Sisters’ Christmas Hash
It has been too long since the Sisters have hared together. Tight N Bright and Free Willey’s hashes are epic. If you haven’t experienced one yet then you are in fora big treat. Get your Santa hats and your jingle bells ready…time for a Sister’s Christmas Hash!
Tuesday, December 18th
1512 15th Street
Moline, IL 61265
I woke up in my own bed (Or on the floor, whatever) though last night I was tempted, and nearly persuaded by Strap On (I won’t tell you what he offered me, but it involved a cucumber) to spend another night in the wonderland that is JAJA.
Next to me (Also on the floor) lay a pair of shorts stained with mud (No Christmas tales include an account of Saint Nick (Santa 1) being dragged across a muddy playground on his ass do they?). I have to congratulate each and every one of you reindeer (and thank my durable Under Armour) for last night’s sleigh ride victory (Sans sleigh). I’m not vying for attention whore of the year (Sex Break, TT), but here is a picture of my ass. (http://tinyurl.com/cx3sath)
Clutched tightly in my right hand was my headband (Yes, my headband… Perverts). I briefly hesitated to set it aside recalling what had happened last night to another deserted hash headband. Someone (Nacho Culprit) may have tried to pee (At the very least, that headband made it to 3rd base) on a lost and forgotten headband (Put that thing in a Ziplock bag).
I quickly reconsidered when I remembered where a luckier headband found itself (http://tinyurl.com/dypgyya), and set mine aside.
Getting up to my feet (Did I sleep in my shoes again?) I paused and took a moment of silence for Hugene’s squirrel (It might not have been the same one he wore on his back last hash) which we found dead (Passed out?) on trail. Some animals just can’t hash (Proud of you NFN Sir Bastard. Furriest virgin ever… Maybe not. Busted Noodle was a virgin once).
I shrugged it off and began my day full of Hash Christmas spirit fueled by memories of us showering in High Life before our very own Hash nativity scene, singing and dancing at the bar to Radiohead (Who said head?), and browsing 200+ photos on Scat’s QCH3 monument to extraordinary hash debauchery.
Thank you Sisters and Merry Christmas ya filthy pirates!
I love you all,
Blazed and Confused
We take great pleasure in answering thus prominently the cummunication below, expressing at the same time our great mystification that our so-called friend is numbered among the Scribes of the Hash and failed to attend the epic annual Sisters Hash of 2013.
“Iam old. I remember Christmas before hashing, before Facebook, before bluetooth, heated seats, antilock brakes and continuously variable transmissions. So does my Land Rover.
My common sense, my liver, and some of my colleagues say there is no such thing as the Sisters’ Christmas Hash. Hash Papa Raw Deal says, “Fucl that, check with the senior scribes. If they put it in the trash, it is so.” Please tell Truth, Fact and Science, is there as Christmas Sisters Hash?”
— Soft Serve
Soft Serve, your common sense, your Land Rover, and your colleagues are dead fucling wrong. They have been affected by the sobriety of a sober age. They do not believe, except what they see with their own eyes (things which, incidentally, you could have seen had you shown up). They think that nothing can be that is not comprehensible by their little minds, Soft Serve.
Yes, Soft Serve, there is a Sisters’ Christmas Hash. Or there was such a thing, but you missed it, you miserable sod. It happened as certainly as ding-dongs and chimes; as certainly as Hashionista adorned herself in green paint as The Grinch and recruited Sir Bastard to be her Max; as certainly as Sex Break will cry if she is not mentioned in this hash trash; as certainly as Miller High Life exists and is the Champagne of Beers. The Sisters’ Christmas Trail was laid bright and glowing through Moline, filled with gifts, glory and song, as surely as TightNBright and Free Willy are the two most fetching hariettes ever to lay a trail out of Old Town.
Not believe in the Christmas Sisters Hash! You might as well not believe the QCH3 Christmas tree appeared in Casey’s Tavern, or that the civilians of the bar gawked and photographed us as we warmed up with Father Abraham! You might get Papa Raw Deal to hire people to watch all the bars in town to catch the hashers caroling, but even if you did not see the hashers serenading the patrons of McManus, what would that prove? Probably just that the people Papa Raw Deal hired were out for a smoke when it happened. The most amazing things in the world are those that you did not see because you didn’t attend the Sisters Christmas Hash. Did you ever see hashers drinking hot chocolate and marshmallow vodka and gazing upon a lawn completely filled with lighted Christmas decorations? Of course not, but that’s no proof that it didn’t happen. You just missed it, dumbass. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders of the Sisters Christmas Hash, did they not attend it.
Hashers can strategize how to win the reindeer/sleigh race, but there is a veil of Hash Fact (and festive red and green layered Jell-O shots) covering the memories of those hashers. One team might have contained the strongest hashers, or even the united strength of all of the strongest hashers that ever lived. And, dear Soft Serve, was that team victorious? Only Truth, Fact, Science, and the two sexiest of all scribes (it may go without saying, but you are not among those two) can say, again, with all certainty, that it was not the muscle-bound team that won, but rather the team containing said scribes. Is it Fact? It’s Hash Fact, as sure as that after the sled race, there was your favorite Christmas drink, eggnog, spiked with magic, love, and booze. And yes, we drank every drop of it without you. Ah, Soft Serve, in all this world, there is nothing else more real and abiding.
You might as well not believe that Scatatstrophy ran through the streets of Moline wearing no fewer than five stuffed animals and, the whole night through lifted not a single member of QCH3 and nary a civilian. Perhaps you thumb your nose at the idea that JAJA House gifted Her Bait with the most homely of frilly- collared MOM sweatshirts, and that he wore it the whole night through. Nobody sees Santa Claus, Soft Serve, but QCH3 was just barely glimpsed, appearing to mortals as a splash of colored light zipping along the Moline Hilltop.
For that is exactly how the group appeared as it came upon its final stop, the apex of the hash. Twas in a field, for there was no room at any bar for the miracle that was about to happen. The brightest of headlamps shown as Hashonista pulled from her firm and rounded bosom, or perhaps it was from the cleavage of her ass, a slip of paper and read out, as if from on high, a list of instructions. And what followed, Soft Serve, was nothing less than a Hash Miracle. Coochie was transformed into the image of an unsullied virgin (a miracle, mind you!) with an affinity for houndstooth headgear, while Raw Deal’s visage took on an air of pious cockholdry with not a hint of irony. To this blessed couple, a child was born. His name was Her Bait. And, oh, how we adored him as he curled up on Coochie’s lap and attempted to suckle at her breast while three extremely wise men (Strap On, Scatastrophy and Sensittities) looked on with a huge heard of farm animals rutting all about, as they do.
And with that you may think that we have arrived at the true reason for the Sisters’ Christmas Hash – at the very foundation of our beliefs. Of course you would be wrong, Softness, just wrong as you are to have “opted out” of the Sisters’ trail. You would be wrong because Christmas Hashing is about gifts, and the sisters are about giving. That, and drunken debauchery. So of course there were gifts for all the girls and boys. For Her Bait there was a four pack of Purple Passion (the drink, not the wanton harriette), for Raw Deal a tall boy of High Life, and for Coochie minor haul of Fucking Merlot (which is the only kind of Merlot she drinks as it ensure uninterrupted coitus of endless variety). It did not stop there, however, for the Sisters gifted each hasher and even our lone virgin with tiny bottle of the most enchanting elixirs!
If only you had faith or good fortune, you might have partaken of the love and romance of the Sisters’ Christmas Hash, and might be now covering yourself in poetic glory. Alternatively, you might be wiping yourself clean of nutmeg scented vomit and feces, which is exactly what Blazed and Confused is doing right now. Was it all real? Ah, Soft Serve, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding. But you missed it. You missed it and you also missed the circle that followed in which we welcomed our lone virgin, Her Bait was Cum Dumpstered and Purple Drank accepted the pirate flag although he was not FRB. You also missed the giant Christmas offering Scat brought for Mama and Papa Hash, a giant photo collage of QCH3 Hashes from the year gone by. It is a marvellous creation picturing all of us. Each and every one! Even you, Soft Serve.
No Sisters’ Christmas Hash! Thank G, it WAS. And it will be forever. It is a part of hash lore and hash “history.” A thousand years from now, Soft Serve, nay 10 times 10,000 years from now, someone will stumble across this Trash and know that you failed to attend the most wonderous hash of the year.
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