many red dresses passed the crowded parking lot of the Quad City Expo Center. Those people didn’t know what hit them.
The winds picked up, and it was so cold that my face hurt, though I probably should not complain, because at least I wasn’t wearing a short strapless dress like many of the well dressed gentlemen of the group were.
Before we knew it, it was time to stop once more to visit Twistin’ Bangs, who had lovely pink boas for the FRBs, one of which my son’s stuffed tiger is now wearing as a tutu. Cars drove by and honked at us, and Strap On responded by lifting his dress and showing off the good china. Bangs played a tribute to our wardrobe with the song “The Lady in Red.” Rear View was so moved by the beauty of the song that she responded by freaking Funky Feet. It was very romantic.
Our hearts were full of love and our bellies were full of beer as we ran on, sure we were headed to the bar adn to heat.
Now, this part of the hash is a tad fuzzy for me. Several of us wound up on the bike path by the river, and technically, we might have been off trail, but I will choose to think that we were totally in the right place and that the arctic winds siimply blew away the four. It’s possible, right?
At last, we returned to the bar, where Coochie and Her Bait happily awaited us, but more importantly, so did the booze. We circled up, congratulated the hares on their SH-I-T-T-Y T-R-A-I-L, toasted the FRB, the DFLs, and those of us guilty of on-trail violations (such as, for example, ditching the trail and runnign to the bar) and voted on the best dressed hasher. Senor Rambo won in a landslide, and was presented a bouquet of roses by Funky Feet. And the lovely Sailor Moon introduced us to Jello shots’ calcium rich cousin, puddin’ shots.
Along the way, we racked up a literal basket full of cash for the American Heart Association, coated the city of Rock Island with flour, and introduced a passel of virgins to the wonders of hashing. Not bad for an afternoon’s run.
Christmas Hash 12/22/11
‘Twas four days before Christmas, when at Corner Tap
Hashers were gathering to run without map
The sweaters were festive, and a little bit tacky
And the other bar patrons thought they were wacky.
The two no-named hares took off on the trail
While four hounds sat waiting and sipping their ales
Raw Deal in his sweater, and Sean as an elf
Matt in his Santa hat, and Mike as himself…
..waited ten minutes, then arose from their seats,
Took their free shots, and went out to the streets.
At their first circle, they found a snowflake
And read they’d find eleven more on a trail not fake.
The second stop they found two turtle chocolates
But quickly moved on and put them in their pockets.
Next stop was a circle with three Santa hats near
They found 1, 2, and 3 then “On On!” they did cheer.
Four was a game of Russian Roulette
Four shots of vodka or water they’d get
Twelve c ups were waiting but only 4 hashers came
So they wished for the others and called out their names
Now Coochie! Now Bubbles! Now Her Bait and Funky!
On Rearview! On Pretzel! On Unlike and no names so spunky!
Come to Rock Island! To the top of hill!
On the hares’ porch, help us finish this swill!
They waited and waited, but no more hashers came.
And so off they went to find five candy canes.
They found all but one, but stopped hesitating
And reached the sixth snowflake and learned beer was a-waiting.
At seven they came upon a Nativity Scene
Where those hounds gifted Jesus without being seen!
Inside of Hilltop they went searching for eight milking maids
And they shared 6 creamy shots without being phased.
Behind the pub and down the alley they went
Following the flour and their hares’ strong scent
They found the ninth snowflake as they were advancing
And learned they must pause and do some dancing.
It was near this part where one hare had blundered
The hounds found eleven, and “Where’s ten?” they wondered
“Who cares?” they thought, and then started blowing
Their whistles that is, and then they kept going.
The twelfth clue was missing from the hare’s pack
But they still thought the hounds would find their way back.
The hares waited at Poor Boy’s with cookies and beer
Where they hoped hounds saw the signs for “Beer Near!”
‘Round the corner they came, coming in fast
For none of the hounds desired coming in last
They all drank and sang, and then came the time
The no-name hares out their names they would find.
Raw Deal told the stories, mostly true, if a little distorted
“Tight n Bright” and “Free Willy” were what he reported
Their headbands they placed proud on their heads
And became part of a group surely wanted by Feds.
The beer kept on flowing and pizza they ate
Laughter was ample, but the hour grew late
They exclaimed to each other, as they drove out of sight
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a goodnight!”
Tight N Bright
In fine CFH3 fashion, Spunky Boost graced us with a Hash Trash recount of Saturdays trail:
August 13 Hash Trash – Hashing Through Hogwarts
Let’s see. Since there have been three days and roughly 27 tequila-soaked limes between trail and now, details could be a little fuzzy. But I’m still going to give it a go.
Five hashers from CFH3 got up bright and early to get out of town by 7:30 a.m. so that we could be at trail at the totally-reasonable time of 10:30 a.m. Amazingly, we were able to overcome the power of Hash Time, and we were at Her Bait’s house right around 10. After regathering, he drove us to the Hamptons, where we met the Quad City Hash House Harriers, who were setting a Harry Potter trail.
And everyone was in costume! It was lovely! Bellatrix Lestrange and Narcissa Malfoy were both there, and so was Dobby. And poor, poor Cedric Diggory. Also Moaning Myrtle. And there were a handful of other wizards that I don’t remember right now. Also, CFH3 was dressed as the CFH3 Quiddtich Team, along with Her Bait, who was on loan from QCH3.
Ok. The hares took off, and we weren’t far behind. I don’t remember the order of things. Was the field before or after the first task? It doesn’t matter.
We ran around for a while, headed down some train tracks, and then we found an envelope in a circle! Hooray! A task! We were told that we would need wands in order to fight the Death Eaters, so we should dig. (Oh, I should have mentioned that this was outside a play ground.) So, we dug up some wands, rode on a Hippogriff, and then proceeded to wander around lost for 20 minutes. SO CONFUSING.
But whatever. We figured it out eventually. And by “we,” I definitely do not mean me. I believe that Cedric Diggory (Brutus?), Dobby (Raw Deal), and Out and Back did more than their share of discovery.
Anyway, we got it figured out, and soon we came to a clearing and the bottom of a giant hill. And there was another task! And two brooms! The note said that two people were to race up the hill on the brooms, and the last one had to carry the broom. Except, there were two brooms, so they both carried one. Also, Tranny was feeling left out, so he raced up after them riding a Quidditch bat.
Into the Forbidden Forest we went! And it was not long before we found another note! It told us that we would need to find some Galleons, a spider and a snake on our way through the forest. We found them all. Again, by “we,” in no way do I mean “Spunky Booster.”
Hey there, Raw Deal, is that a snake in your pants or do you just REALLY love hashing?
The Forbidden Forest is apparently on a mountain, which I did not know existed in Illinois. But we went up, up, up, up, up…
But, good news! When we came out of the woods, there was a Beer Angel waiting for us! And it wasn’t just any beer … it was Butterbeer! Because, it’s not really a Saturday morning if you aren’t doing shots of butterscotch schnapps before noon. 10:30 A.M. IS A TOTALLY REASONABLE TIME TO START DRINKING! (Previous statemen brought to you by my upcoming episode of Intervention.)
We enjoyed the libations, and then we moseyed on our way.
Ok. Some things that have already happened that I didn’t mention yet: Her Bait nearly decapitated me and Cums at Sixty with an errant frisbee throw. Also, we played wiffle ball quite a bit. Multi-sport trails are the best trails!
We went through some neighborhoods, and we kept having a car back. But it wasn’t a real car back. It was the Beer Angel following us! Really slowly! Wearing a scary mask and robe! So, that wasn’t creeby at all.
One muggle was in his yard, and he asked what we were doing. After a brief description, he informed us, “This is cheating, but they went that way … and they end up in the cemetery!”
Well, joke’s on you, Captain Spoiler, because we don’t live here! We have no idea where the cemetery is!
But, then we did go to the cemetery. And there was another note. We had to find three of five names in the cemetery and do crayon rubbings of the headstones. I don’t remember the whole list, but I believe we found Arthur, Black and Harry. Myrtle was also an option, but we didn’t find her.
Fortunately, Cedric Diggory fared much better at this cemetery than at the one they went to after touching the Tri-Wizard Cup, which turned out to be a portkey. But I digress…
We left the cemetery and went down the road some more. I would be more descriptive, but I barely knew where I was at the time. Three days later, I’m useless. But, pretty soon we were on a road by the river, and written on the road was, “Bellatrix Screams … Narcissa Screams … We All Scream … ” And then we saw the hares in front of an ice cream store! So clever!
We set up a pretty rockin’ victory tunnel. I don’t remember who was FRB or FBI, but I know that Out and Back was DFL, and thanks to the victory tunnel, I also know that he was quite soggy.
We thought circle behind the ice cream place by the river would be a fun idea, but the two girls who were out back eating ice cream made it less appealing. So, we went back towards where we started trail.
Raw Deal/Dobby, being a good house elf, went to pick up more beer, and Sailor Moon whipped up a batch of yucca, thanks to the ice from a lovely lady from the ice cream shop.
We sang some warm up songs, shook the baby, and ate some oranges, lemons and limes.
First we toasted the hares, and sang a very un-true song to them when we sang “Shitty Trail.” I don’t remember FRB or FBI! Stop asking about it! But I’m sure we sang those two some lovely ditties. I think we accomplished the thing where everyone in circle ends up in the middle of circle at the same time. We also accomplished the thing where we disturb the people who hear us singing Dead Whore.
And then we sang Swing Low, and it was wonderful.
I believe that wraps it up. I am very happy for CFH3 to give up its title of the only active hash in Iowa, because the QCH3 folks were a great time! They should totally come visit. PEER PRESSURE! PEER PRESSURE! PEER PRESSURE!