SFH3 HASH TRASH

“The Iceblock Man Cometh”

Run # 1509- Cheeseturd and Da Vinci Load

Once upon a time there was a little Dutch boy who stuck his finger in a dyke, received a quick slap across the face and to the embarrassment of his parents was shipped across the Atlantic, loaded into a 1980 Ford Fairmont travelling west along I-10 and hanging a right somewhere in the Mojave Desert. It eventually reached a metropolis unlike any other and the little Dutch boy sought out a place he could make his own, a home away from the low country he had left behind. One day, stumbling through the inner city woodland he stumbled across a windmill and felt at peace. Hopeful, he approached the windmill, joy in his heart and visions of his bold future in front of him…and then those fucking hashers ran by and ruined everything.

As your narrator, I feel I must be blunt and admit I had no idea who Cheeseturd and Da Vinci Load were. Sure, I’d seen their faces around, but they seemed aware of my propensity for forgetfulness and hared their trail from the Senior Center in Golden Gate Park. Color the pack surprised when Hand Pump, Shaft and Cumming Mutha appeared yelling at us “damn kids to get off the lawn.” Being wise to their sort of geriatric nonsense, Gobble My Ass started strutting around like a turkey until their dementia riddled minds became confused and instead of yelling at us they decided to run the trail.

The hares must have taken into consideration Captain Organ’s electronically communicated display of pent up energy as they decided to have us run a few laps around the polo fields. Now, I know we’re supposed to be hounds chasing hares, but c’mon! Where are the creepy trails with homeless men giving each other hand jobs in front of the aptly named Handjob for Humanity? Where are the romantic paths where Oh Shit plies little girls with candy? Oh wait; they’re just a mile further down the trail. Awesome!

In true hash form, we lost trail down the aforementioned Blowjob and Pedophilia trail, No Shit and Wee Wee frightened diners at Beach Chalet as Westward Ho gazed lovingly at the Nike Women’s Marathon finish line before we began our ascent through the neighborhood, thirsting for beer just as you, dear reader, are thirsting for this trash to come to a conclusion.

One scary ghost house, shiggy trail, and Turkey/Eagle Split later our headlamps were greeted by Hand Pump and all those short cutting bastards (AHEM, Sit on My Facebook) hovering around the beer, Beck’s Oktoberfest, in front of an elementary school because, hell, we’re the Hash and that’s just how we roll. For fear of kicking the keg early, Wet Nurse started hollering that we roll back to the start and get circle going, AND WE DID, AND IT WAS GOOD, AND THERE WAS MUUUUUUCH REJOICING, AND wHole Blow Out didn’t suck too badly as an RA (but she promises to get faster/funnier).

Circle brought back two forgotten traditions: iceblocks for the r*cists and whiners, Hashit for Good Shit Lollicock, Squeeze My Squid was ridiculed for getting named at a four man hash, Da Vinci Load called up for egging on the pack in front of a cop, Handjob talked about handjobs (what else?) and we sang a farewell to Westward Ho before heading over to Hockey Haven for the On On On. And that little Dutch boy? He’s picking splinters out of his feet because who the hell tries to hash in wooden clogs?