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|Daylight Raging Time
(9 months ago)
What: A Day in the Raging Time
Where: Tavern at the End of the World
Hare: Dry Hose
Bag car: Cherry Poppin Paddy
Pack: Wikipedophilia, the Butler Hit It, Shart of Darkness, No Man of the Moon, PoPo Peepshow, Willy Wonka the the Holden Factory, Orgasmn Falmon, Fellowship of the Cockring, Dime Bag Derell, Qatar Mile Queer, Holy Dumpster Fire, Full Front Fireball, Dribbles, Bottom Wrangler, Hare Club, Others I am Forgetting.
Start: I was very worried I would be late so instead of taking the 86 I took an uber, which happened to not be a valid worry because even though this was day light raging time, packs habitual tardiness was not remidied. Pack was standing around the bar discussing, I think, ski trips, winter hiking, premiership games, and various other topics. I was transfixed by the broadcast of a Red Sox game which had all the hallmarks of a live broadcast, but the Red Sox were listed as the home and I was trying to really hard to figure out if I had blacked out the entire month of March? How were they playing baseball at Fenway? Why is everyone dressed in summer clothes when it’s maybe 50? It was only when I started typing this story on a not at all hungover Monday morning that I realized spring training was a thing and I was probably watching a broadcast from Florida. That there were crowds still in the stands also served as an indication that this story took place back in March, not in April.
Qutar Mile was the most sober. He didn’t mess up chalk talk at all. It was fast, efficent, there was no waste. It was perfect. People, in fact, were surprised at how much information was communicated and pack commented that QMQ must have a natural inclination for it.
Leg the First- Definetly not cajun:
This leg was definetly not cajun but that didn’t stop YHS from doing some truly horrible scouting. I ran up towards sullivan from the start, thinking we’d go under the train tracks, or all the old rail lines for some ubran shiggy since trail was marked in undyed white flour. It did not. Trail ran along Washington street until the bridge was decidedly out. Thinking now that trail would wind towards what I will be refering to as Powder House Hill, I scoted roughly in that direction. I should note that I wasn’t scouting or zennig by following marks I was just running blindly roughly trying to keep pace with pack out of the periphary of my vision. We did meet up for a check past some very confused youths playing basketball, who were generally confused and perplexed by what these group of adults was doing on a beautiful Sunday afternoon. After rejoining pack near the mid-century church where Coonass used to live, we spotted a shot check off to the side of the road and shart and sex ran off to not find trail*
*Note: shart found trail, sex didn’t. We watched him run in circles as we drank something which the hare tried to make look as piss like as possible. We believe it was vodka and pineapple. We all took a sip then decided descression was the better part of valour and ran off to follow shart, with sex eventually catching up. We have left the parenthetical note and are back in the main naration. We reached a check at the base of the stairs with Shart and No Man coming back to say there was nothing up there. Hare club was coming back along the far side of the street but Dime Bag called on at the next block. Pack scouted up hill because we’re idiots, and basically dispersed at that point. We had stayed pretty close together up until. I scouted up hill, didn’t find any marks, and looped around the back of Union Square, though the farmers market and to the Dunkins’ on the otherside where I again saw Dime Bag standing on a check. I scouted straight on he took left, but I called check near the used car dealership near where the former abode of a man who can’t eat cats. Falmon and Goat rejoined me and we scouted pretty much straight until we found the beer check/bag car unloading at lincoln park.
Beer check Brass Band:
The hare, shitty liar that he is, was able to arrange a brass marching band for the beer check. The wind blew a potatao chip off my tounge, but other than that it was unremarkable. The walkers eventually showed up, having picked up a butler, at the far side fo the park and walked through the assembling marching band on their journey to the beers. We sipped our beers in the warm sunshine while the band warmed up. Dry Hose did not announce that in honor of the brass band, that the upcoming leg of trail would be a cajun. Qatar mile told us he did anyway. We set off looking for more beer and less brass band with the conflicting information.
Leg The Second – This Isn’t Cajun, is it?
Coonass defended the honor of his people and Hare Club laughed at the legacy which he and J-Mo created; “You have dozens of ideas of the years, but you can never control which ones stick!” We ran around the band through the park and then towards professor row and the fancy houses behind the harvard divinity school. I got lost bad zenning a few times, but, compared to the first and last legs, actually did a pretty good job. In the age of #Covid-19 “HS” was a “hand santizer” check where we praticed singing “two versuses” of a song while miming washing our hands. Shart and Dribbles ran off to find a portapotty which had both toilett paper and hand wash. Shart and I remarked our elation at the direction trail had taken and continued scoting past the elementray school in which I have yet to vote for a winning candidate, to a beer check where there was an election on going about favourite apple types. No Man voted for Granny Smith, and Fellowship opened a Doritos bag upside down either because his foot elevator doesn’t work, or he’s a garbage human.
Beer check voting both:
Read the last sentence of the preceeding paragraph as though it belongs here. Dry Hose asked us to give him more time than usual since he had rolled his ankle on the deep urban shiggy – ie, parks – on the cajun leg and would be walking the rest of the way. Quarter Mile announced that he had finished the entire shot check bottle and was no longer able to perform logic.
Leg On Which I Never Saw a Mark because I Am an Amazing Scouter:
After drinking all the beer and water in the cooler, we dashed off in search of more beer under the brilliant daylight. I led sex through some bad scouting through a park with no exists, and meet back up with pack by the intersection of Mass Ave and shepard streets. I did not see pack again until I caught up with them by the elementrary school on the edge of Danhey park. But how can that be, you cry! That’s, like a gap of almost two miles? Well, dear reader, the answer is bad scouting, combined with worse scouting, no sense of direction and a not insignificant amount of prideful stuburness. Eventually I saw a Falmon running away in the distance, and after verifing I wasn’t in Ethopia – that’s like a really bad 30 year old Falmon joke which I left in after the explitory edit - I dashed after her into Danhey Park where I lost sight of her and shart but saw a Coonass and a Dripples disapearing over the horizon. Crossing a baseball field I saw the hares, and some small amount of pack milling about waiting for bag car to show up. Eventually bag car arrived, bags and pizzas were unloaded and we walked to the top of a very windy hill to eat pizzas in the windy shade.
Eating chicken and onion pizzas in the windy shade while Qatar tried valiently to weigh down all the empty boxes progressed well until the pizzas were mostly eaten, and the hare told use that we were going to circle not in the sunny clear nex to the hill, but the shady marsh back at the bottom of it, so we picked up our bags and trugged back down hill. That was one sentence which switched both tense and voice, but the ability to join it to the explitory – conditional – clause to make a truly grammatically offensive sentence is, at present, beyond the skill of YHS.
Quarter Mile, determined to not fuck up circle, started quickly by brining the hare in. After a short version of and the hares, we went around circle to get comments on trail, which quickly devolved into people yelling “you should’ve used more flour and chalk” to the RA, not the hare. Sensing that he was losing control, QMQ sang the hare out of circle, then called in the FRBs – hare club and dribbles and sand them “go speed racer.” He dismissed them as shart yelled that we were supposed to sing “down, down, down” at the end of each song. QMQ then called the FRBs in, and quickly realized his mistake. We sang the FRBs again, then called in the DFLs, probably butler and no man, but I think I was pulled in too? Back sliders were called in, but they had no real good excuses as to why they missed the Best Hash Ever Last Weekend Because It Went Through Milton. Speaking of Amazing Real Places, Wonka was called in for having a Gang Bang in Holden. Circle was quickly devlolving as the RA had no control except that which we gave him, and that wasn’t much. Shart accused the hare of the sunshine, and we sang him a song which doesn’t matter. I was called in, I think, for wearing a kilt, I’m unsure. Eventually the bag car and the hare had enough of our tomfollery and quietly left their own trail even though the sun hadn’t set and we hadn’t even thought about swinging low! A few minutes later Falmon and goat ran back to watertown before the sunset, and westward movement was prohibited. A few minutes later a group of people – Knuckles deep and Popo - left circle to pet a dog, and didn’t return. Eventually it was QMQ, Dry Hose – who left according this naration in the last sentence, so I’ll just assume I meant to write “Bottom Wrangler” and move on – Your Humble Naraton, Holy Dumpster Fire, Shart, Coonass, Popo Cocking and Massage a Trio. The RA had long since lost control of circle as I have simialary lost control of this narative. At one point Plus two did a “Tag In” to RA for a bit, but quickly realized his mistake and quietly retreated as QMQ reemerged from the reeds. With the nobel goal of trying to end of our merrymaking in hell, I counted that there were five beers remaining and took a knee in the mud to volunteer to shotgun them all to end circle. QMQ wasn’t about to let me out rage him, so he dropped to a knee as well. I lack the literay talent to describe what happened when we tried to shotgun those beers. It was crazy, choatic, insane, wet, and amazing. Butt Stuff took a video and No Man quietly ran home to hide her shame at what she had witnessed. Out of beers and consumed by our own metaphorical shadows we swang low and headed to Punters to wash way our shame with their “high-end fireball.”
On – AST for life – On
-Wiki et all
3/13: Recruitment beer mile!! Do you have friends you want to bring to the hash, but think that the choas described here in might scare them off? Do you think beer miles are a more sane way to welcome people into our flock? Bring them to the recruitment beer mile! 7pm, Danahey Park, Cambridge!! Details on the website, facebook, etc, etc.
Marathon update: 3/18 is the last day that we “honor” hash crash requests, 3/21 is the last day to register and get a garunteed gimme, look for a “marathon planning meeting” before 3/31. Wiki will not be under quarintine.
3/27: March Moom!
|Corona Virus 2019 Trash
(9 months ago)
What: Corona Virus 2019 Trash
Where: Cathay Pacific
Who: Shits and Ladders
I walked into Cathay Pacific at 230 PM, perfectly on time, and found no one there. Confused, and mildly worried, I sat down at the bar and grabbed myself a drink. People slowly trickled in until we had a full 5 people in pack (5 Inch Penalty, Friar Fuck, Holey Dumpster Fire, Dribbles, and myself Gone Gay-WOL), our lovely Hare (Shits & Ladders) and bag car (No Man on the Moon). Shortly after the hare left asking us to wait until Friar had finished his enormous plate of various fried Chinese chicken bits and rice. After 10-15 minutes we grew tired of waiting and Friar got a to-go bag. We walked outside towards bag car and decided that we didn't really need chalk talk this week. It was cold, we all knew what we were doing well enough and we had to get moving before Buttler arrived. Our first leg brought us across the Neponset river before coming around by an, allegedly, newly revamped Planet Fitness. Running along the water 5 inch laid a pack song check to give Buttler a chance to catch up with us. From there we went maybe another 400 feet to the first beer check in a park along the water. We drank coronas (except buttler) and enjoyed the scenery around us taking in the brisk air and enchanting river view.
Soon after Shits began on the next leg and we gave chase after a respectful but not too long amount of time. We ran back the trail along the water and went under the bridge we had crossed not 20 minutes prior into Pope John Paul II park where we promptly became very lost. We stumbled around for a while before finding another song check where we realised that we had misplaced Buttler. At this point I split from the main of pack to check a direction and happened to be correct eventually finding Buttler who had, through dead reckoning alone, found the correct path and the rest of pack caught up with us as we hit the second beer check. As we approached Buttler left to find back car and grab one of his not-corona beers (because he fears the virus enough that the nominal similarity of the name is a disqualifier I believe). The rest of pack stood in the shade of a large park shelter briefly before we all came to the realisation that it was far too cold to be in the shade and we moved to just outside the shelter. As we stood and drank we notcied Buttler some distance away going to the wrong shelter where by 5 Inch gave a mighty whistle and Buttler heard him and changed course. A very large stick was also found and we measured it against the height of the Hashers present, I was the only one found to be taller than Tall Stick.
The final leg went uneventfully, we ran through the park before crossing and then running south along 93. Thankfully there were only two or three points where we needed to cross the faily large major roadway and they were all uneventful. At the end of our highway adventure we found ourselves in a neighborhood that we wound through to a forest/marsh next to the Presidents Golf Course. Naturally we were not prepared for that bougie a style of communal drinking so we stuck to swamp beers. The woods were easy enough going. We came across a mysterious red cooler (empty) surronded by the refuse of some pubescent drink fest (clean up after yourselves, youths) before coming to the place of our final beers, a bare circle of grass surronded by trees behind an office park. There we ate pizza, we drank Coronas (Did you know there's more than one kind of corona? I sure didn't), we rescued a decrpit, rusting folding chair from the marsh, and we finally swung low.
On - don’t cough on me bro - On
-The Scribe et all
|Love In An Elevator V
(10 months ago)
What: 5th An*l Love In An Evelator Trial
Who: E=IMaDouch, 5inch Penalty
Where: Sevens Ale House
Pack: Dribbles, Spank Me, Dry Hose, Shart Of Darkness, Just Matt, For the Love of God Finish, The Butler Hit It, Shits and Ladders, Goat Throat, Oragasmn Falmon, Cuntcussion, Swedish Eagle, Just Benny, Just Faical Hair? Bottom Wrangler, Friar Fuck, 3Ring Service, +2 Coonass, Yellow Dick Gnome, Willy Wonka and the Backdoor factory, Wikipedophilia, others I probably am forgetting but will none the less insert into this naration.
Start: Having nothing else to do, I arrived at the start at the very not-hash standard time of 12:30. Sitting quietly and listening to podcasts while sipping a beer I decided not to alert the bartenders to what was to follow me. Around 1:30 I started trolling the Boston Hash instragram account, and shits showed up shorlty at 2, closely followed by Dry Hose. This introduction is entirely unnecessary other than it serves to set up the question which Dry Hose ask Shart, Shits and I: “Do you put mustard on your grilled cheese?” Dry Hose is a sociopath, but that’s besides the point. Eventually pack numbers swelled as did the proprietors annoyance with us. Our annoyance unace with ourselves increased as we didn’t end up leaving until almost 3:30 - waiting for the hare who claimed he had been sitting outside the bar in his car waiting for us to come out since at least 3...the hares lie. I also might be exaggerating put we are in a post-truth society, so it is incumbent on all of us to research the truth for our own narratives. Back to trial...
Cuntcussion went over all the marks we probably won’t see and asked people if they liked mustard on their grilled cheese or if they were sociopaths. There are surprisingly few sociopaths in the hash.
Starting at the block across from the BHP - a very much open bar who very much doesn’t hate us - pack scouted up and down Charles street. I scouted up and down the hills because I hate myself. Trial was eventually found meandering the flat-of-the-hill streets between Charles and Storrow to back to the footbridge at the base of the longfellow. That isn’t a very descriptive sentence. Let’s try that again; trial ran around in a square shape to the longfellow/charles st/MGH intersection. Goat scouted the far side of the longfellow and eventually rejoined us at the wine check which you’ll read about in a few sentences. The rest of pack followed some FRBs over the footbridge to a check back which sent us back the stairs up the side of the longfellow. There was a song check in front of a pile of shit at one of the salt and pepper shacker lights. We sang about the French, though I suppose a song about shitting bananas might have been better. Continuing the run along the longfellow we found a wine near/wine check on the abutment on the western cambridge side. Goat caught up from the otherside, but Falmon went off to find him.
There was a bag of wine and more shit. Baggo was started lightly, then the tosses got stronger and stronger until we were worried that we might knock Swegle off the edge and accidentally spark an international crisis. Luckily the walkers arrived to relieve us of the wine and we took off into Cambridge, looking for beer.
The leg of trial which I don’t have a cool name for:
Deciding that running back over the bridge was too much of a smart idea of 4pm on a Sunday some of pack decided to dart across Memorial drive to catch up with pack at the check near the Kendal cannals where the kykas launch from in warmer weather. Trail ran up the Kendal cannal to Kendal square where were briefly lost around open space and trial marked on non-road/sidewalks (which I think is technically “shiggy” for Boston). We found trial craniumiming towards the Friendly Toast, but my hash-dar was going off and I scouted up the Kendal Rooftop Garden, where I found Beer Check 1.
Beer Check Roof Top:
In which we drank beer* at the Kendel Roof Top Garden. Douche is moving (maybe) or Shits just did? - either way they decided that the best use for years worth of shitty beer left over from trails and international travels was to provide it to the hash. That’s right, we weren’t just drinking Genny, we were drinking aged Genny!! At that was the “good beer!” There was a global selection of shitty beer from which to sample. Thankfully the hares left and we followed them.
Trial “you can’t go there, but we did”:
From the bottom of the elevator - where we were told trail started, there was a two and out across the parking lot to some guard wires. After trying to get through them, but being surprised by their roughness, some people scouted other ways to get down to the exit level, while others tried to slip their way between the wires. Other people - who will call themselves “the smart ones” or “the one who followed trial” ran out the other door, without impediments. Meeting up with the “smart people” by Meadhall, trial crossed over onto the train tracks where we found shots. We found tequilla, limes, but no salt. Lacking a bar we lined up the limes and the tequilia on the technically active rails to do shots off the rails! We were off the rails! ... That was a funny joke and you should be laughing. There was also a bottle of spiced rum which will feature later in this tale. Trial eventually continued down the tracks and through MIT. There were alleys and campus cops, and trails which seemed to run in circles. Some people - YHS - decided that it trial would eventually come out to Mass Ave so they just zenned there to find trial. Being a “proper” - if zenning - hasher - YHS didn’t “call on” until a true trail was spotted on the far side of Mass Ave. This call was relayed back to the pack and must have been followed, as it came out in circle that very few people actually went through MIT.. True trial apparenly was marked in sticky notes and went through the MIT buildings. The people who followed my called were lost and trying to Zen. Spank Me led a group of maybe a dozen hashers on the true trial through the buildings. After crossing Mass Ave there were rumors of Hyatt On-In, maybe preceeded by a beer mile, but marks, those whiley things, did not leed us in those directions. Instead they led us back to the Harvard Bridge and a Beer Check behind the Frat Houses.
This beer check featured #gramablemoments and a couple cars full of parents-of-undergrads who were not-so-trilled at seeing a group of people drinking behind the dorms/frats in which their offspring lived.
Trial of the Traffic Cone:
The sun was setting and we were getting cold - though it should be noted that the ODT of this trial was greater than the sum of the temperatures on the previous LiaETs - so we set off on the last leg, with dreams of 500count cotton and turn-down survice dancing through our craniums. After scouting the wrong direction from the beer check shits found a porta-potty, and, being ever a gentleman, decide to pee there instead of literally anywhere else. As I was running and passively paying attention to conversations I heard someone say “I wonder if there will be showers later?” and someone else say “Well if there’s a traffic cone there will be!” As fate may have it I was running by a traffic cone at that very moment, which I grabbed and ran with the rest of the way. I’m sure the tourists and day-shoppers on Newbury Street were puzzled by the group of runners followed by a man carrying a traffic cone, but no one said anything. As we crossed Boylston street, a passerby asked me what was going on and why I was carrying a traffic cone. I said “Well, it’s a scavenger hunt, and the cone is for safety.” After Which I saw “ONIN” marked on the ground so I stopped mid stride, turned, and yelled through the amplified cone my good news. The people we were talking to me briskly walked away, though Falmon noted that I should only be allowed to communicate by “Yelling through a traffic cone” from then on.
We waited nervously in the lobby of the hotel for Douche to let us up and praying that no one would look in our suitcases which were 100% not full of beer. On a large display easel in middle of the lobby was a sign saying that no outside alcohol was allowed on the premise, with a copy of the Boston liquor laws beneath it. Fuck Blue Laws. We split up into 3 parties and rode the elevators up to the rage room. After milling about for a few minutes Falmon started yelling about food so we all got quiet and meekly did as we were told. After improvising chips and hard-tacos as spoons, we feed ourselves with a technically sufficient amount of rage-base for the night. Once we were ready, Cuntcussion called the hares in circle and Swegal took a bottle of spiced rum and launched himself at the sun.
The hares were called in and I believe they sang a song about midwestern centers of commerce. I was drinking a “worcester river” - moxie and rum - so my memory fuzzes a bit during circle. After the hares the FRBs (Falmon, Spank Me) and DFL (Butler) were called in. Analveries (Knuckles Deep) and the first warning for private parties was given. An aquisation for anyone who had been to all (4) previous LitEts was called, and surprisingly, only YHS has been dumb enought to think “On-in in a hotel suit is a good idea; I want to do this every year!” At some point Swegal crashed back down from his attempted-icarus challenge (everyone fails) and passed out on For the Love of God Finish, who was called in for “having someone pass out on him.” Sex found half a bra pad and was wearing it around so we sang “great big swinging tits” during which I punch goat in the eye. After that we sang “Off we go into the hot wet pussy” and luckily I didn’t smash any liqour bottles into the ground. People who followed trial through MIT were called in, and people who didn’t take the elevators on trial. After calling in everyone who took the elevators, the people who “sabotaged” the elevators by hitting stop on every floor were called in. With people starting to move towards the “quiet/not circle” room and Cuntcussion splitting her time between RAing circle and Sweagle, we swang long and escorted Sweagle to the bed. Later Wranger would play bongugo drums on the asses of Sweagle and Cuntcussion, in a displayed of true musicanship. The first group of people who went to the pool had to come back twice to ask where it was. The second group found the pool on the first try, but the first group was already leaving. Rage happened into the wee hours of 10pm because we’re all old.
On - Elevator Hash - On
Saturday 2/22: Ballbuster
Sunday 2/23: FURRY HASH
SIGN UP FOR MARATHON:
|Buttler Fall Trail Series
(12 months ago)
Date: December 8, 2019
Theme: Buttler Fall Trail Series
Hare: The Buttler Hit It
Bag Car: Wikipedophilia
Pack: Ass Cowboy, Clit Notes, Cummy Sticks, Dribbles, Dry Hose, Fellowship of the Cockring, Full Frontal Fireball, Holy Dumpster Fire, Just Emily, Just Katie, No Man on the Moon, Orgasm Famine, Po Po Peepshow, Pretty Fly for a Pi Guy, Quarter Mile Queer, Shits and Ladders, Testicular Mechanics, Tinderdick, Topless Barbie, Twat My Mom
Prelube: Friendly Toast
BC1: Lincoln Park
BC2: Parking lot behind Shaking Crab
BC3: St. Peter’s Field
On-in: Paddy’s Lunch
Trail: Pack congregated in the narrow sliver of space that is the bar at the Friendly Toast eagerly wondering whether trail would be a straight shot to Buttler’s house, or would snake its way along the Cambridge/Somerville line before ending at his abode. Like the Midnight Ride of Paul Revere, one if by Porter Square, two if by Union Square, and I in the basement of Buttler’s will be, drinking delicious Trilliums in circle. When the pack was off, it appeared that we would be taking the west of the two routes. Trail headed just north and east of Inman Square, beer checked at Lincoln Park, then took a sharp turn toward Harvard Square before deathmarching up Oxford St. Why was it a direct straight shot spanning nearly the distance from Harvard to Porter? Well our dear hare’s cell phone died, for which he’d drink for later.
The second beer check was in the parking lot behind the Shaking Crab. We lost the daylight shortly after departing for the third leg of trail, which was unfortunate because it crossed paths with Thursday night’s Moon trail. That resulted in a short stretch of trail where Quarter Mile went down one street calling on-on, while the Moon hare shouted after him that he was on the wrong trail. We continued north, still in the direction of Davis, but with the miles adding up, Buttler’s house seemed less and less likely. In fact, after a third beer check at St. Peter’s Field, there was little chance of making it to his place, so we went to the next likeliest spot—Paddy’s.
Circle: Quarter Mile led the circle, where Shits and No Man were recognized for their speed while Pi Guy was honored for his lack of swift feet. Backsliders were recognized, where Just Katie was cumming on Eileen with Dexy’s Midnight Runners, while Wiki was spooky or something. Sometime after we got to the on-in, Goat Throat joined us, and drank for his latecumming. Accusations continued with Cummy and Goat for wearing tight denim and denim-looking pants, Wiki for saying the h-word at the third beer check, and Ass Cowboy for auto-wanking the second leg of trail.
Buttler, Quarter Mile, and Testicular Mechanics all drank for the Moon trail overlaps. Ass Cowboy was back in circle to drink with Tinderdick for their racist attire, and Buttler drank again for the red line closure forcing all four of the south of the river hashers to take the shuttle. Po Po accused Buttler of not having any opportunities to give anyone a Peepshow, and Fellowship was accused of being a nerd and knowing how much money was lost to the beer wasted in unfinished cans. Those wearing Christmas attire and vests drank, as did the environmentalists. Dry Hose wanted to name someone, but that ended up with him doing a down-down on his own. Cummy took a wipeout on a patch of ice for which he had to drink. By this point, we were really grasping at straws for accusations, so we moved onto announcements, then to burgers and dogs prepared on the grill by our hare.
Announcements: As for announcements, Moon is looking for hares and the Hashmas party will be on January 11.
That’s all I’ve got for this hash trash. Enjoy your Anthraxing-Antibuffeting-Zig Zags this weekend.
Twat My Mom
|Butler Fall Trail Series Presents: "Winter's Not Here, Yeeeeet"
(about 1 year ago)
What: Buttler Fall Series presents “Winter’s Not Here, Yet”
Bag car: Angry Crotch
Pack: Shits and Ladders, Dribbles, Testicular Mechanics, Sex: The Final Frontier, Full Frontal Fireball, Quarter Mile Queer, Chips ‘N Clitz, A Vagina Name Martinique, Virgin Maria, I Come from a Clam Down Under, Sketchy Ho, DeflateDate, Just Olive, Turd in the Beaver (RI)
Trail began conventionally enough, no risks taken, a few of us milling about at Regina in Station Landing. Hare told all to bring ID on trail and a “couple bucks” in case they wanted to upgrade their drink. Hare also told Hash Cash to bring the Cash on trail, but this only about 69% registered with Hash Cash and HC promptly forgot.
And even though the forecast had been for no snow and weather apps continued to show that it was not snowing, wet cold moist things were alighting upon us that might have been called "snow". Full Frontal Fireball and Quarter Mile Queer co-RA-ed through the former’s FIRST TIME. It was awkward, no one knew where their hands should go, we all fumbled for the wrong motion at the wrong time, and we DEFINITELY finished before she did. And with that, we ran off.
Trail was found on Station Landing before encountering a parking garage. Fireball confidently stayed behind, figuring the trail would go up the garage and back down and out. Imagine our surprise when it led back to the Wellington Station and through the infinite skyway with a View Check at its center. Trail was straightforward, leading around the parking lot, though your humble Scribe went for not 1, but 2 falses under bridge crossings. A check was humorously marked in front of an impassable fence gate. I told Testi-Mechs that Buttler wouldn’t dare and we debated whether we should climb this fence before finding our hare just around one more bend of the brush, not 30 feet away.
Leg 2: Ante Upp-ed
As we drank our leftover hash beer, which included a nice spread of Bud Light, Yuengling, and Natural Light, Butter left, after giving instructions for how to read any maps that he might leave on trail, and we speculated where we might go, given that we were within sight of Encore. Sketchy revealed that she had READ the final trail announcement (well the one that went to BH3 planning), which has used the verb “gamble” three times in 3 sentences.
Trail could only follow the lovely perambulating path and the promised maps were found just before we entered Encore private property, which the hare was evidently unwilling to deface with chalk. We looked at the maps for about 10 seconds before condemning them as worthless, before actually orienting ourselves and using them, finding our way into the lush opulence that can only be funded by exploiting the dopamine fiends incapable of statistical analysis. Smug in our accepted knowledge that OUR addictions were completely unprofitable, we warmed our hands by the gas heaters. The doorman, seeing a pack of scrappy disheveled people in stained sweaty running clothes covered in dog, gave us a hearty welcome, inviting us in. Buttler was found at the center bar with a cocktail and told us to order, while we drank in the bright lights, radiant colors, and people who managed to dress even more casual than us.
Leg 3: Always Run on the Wrong Side of 99
Getting out of Encore proved as challenging a task as it was intended to be. Twice, we somehow wound up on the wrong floor before finding our way out and emerging on route 99, back to Boston. Emerging from a check, about 80% of pack didn’t know when to Hold ‘Em and when to Fold ‘Em and wound up on the wrong side of the highway, with options to traverse said highway only becoming higher and higher stakes gambles, as we traversed the Mystic River. Your Humble Scribe finally saw a break in traffic, ran across the highway, and jumped the median, leaving the other 69% of pack trapped. Buttler waited for us with Bag Car at Ryan Playground, informing us we had found Beer Check 3.
We headed out from the Bag Car, hare in sight for the 50ft Fat Boy he laid to the shelter of the ON-IN, Testi Mechs snaring him on the way. Mallort was spotted. Homebaked mac ‘n cheese was presented.
Social drinks for anyone who couldn’t escape the casino, for anyone who made out with Just Olive (we all did, even while being accused of it), backsliders were called in, and Sketchy vaguely recalled the proper procedure for abuse upon our Virgin Mary, who somehow was not a stranger to Mallort. It was revealed that the virgin le gustaria ver pornografia con tus padres and could not identify an aptly placed dollar bill. We didn’t find the virgin acceptable, but we took her anyway. Given that the Virgin actually lived in Munich, AVNM flirted with whether we should introduce her to Krusty.
ON - future hotel hash? - ON