Most readers will be familiar with the intricate and careful technique required for interaction with beer vans. Unlike common transportation species, beer vans are highly selective in their habits and preferences and have been known to vanish entirely when their needs are not satisfied. While some reports (such as Well, DH et al, 2022) may speculate that control of beer vans is ethically dubious, most familiar with the species agree that they can be kept fully content in an urban environment.

However, recently it has been noted that beer van behavior around the beginning of the year has been highly erratic. After disappearing entirely for over a week, the van returned obstinate and erratic. Unwilling to settle at its usual nesting site near the Stow Lake boathouse, Hand Pump was only able to still it through artful drawing of large arrows in bright yellow chalk. Muff Daddy very carefully passed out chalk so as not to startle it into flight too soon, while Chicken Bone Her scrambled to rearrange the ceremonial markings that would allow for the hashers to soothe it fully.

Despite the unruly van, the hashers were generally jovial and full of good holiday cheer, fully enjoying blocking the way for as many tourists as possible. However, it was not long before Who's Your Daddy noticed the beer van making odd noises of discontent. The group was ushered quietly away before it could get too upset.

Chalk talk was conducted away from the van, and the hashers could not truly say what it was doing after they departed. While most hashers do not believe beer vans actually follow trail, it is impossible to disprove. Nevertheless, generally all agree that trail must be followed by hashers in some fashion, although not necessarily correctly, or even in any order, for the van to settle for its mating ritual to commence and full amounts of beer to flow. Mostly all goes well, and historically very few hashers have been consumed in the process.

Carrot Cock made sure his virgin was paying full attention to instructions, and Crotch Rocket watched closely to share with her home kennel the customs peculiar to the San Francisco breed. It was not long before Dickweed, One and Done, and Just Doesn't Get It were dashing off onto the trails of Golden Gate Park.  Cum Test Dummy, eager to dash off her hangover, was close behind. But trail twisted and turned, putting Boner Marrow and then Cockamole at the front, and Eat My Pussy wound up coming up their backsides accidentally.

Trail toured around as many of the lakes of Golden Gate Park as it could muster, allowing Sheepy to enjoy the bison and Five Angry Inches to enjoy close encounters with frisbees. The pack came to a stop at an authoritative and large BN, but there was no van in sight.

Got Wood stood high and Backhoe looked low, but no amount of searching seemed to put the van in sight. The hashers were loathe to leave the spot, for trail went no further than BN and the van had already been in such a state. TurboTwat and Wet and Sloppy made polite conversation, while Bloqueen and Tears of Semen began reassuring their virgin that they would not need to resort to ceremonial sacrifice quite yet.

Tricrapylete had heard that Chicken Bone Her had gone to try to corral the van into compliance, and Hand Pump and Princess Slut were seen hurrying after her. Cookies N Cum began looking up travel times to Portland, while Shit Stain was wondering if he should report SFH3 for beer van abuse to the SPCBV. Jack The Ripper was being a little coy with how he had injured his arm, after all.

Finally, Wash This Asshole raised a cheer-- the beer van was ambling slowly towards them all, carefully chaperoned by Hand Pump. The van began giving all hashers their fill, Tuna clinking cups with Queen and Gingervitis. Look Who's Coming To Dinner cheerfully refreshed her pooch, and Cum Test Dummy declared her hangover fully resolved.

"How many teeth do you think the beer van has?" wondered Wrong Waymo. Thankfully King of Bedbugs had peeled out with a loud screech on his bicycle, so presumably the van was unable to hear him.

"Hear ye, hear ye!" Hand Pump summoned the hashers' attention. "I know what is upsetting the beer van... all the shit you lot have left inside is giving it indigestion! It has been sick all morning from towels, cups, chairs, and one ground squirrel."

And that, dear readers, was the answer to most, if not all, of the San Francisco Hash beer van troubles. Without any further ado, the van took care of its hash and turned in for an early night's rest.