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|All Along the Hashtower Hash Trash
(13 days ago)
What: The All Along the Watchtower Hash
Where: Brendan Behan Pub
Who: Do Me Decimal, (not) Massage A Trio
Wikipedophilia, Bring Out the Gimp, For the Love of God Finish, the virgin from last week, the just who brought the virgin from last week, Dribbles, Dry Hose, Sex TFF, Twat My Mom, Topless Barbie, Chunderelli, definetly other people I’m forgetting.
Arriving at the start early - running because trusting the orange line is like waiting for when I paint my masterpiece - the bartender very nicely informed me that the hare had called ahead to warn the bar of our arrival, so they had set up some orange food and pretzels on a few tables away from the bar as to not distract the denzins at the bar. Rage. As I was walking in, All Along the Watchtower was playing, on theme. Chunderelli walked right past the bar. Pack slowly trickled in, with tales of woe coming in from all those who braved the T. The hares and bag car arrived slightly be 7, and changed into an all-red outfit (this is relivant later) and was gay, or straight, or whatever, they left us alone at the bar with promises of beer lingering in the air.
Qatar Mile Queer led us in chalk talk, but decided to draw the marks in white chalk, unlike the hare, who decided to paint the side walks black with their chalk. The hare had given a whole set of “special marks” to our earstwhile RA, but he had forgotten all but one of them - CN/CC which stood for “Champange Near” and “Champange Check.” We were promised that it wouldn’t be “divorce juice”
Everyone was scouting left, and some were scouting right. I scouted the wrong way around a super-market, and eventually I hadn’t seen nothing like a trial mark, so I headed back to chalk-talk. I found some grey-chalk-on-black-side-walk and followed until I saw cranium lamps bobbing in the distance and ran towards them. Pack ran helter-skleter going check-to-check; the hare living up to their origins as a cajun-hasher. Once we found marks it was easy to follow, but pack hadn’t seen nothing like an easily visible mark. Looping our way through JP - the lack of ability to see marks made us run in circles without knowing it - we eventually couldn’t figure out what any of it was worth and found marks leading into the woods with “CN” writen in chalk on a rock. The hare then used the tried and true practice of “an entire bag of flour over 100 yards” leading us through the woods to the champange. Luckily they ran out right at the champange, laying only one “wiki-mark” (as apparently laying down sticks in the formation of arrows is called - who would ever DO THAT?). Next to the champange were the cards that read “have mercy on their souls” as it was discovered this was, in fact, divorce-juice. [For those who don’t know divorce juice is a term of art for almond flavoured champange from trader joes] There was also hatorade mixed with something for the feinter of hart. After trying hard to finish the bottles, we looked around and saw that pack had shrunk to about six, so I went back to look for the rest of them. Apparently they were confused by the definition of “near” and didn’t see, or follow, the marks going up the spanish stairs, looking around instead for champange near the champange near mark.
Trail “well, lets just assume it goes up hill”:
We all know the adage that “the hash runs up hill” and never has pack seen this montra more faithfully executed. We hashed around the heath street hill, through some parks and up some stairs. We got to an intersection and ran up some more hills, then to another intersection and up more hills. We were running a long a street at there was a check at the base of a flight of stairs, there was one easily visible and a second mark not too far up them, so I bounded my way up the stairs. Twat my mom kindly intercepted a local muggle who asked him why I had just bounded up the stairs to his house. Twat replied, in effect, that I was (am) an idiot, and that it was the wrong way. The man invited Twat to run a 5k on Saturday as I ran back down the stairs to catch up with pack. There was a check at the next flight of stairs, and trail did go up those, to a second shot check.
Trial “this has to be where the beer check is, oh, no, wait.”
Starting from the mad dash up the stairs to the second shot check all of our - or at least YHNs - beer-dars were going off, only to be investigated as false alarms. After the shot check we finished running up all the hills to the park which overlooks the city - really narrowing down which one - and trial ran, unexpectedily down-hill, so we kept thinking that the beer check would be “right at the next park.” It never was. Eventually we kept running down, and down and down until we got to the Orange line tracks, which we ran over, to a hash-sit-a-peed by whatever-road-the-orange-line-follows. Continuelly getting my barings again, I suggested that we “scout up hill” to that weird tower thing we went to once one a red dress after being kicked out of Sam Adams. Pack blinked and ran down the “big road” while Chunderelli and i scouted - and found - trail crossing 4 lanes of traffic and going up hill. Trail came to an intersection and kept going up hill. It did this three, or maybe four, more times, until finally, blessedily, we saw “BN” pointing into the park with the aforementioned weird tower.
Beer Check Sex Cult?
The hare maintains that the tower was built in the 60s as part of a sex cult? They were very adoment about it, but I wasn’t really paying attention. I was paying attention to the fact that my legs were no longer climbing hills. The only conversation of note at the beer check was about how opiodes make you constipated, then people shared stories about suffering from the inverse of constipation as an adult. We thought the hare had been away for a while when we started talking about hashers who signed up to get colera, but were informed that they had only been away for a few minutes. Not wanting to talk about shit anymore, i wandered around the park, scouting in all the wrong directions.
Trial “We have to go downhill to get to where we’re going”
If our beer-dars had been biased after the second shot check, they were totally out of whack following the beer check, except that we totally go lost at least twice looking around at “View Checks” whose views featured tripple deckers with maybe a sight of a sky scrapper peaking over them in the distance. I’m pretty sure we ran down more hills than we ran up, but according to science that’s not possible. Fake news. They were perfect hills. We crossed back over the-main-road-heading-south-west-from-the-city and Twat led us in “Oh, sir jasper” to let pack catch up and reform. Sex scouted straight and had a knack for not following the falses down all the sides streets which went up hill,unlike YHS. However, that scouting led YHS to be slightly behind Sex at a group hug in front of a cool chruch on a hill, which we had circle for moon behind many moons ago. Sex and a few others went off scouting and calling “OnOn” in, lets be honest, whatever direction doesn’t matter, because I saw, running back towards us crouching and trying to stay behind trash cans, a runner dressed all in red. They sprinted across the road mid block and i turned and chased down the hare!
We sang the days of the week before running around the chruch and on-ining at the park next to the parking lot where moon ended years ago.
Precircle food! Not only was it pizza, but it was, like, good pizza. We stuffed our visages with it. After pack had enough time to eat the delicous pizza buffet, QMQ started singing about the mayors daughter and we carried the beer-cooler over to a basketball hoop in the middle of a round court for circle.
Quarter mile took a long pull from his beer and called the hare into circle, then went around asking for comments on trail. Disco showed up looking dabber AF. We sang the hare the “Shitty Hare” song, and they sang us ... something? Mobile? Sure lets go with that. It’s not true, but it doesn’t matter. When we finished their song and QMQ almost dismissed them from cricle, but then called them back in because he had forgotten to get comments on trail sign them a song. We, the pack, were slightly confused, so we all yelled our comments out again, and QMQ sang “Shitty Hare” and second time, no knowing that we had just done all this! The RA had lost control so the hare and YHS ran around circle yelling that while pack stood looking dumb. The RA then asked “what else he had forgotten” not wanting to retrace the entirety of his life accused the RA of “forgetting circle” and sang to him that ... “he should’ve used more flour and chalk.” Circle was quickly decending into madness but it was the amazing level of madness which is as indescribable as it is fun and intoxicating. There weren’t any virgins - not that I remember at least - but we did call sweat test failures in. When pressed for a song, we sang that the backsliders “should’ve use more flour and chalk....” The RA tried invain to assert some kind of control over circle, and kept on calling in people for accusations which should’ve had specific songs. The backsliders, for example, were asked “where o where were you last week? We should’ve used more flour and chalk...” There was a celebration of the end of summer by doing the same swedish-frog-jumping-thing which we celebrated it’s start with, but that didn’t take hold either. QMQ was accused of running into a tree, and sang to that he should’ve used more flour, or chalk. The hare was called in for being snared, and also told, for a third time, that they should’ve used more flour and chalk. Eventually, with the time progressing towards 10 and the beer flowing quickly, it was time to swing low and end this farce of a circle, which could’ve used more flour and chalk.
On - you should’ve used more flour or chalk - On
The hare provided the following document about their research and references for the trail:
All Along the Watchtower Trail: An Explanation, with references
Summary of inspiration for the trail:
The Lyman Family, also known as the Fort Hill Community, is a Boston-bred cult founded by musician Mel Lyman of Kwenski’s Jug Band. Lyman had a bit of a musical spat with Bob Dylan at the 1965 Newport Folk Festival, when Dylan played an electric set to an audience who expected a different style of show. After Dylan performed, the displeased crowd began to empty from the venue, and Lyman retook the stage to play for 20 minutes on a harmonica. Sometime between then and 1967, Dylan wrote “All Along the Watchtower.”
Two years after the festival, in 1966, Lyman, who’d moved to Boston in 1963, started a cult near the “Watchtower” of this trail, Fort Hill Tower. Like other charismatic cult leaders such as his more murderous contemporary Charles Manson, Lyman was able to draw people to him and manipulate them using sex, isolation, and music, topped off with healthy doses of LSD. When not being actually-not-hippies in the Fort Hill neighborhood, the Family was out selling a newspaper called Avatar, which got them into legal issues while supposedly expanded the cult message. As the 70s approached, bank robberies and assaults tied to the Lyman Family followed. Lyman supposedly died in 1978, though no death certificate was ever produced. Family members eventually founded a construction company, which may or may not exist today in Boston. Coverage of the Lyman Family as a cult began in the 1970s and has continued into 2019.
As a person studying information science, ol’ Do Me (Re) Decimal has an interest in communities of practice, and occasionally argues on trail that the hash, which is not-not-not-a-cult, as well groups like the Lyman Family that are actually-freaking-cults, are also communities of practice. Do Me heard of Lyman in a book ostensibly about Van Morrison’s album, Astral Weeks. After reading the work last year while spending a month convalescing at Buttler’s house, then discovering upon moving to Jamaica Plain that the site of the Lyman Family’s intrigues near the Fort Hill
“Watchtower” were within hashing distance from Nira Rock, Do Me began r*nning stairs and plotting a route. Thus a trail was conceived, haphazardly, but with references, for this not-a-cult-but-perhaps-a-community-of-practice.
Brennan, J. (2018). Van Morrison: Astral Weeks, Movement and Murder. Disgraceland (podcast).
Felton, D. (1971). The Lyman family's holy siege of America. Rolling Stone.
Turner, G. (2019). My childhood in a cult. The New Yorker.
Walsh, R. H. (2018). Astral Weeks: A Secret History of 1968. Penguin.
|Return of Mastor Gator*
(2 months ago)
The Return of Mastor Gator!
Hare: Master Gator*
Bag Car: Marblelous Asshole
Pack: Dribbles, Fireball, Wikipedophila, Shart of Darkness, Sketcy Ho, Popo Peepshow, Spunk in the Trunk, Blonde, Fellowship of the cockring, Qater Mile Queer, Chunderlli Chunderelle, Knuckle, O’boner, Mechanics, Shits, Noman, The Buttler hit it, Barbie, Twat my mom, Goes down on Buoys, Jiggly Tits, For the love of god, Disco, Easy as 123, others I’m forgetting
Pack arrived on time at Harry’s and had a few drinks and snacks. Chicken wangs were a popular choice. Master Gator was welcomed back after a long hash absence. The hare left on time and everyone saw him make the first check outside of the bar. Eventually 6.9 was called and we left to find bag car and chalk talk.
No Justs! No Virgins! Shart was missing on a “work call” and Disco went in bag car.
Leg 1( dammit hills):
Trail went up ALL the hills. And stairs. At some point, QMQ had to “take a shit” and left pack. People remarked "yeah that sounds right". Wiki went off to zen and Chunderelli was missing. Buoys refunded into a bush. There was a rum shot check that no one really wanted. Vanilla flavoured nonsense, we hates it. Knuckles gracefully fell. Eventually, pack made it to the...
Wine Check (baggo!):
Before Shart caught up to pack at the wine check, Easy informed us that she wasn't Shart's keeper and therefore didn't know where the fuck Shart was. Blondie said we were missing a handful of pack including Wiki and QMQ, though Fireball swore she saw Wiki’s Marks on trail.We finished a pretty good amount of the bag of wine (a rare white), our enthusiasm stoked by various hashers showing off their 'And1 Baggo' moves that they'd perfected on the summer tour. We did not finish it all and Fellowship of the Winebag bore the weight of the bagho out of the wine check.
WC to BC(oh look people) At this point Fireball was getting increasingly worried about the length of QMQ’s shit. Tech on trail reassured that QMQ had “found pack” and was no longer glued to a toilet. During this leg pack was in awe of Gator’s newfound love of mileage.
BC (beer and snacks)
In a shocking turn of events for the Boston Hash, we drank beer in a park.
BC to End (beep beep!):
A car nearly ran Wiki over. We gave the motorist a citizen issued citation for rolling through the stop sign. He is due to appear in kangaroo court next week. Jiggly asked a muggle for his phone to show him the hash website. He seem enthralled with our antics and took a swig of hatorade before heading off to a tea party.
Circle (shit escalates):
Circle started with the location of beer and pizza being argued over. Some thought that we should circle right where were on the hill (a pretty level spot), while others thought we should proceed a few hundred metres more to another spot. We compromised by taking 5 steps up the hill and doing circle there. Pack started getting incresingly worried that Gator was no where to be found. There were theories floating around that he was stationed up the hill, and FTLoGF went and shouted for him to no avail, before returning quickly due to fear of wolves. And The Hares started, and 5 different people jumped in. To what seemed to be everyone's complete surprise, we were all learnt at this pointt that the trail had been hared not by Gator, but instead by Wiki. And Shart. And Qmq. And Disco. And Chundrelli. Gator had gone home after prelube. Actual hares had engaged in some extreme trickery/COLLUSION to lay trail, unbeknownst to the rest of pack. Please see the Strava flyby for more details on this. Hares were called in for they fuckery. With no virgins to dement, and limited visitors to entertain ourselves with, we moved on. FTLoGF was still confused where Gator was. Accusations were hurled around, true and semi-true alike. We would eventually swing low, and then leave leave.
Scribed by Master Gator*
Anonymous Grizzly, Anonymous Chinchilla, Anonymous Kraken, Anonymous Dinosaur
|Divorcee Hash 2.0
(3 months ago)
What: Divorcee Hash 2.0
How: Swedish Eagle, Yellow Dick Gnome, Chunderelli Chunderelli
Where: Whitey’s Harvard Sq
young just, old just, ass cowboy, quater mile quack quack queer, do me decimal, po po peep show, wikipedophilia, anal disco, peeping tom pussy, strap on strap off, kunckles deep, orgasmn falmon, necropheliciac jack, the butler hit in, oboner, dribbles, dry hose, luva lamp, full frontal fireball, vagabond, sketchy, testicular mechinaics, foreskin abortion, probably others i’m forgetting, no capital letters.
Start: Pack made up the entirety of the crowd at Whitneys and Vagabond did a much more friendly impression of “give me yo money” than I ever had. We discussed why we were here, and our sincere hopes that this trail would be better than the last divorce trail . The hares were eventually gay - if only, that might have helped their marriage - and we continued talking amoungst ourselves. Eventually two people showed up who looked like they were going to be the bouncer for the night, and we ignored each other. Pack away was called and we played another game of “cram bags into small cars” as we filled quater miles’ transport with our shit.
Was relivitely calm; we said what we wanted to get in the divorce, and went over marks...some of which were used, some of which weren’t. We were told that there would be an abritraity number of “bad decision splits” - the hares would make them up as they go but we could expect things like “401k/vacation house.” Cool idea, we left to find marks.
Well, this was no honeymoon. This marriage was off to a grey start as the first leg of trial [note: I -am- trying to spell trail but google (I’m writing in google docs) is -always- correcting it to trial.] was marked in grey and sidewalk color chalk. Combine that with us running through the never-thronged-with-tourists-and-summer-camps-harvard-square and you could just tell that pack was already harkening back to the early days of crushing and mid-day bangs. Eventually we found a mark which was a perfect metaphor for the divorcee trial; a true trail leading to a locked gate. On the other side of the gate was one of the best splits I’ve ever seen; a “Drinking Alone/Therapy” split; the drinking alone just looped you back to the locked gate true trail and the same split again. In order to continue on trail, you NEEDED TO TAKE THERAPY!!! On the other side of the therapy was a song check in the middle of Hahvahd Yahd, at which I thought it was appropriate to educate the denizens of The Yahd about how you can have a balanced diet - and stable marriage - if you eat hot viginia for breakfast, lunch and dinner! There was a kids/pets check on the other side of the Yahd, and then trail rejoined and we run through “lower Cambridge” towards Cambridgeport and a beer check in the park near the Western Ave Bridge.
Had Beer! Though, to be fair, it was divorcee-able beer, as it was, we hope, finally the last of the marathon beer check gennie cream and warm PBR (though bag car had placed it on ice to try and gas light us into thinking it was good beer). Speaking of gaslighting, some people talked about early 2000s German ciniema and no one had heard of The Edukators. Kool.
Pack away was called (or I thought it was)
Leg Working Through It:
The second leg of trail was one designed to remind pack of everything they hadn’t as we trampsed on various paths through Harvard Business School. There was a Mom/Dad/Runaway check. Your humble narrator took the “Mom” path which was a pleasant stroll passed some pavillions, gaint out-door chess and a “cool art” check. Nerco and Vagabond ran off to have sex, and I scouted trail alone across whatever extension Hahvavd is building into Lower Alston, and ran into the 401k/Vacation house check. The vacation house led quickly to a “B”N so I looped back and ran the 401k backwards hoping to find “shots” but none were to be found, so I caught up with the walkers and ran into the “B”C.
Not Almound Champaign Check:
The B was in quotes because the refreshments on offer were cosco-champaign and the champange of beers - High Life. Blessedly there was no Almond Champange and pack began to think “maybe the hares aren’t gunning for ‘Worst Trial Of the Year’”
Leg Run to the Courthouse
From the second beer check trial meandered again through LA to an obivous check-back on Hooker st, which I blew through and found true trial a block away pointing to a “CN/CC” where the hares had hidden the other six bottles of champange under a bridge. Second rolled up to the check with a posses coke-addicted doll which he used as a batton to pass around champange. I think her name was ... Sally? He found her in an Alley? I forget. Trial continued across the North Harvard Ave Bridge to the Most Obivous Checkback Ever (TM) back across the Mass Pike to a pretty much straight shot to where all marriages end; the backroom of the Shilloute.
Was the backroom of the Shilloute. Bags and pizzas were distributed and we stuffed our faces with pizza and free pop corn until Ass Cowboy called us into circle. The hares were called in for being hares and laying a shitty trial. They admitted to their crimes and sang that they were dumb. Visitors were called in - one whose name I forget from Everyday Is Wednesday - whose naminy story involved banging in the Hahvad Library, and a visitor from Boulder CO, #PossiblyTheBestBH3. They were welcomed and song “Dead Whore.” Then July birthdays were called in - second, popo, butler, maybe others - and we sang to the linear progression of time. I was called in any number of times for any number of crimes. Strap on Strap off was called in for following me and I massarced the “Like a Virgin” song. Dry Hose and Luva serinamed us with their weird song, though I forget which accusation drove it. Eventually the beer was running low and the more constrained passing of time which we were aware of was getting close to the end so ass cowboy called for announcements (see below) then we swamg low.
On - there are no such thing as mistakes just wrong decisions in the moment - On
TONIGHT TONIGHT TONIGHT: Choir practice at the Owl’s Nest Beer Garden on the Esplinade. Google maps:
I will mark trail from the Feedler and Dartmouth St footbridges.
Saturday: Zig-Zag Trail starting at the Shilloute, 8PM HST
Next Wedensday: Revere Trail, Bill Ashes’ Lounge
Saturday 7/20: Bullbuster
Saturday 7/27: Boston Moon H3 Present: Tour de Franzia 2.0
Wednesday 7/31: Mastor Gator is haring a trail which isn’t the Tropical Hash
Saturday September 7th: Green/Yellow Dress Run!!
|hsarT hsaH sdrawkcaB
(6 months ago)
What: Hash Backwards Trash
Where: Zero Washington Dog Park
Who: Shits and Ladders
Pack: Right, a lot of justs, a just who was named Full Frontal Fireball, a virgin, Sex the Final Frontier, PoPo Peepshow, Shart of Darkness, Organsm Falmon, Dribbles, Bring Out the Gimp, Wikipedophilia, Testicular Mechanics, Foreskin Abortion, Bottom Wrangler, Quarter Mile Queer, Dry Hose, a just from holden (well, rutland, but I’ll take it), other’s I’m forgetting.
The marks being blue and well trodden were slightly hard to see, and since we were all eating pizza (suprisingly good?), we weren’t paying much attention. There were no flour marks, though the majority of trail would be laid in flour. We did introductions in a record amount of time, as a very drunk Wrangler spon around in the middle and told us to “Yell out our names” when he pointed to us. The virgin was very confused, but we ran off anyway.
Trail goes up, because of course it does:
Trail turned left out of the start, and we were immediately deprived of some of the best urban shiggy and abandoned train cars in boston. We ran around the back of a retire complex then crossed Washington street when we saw and sign which cruelly promised that a T station might be there soon.. We ran up a short road, crossed a green bridge, then got to a 5 way intersection and a song check. Unfortunately the motorists had their windows up so they couldn’t hear us saranade them with the gang bang song. We crossed the intersection almost directly and ran pretty much straight up the backside of whatever-hill-has-that-tower-on-it-in-Somerville to our first beer check. There was some pleasant musical accompanyment for the FRBs, but by the time pack got there the muscianians had dispersed.
Beer check sans music:
The beer was dropped off and the musicians left. We spent time enjoying the views of our fair city and wondering where trail would go from there. We were promised an indoor or outdoor onin, depending on weather. I had my suspicions, which were wrong, and caused some bad zenning in the future.
Trail goes down:
Apparently Somerville is fixing stairs and doesn’t want people running on grass? Anyway, we had to run around the tower to get back down to Union square, and a check that was actually solved relatively easily, given the roads in the area. We ran over the bridge past CEPs old place, and Testicular tried really hard to pull a Butler by darting out in front of a car. Everyone saw the car stop and then ran around it too. This very much confused the driver and he tried to yell at us, but we were running for beer! There was a group hug a bit down from CEPs and I am getting confused as to how we got there without cross a major street, but I’m assuming somehow we did? We then had a nice jaunt through deep Cambridge and it’s warren of not-quiet logically connecting streets until we ended up at the backside of the Kendal area. There were no marks down the train tracks because apparently those tracks are becoming more and more active? Trail ran through the bio-tech building neighborhood to and we were finially rewarded with a beer near a dog park/playground thing off Binary street.
Beer check in the dark:
Despite the lengthening days, it was getting dark and we were getting kinda cold. I found out that one of our just was from Rutland and that sadly he was more well versed in the Holden bar scene than I am. In my defense I actively avoid the Holden bar scene like the bubaunic fucking plauge. Cool story. With the darkness encrouching on our rage, we hastily finished our beers and took off in search of trail.
Trail smart or stupid? Everyone’s stupid.
Trail ran straight for a few blocks to a smart/stupid check. Gimp somehow found trail and ran almost straight to the end. I thought I knew better than to follow a Gimp sprinting off into the unknown, so instead I followed Sex. I have regrets in my life. We scouted a block and found trail and then verily happily ran trail, despite marks being slightly hard to find, for a few blocks. We heard On-On calls in the distance and were vauguely heading towards them. Then there was a check dozen people coming from one way and a dozen people coming from another and we kinda just looked at eachother all stupid like until I decided that maybe following Sex wasn’t a good idea, so I followed falmon and we eventually found our back to the joining arrows of the smart/stupid – but still no sign of Gimp. A few blocks later we were running past the court house and our beerdars were flashing red alart. A quick mob-run across Cambridge street greeted us with a Beer Near and OnIn at Courtside.
Circle got started quickly with the Ras accusing the hare of an S-H-I-T-T-Y trail, and the hare singing a short dity about our sisters. We then brought in our virgin who was close to guessing what eight something squared was and had a very ineresting interpartation of a pig orgasming. She’s now a just, and I promise to be good a remember justs this summer! #scribegoals Sensing that pack was already drunk and that there was a story which just needed to be told, the RAs accused Just Lindsey of being a just. As she knelt before us we heard tale of her drinking too much fireball at marathon, going home, leaving her door open (who amoung us hasn’t done that?). Her roomate then came home, thought someone had broken in and called the cops who founded our earstwhile just contentenidtly passed out on her bed. At another trail, this time in Oregon, she went down on a fellow hasher after she though trail was over. When she came up for air, she discovered that they had not finished trail, and were in fact, in circle. Based partially off these relaltively true events, just Lidnsey will be known as Full Frontal Fireball from now on. That out of the way, we moved onto accusations. Backsliders were called in, I think, though somehow I missed out? There was an accusation of a group back massage and Testicular face planting running down a hill. Since we were at Courtside there were pitchers and shitty pizza flowing generously and the RAs, admiting that they could no longer control themselves or circle, swung low. Oh yeah, there were announcements – beaver trail in Billerica Sunday, in which we might burn down Gimps house? I’m unsure. Summer campout season is upon us, so you know, get your tent and rage?
On – Rage – On
|Zig Zag Hash #(something) Trash
(7 months ago)
Zig Zag Hash Trash -
March Zig Zag - Willy Wonka rules
Hare: E = I'm a Douche
Beer bike: Clits and chips and chips and clits
Pack: Me, The Buttler Hit it, Mr Bean, Just brad, Just Ian, Just Cydney. This was the first time I ever actually ran a zig zag trail, as I have hared all the others.
Prelube: Pack congregated at Sligo Pub, a little hole in the wall that some of you may have experienced. We drank beers and wondered who else was cumming tonight, and it turned out to just be us. Douche left at 9:30 to do a thing and pack eventually wandered off after him to do their thing.
First leg: It turns out a pack of 6 moves a lot slower than what we are used to seeing at Zig Zag, and we slowly worked our way through Somerville, solving checks. Just Brad took a digger on the ice (for which I would later drink), a random hasher who didn't know Boston had a hash identified himself but refused to join us, Chits and Clips pedaled indefatigably and we all just perservered until we got to the beer check.
First BC: As we basked in the glow of our reasonably cold Natty Ice in some park by some railroad tracks in Somerville, Just Cydney (or should I say Violet Beauregard) gave in to the temptation of being warm and going to sleep. "It's willy wonka rules," I joked, not knowing the precience of those very words.
Second Leg: About 5 minutes in, Mr. Bean (Augustus Gloop) fell into the proverbial chocolate river and went off to see a man about a horse or see a horse about a girl or something like that. How do you like them apples?
Up the hills, down the hills we ran, as Douche watched us sipping ciders. We were even slower and midnight came fast. Our valiant beer biker realised that she had to leave or risk being stranded in Magoun Square, so she got on a bus. I've decided she is the Veruca Salt of the story because of her selfish desire to go home at a reasonable hour. I hopped on the beer bike and pedaled away as she hunted for the 89 bus stop, her silhouette receding in the distance until she was but a speck on the horizon.
Second BC: In a park somewhere. Buttler, Douche, Just Brad, Just Ian and me.
Third Leg: We proceded to the on-in, Buttler's house... Almost all of us. Just Brad (Mike Teevee) bailed about 2 blocks away. It was 1am, and apparently some people like sleeping more than drinking. There's no accounting for taste.
On-in: What I expected to be a really short circle ended up being pretty fun. We sang songs, complained to the hare about his shitty trail, and did honor downdowns for the fallen soldiers. I did the math about how many hours I would get to sleep before my kids woke me up and headed back to my car.
Announcements: Trail the next day somewhere, Boston Marathon 4/13, Zig Zag marathon 4/6
If you're still reading, I am looking for a hare for 4/6. If you are interested please message me.