Back in my day, trails were uphill both ways to the beer check, in the rain. Marks? We were lucky if we had marks, half the time the torrential downpour had obliterated them. There were six way checks at every intersection, and five of the ways were false.
Back in my day we didn’t have a Messiah to call to if we got scared, Titty Boo Boo. And we definitely didn’t need cuddles from The Perfect Woman. We didn’t even have women. We carried our beer ourselves, on our backs, unless we had a St. Bernard handy. We didn’t even have women, remember.
We didn’t ask, we didn’t tell, and we didn’t watch Mr. Asstastic and Banana In Public. Our underwear wasn’t red, it was white, black, or shades of grey if we were the dirty sort.
Back in my day, RAs were funny.
If a pretty woman like Just Louisa got a bloody nose, we would have named her On The Rag or Bloody Mary and be done with it.
When it was your birthday, you’d get some flour, beer, and eggs on your head, not some sort of silly hat, Bloqueen. You’d ask for spankings and would be lucky to get them, Just Louisa, and if you didn’t get them, you would just spank yourself, Miss Delivery.
We treated our visitors and virgins well, instead of forgetting their names. We definitely didn’t try to disguise two virgins as one by dressing them both in Batman shirts.
We invited everyone to our sex orgies, Cockamole and Sister Fister.
When we said we were going to run a pointless number of miles on a weekend, we ran a pointless number of miles on that weekend.
And most of all, we didn’t whine!
Undersigned Yours Truly,
The Best Hares of the Century,
Shaft and Cumming Mutha