Hash House Harriers

a drinking club with a running problem

Hash Trash

Missed a hash? Catch up on all the trash here...

| In Da Panties #9 | Interscandi 2015 - Unoffical Visitors trash | Zig Zag Trail Hash Trash | Yeaster Hash | Wrestle Mainia Hash |

In Da Panties #9 (about 3 years ago)
What: In da panties day #9
Who: Nice Tits, Clit Notes, THE 2nd Cumming
(Twat My Mom as Bag Car)
Where: Saco’s Flatbread bowling

Just transplant from Maine, Just Ginger, Bloody Slipinside, Udder Whore, Anal Disco, Papa Johnson, High Anus, Pat My Fly, Yankee Pay $5 More, Friar Fuck, Orgasmn Falmon, Willy Wonka and the Backdoor Factory, Blowbot, Just Jeff, Blondie McFucksAlot, Queer and Foaming in my Anus, Wikipedophilia, Easy as 123, Bum Fucking Vagabond, Necrophiliac Jack, Vaganacologist, Gaywol, Whack A Hole, Probably Others.


I got there shortly before pack away was called, but finally was given possession of a beautiful hot-pink tech shirt from Harlot (via Udder). After “sipping” random hashers beers (because I didn’t have enough time to buy my own), pack away was called and the bag car instructed us to shove our bags into the back seat of his car through the open windows. Challenge accepted, we moved down the street to have circle.


Was a bit of a spectical as bloody tried to get us to say “whose panties we wanted to take off” but apparently that was too weird for the hash so we changed it to “whose panties do you like the most” I vaguely recally Blonde winning this contest, though Bloody’s tickle me boxers were a big hit too.

Trail, no, wait it’s a false, no, wait it’s a check back…#1:

Starting from the parking lot we ran across some road then between the starbucks and chipotele onto Elm(?) street (I don’t live there…yet…so give me a pass on names), and ran immiediately into our first Panty Swap check in front of the Amsterdamn Falafel place. I swapped my granny panties for some blue things that were so small I nearly got a paper cut putting them on, but, of course, the main attraction was watching all the moggles cheer (or jeer) us on, or walk past with dismissive, pretentious and I’ll call it straight up jealousy looks. From there trail rightish and around a block around Davis, through a parking lot and then coming to a check before turning I’ll call it north back towards the VFW post at the end of Davis. At the check, I decided to mark which way trail was the the W/arrow and some kids yelled at me for “drawing a W” on their street. Kidz these days have no respect for semi-adult alcoholics running around in underwear! After ignoring the terroritially challenged youth, we came upon a panty swap infront of a somewhat nice looking restaurant, and after running out a long YBF (or was it a check back, I zenned over a block and found pack again), trail turned towards the bike path. ”Knowing” that trail couldn’t head back towards Davis, we found trail heading down the path and turning off roughly towards powder house. At the end of a very long false, we found just jeff yelling onon, while standing on a YBF. He seemed very proud of himself. Not wanting to retrace our steps any more than nessarcy, BFV and I followed High Anus (always a bad idea) parallel to the bike path back to Davis waiting for trail to come back out. Watching pack turn through Davis and run on the other side of the street from where trail was marked originally, I stayed back and waited until something useful (check, beer near, etc) was called, but eventually saw, and heard another check back ring out through the pack as they turned and ran back towards me. Trail ran a block behind Davis again before crossing over to the bike path towards Alewife. We checked behind the iron mimes and turned a block before crossing back over the path via a tit check to a beer near to Shorn Scrotums house!

BC Shorn:

Not only was this a beer check, it was a good beer beer check! Yes, there was PBR but there was also plenty of Whale Tale (I just got that joke as I typed it) and some Founders in the coolers as well. We milled about and wonder about how well layed that trail was, since total distance was about 100 yards from the start, but we somehow ended up closer to two miles, with trail coming dangerously close to overlapping itself multiple times! The hares left and we followed, though there was some confusion in the difference between a recycling bin a Twats feet.

Trail Not as Many Check Backs:

After a nice yog through some cool open-air condo complex (and a weird stare by one the residents) trail turned up a hill to head vaguely towards Teele Square. As I was running along, I was on plus two or three, I noticed a really steep hill to my left and, since I was FRB, decided that nothing would be lost by scouting up it; worst case scenario I’ll catch up to pack on Holland street. Best case scenario, I find evidence of a check back because chalk marks appeared out of no where on the other side of the hill. Yelling OnOn and seeing the pack follow me (did anyone run out that check back?), we quickly got to Teele Square and a panty swap outside the fire station. Somehow from there I checked a two and out, then ran up an unmarked hill before running back and finding pack had disappeared. I followed distant whistles until I caught up to Udder strolling up a hill and walked with her to the summit where I could hear the Bear Near be called out and we ran down the hill to the beer. Somehow I went from FRB to panty check to DFL to beer? Whatever.

BC Cums Off:

(Note: Is that his name? Cums off with his thumbs off? Opposable Dumbs?) Whatever.
More whale tale and PBR and water. Apparently God (G, Allah, Gnesh, of whoever RAs callude with to get good weather), prefers Krusty’s blow jobs to Bloodys as it started to drizzle as we were drinking, though the majority of the storm passed us by. Bloody says it was because he didn’t play with the balls. Though the Deitiy must’ve finished anyway because the shower didn’t last long, once we all were wet we moussed on out, and back up hill towards Tufts and the final leg of trail.

Trail Tight-Rope:

               Trail was marked in white up the other side of the hill that we ran down, which explains why I didn’t see any marks on Broadway. After cresting the hill and turning lets call it right, we sprinted out into the Tufts campus, where we were immediately waylaid by a Turkey/Eagle. Feeling adventurous, I chose the eagle, which was nothing more than circumnavigating the tennis courts on a two-foot-wide parapet about 10 or more feet off the ground, which required us (HA, Easy, Mommy and I) to slowly walk around while pack disappeared into the distance. Apparently the FRBing eagles had runon the ledge but fuck that, I quiet enjoy living. Eventually we caught up, and passed the walkers before catching up to the tail of pack as we got to the On-In at Squirrel’s house.


Squirrel (I think that’s his name, he’s a burner/Disco Jockey’s friend), was on grill duty and was already hard at work. There were chips and PBR aplenty and as soon as the walkers arrived, Bloody started up circle.


It took a while for things to get going – and the hares was pretty lack luster – but the hares sang drink a little bit, fuck a little bit and that got the crowd going. After the requisite you should’ve used more flour and chalk, the hares were dismissed and a cry went out for virgins but there were none! Come on guys, some In Da Panties virgins have gone on to do great things, others have been 2nd. None the less we called in In Da Panties virgins and made them drink, perhaps there will be greatness in them too. After than came in Transplants – the Just from Maine, we asked her one simple question; did she tell her friends she was leaving? Yes! Great! We’ll take her. She then sang us some 311 (maybe) song and we decided we needed to invite her to karoeke.  We accused anyone who didn’t wear panties or who ended trail wearing the same panties they started with. They were stupid maybe? We then accused late comers, and Oink Oink drank, as did all the former GMs, followed by racist attire and Oink Oink and the formers drank again. Then plans had been laid and preparations made and the person who laid all the check backs and false was called into circle. For some strange reason, those who ran them out volunteered to join circle, and we will see their foolishness in the next sentence. The rest of the hares joined second and the FRBs and we asked for a note. Of all the notes to choose, we chose Old McDonald. Let me tell you he has a large farm; cows, dogs, snakes, some animal I didn’t know, maybe others. As we were signing our foolish targets began stripping – 2nd I believe was butt naked. Old McDonald has an inland sea on his farm with some sharks in it, so we all started “Swimming” around our prey, then “WHALE” was called out and we all stepped back and blew our spouts of beer at the hares and the FRBs. Circle was beginning to fall apart, but there was more beer so we rallied with July birthdays. As we stood around waiting to wish our October fuck trophies a happy birthday (I did the math right) Twat suggested we do a spank tunnel, to which Bloody replied, “What’s a spank tunnel?” Any doubts as to how this night would end were erased and we formed up, legs spread, in a semi circle and forced Blondie, Second, Bloody and some other people, on their hand and knees as they crawled through 40-some-odd pairs of slapping hands. Bloody attempted to buck all of us off him, and some survived more than others, eventually we re-circled and wished them a million years filled with a billion beers. Circle, having been physically destroyed by the spank tunnel was beginning to actively fall apart, so we swang low.

On – 1 year until In Da Panties 2016 – On



MOON TRAIL TONIGHT: Christophers, 1930 Mass. Ave, Cambridge, MA.
(Right across from the Porter Square T Stop). Hash Cash $5, Hares are Dry Hose and Luva Lamp

Next Wednesday: Hashing of the Bulls! Naco Taco, 297 Massachusetts Ave, Cambridge, MA 02139, Hare Twat My Mom, Goes Down on Bouys

July 10/11/12: Burlington Invihash, sign up!

July 17th: 1st (ever?) Pink Taco Menstrual Cycle – It’s a BASH! Starts at Slumbrew brew tent in Assembly. Bring your bike (open to burritos with bag car passes)

July 31st: The second (blue) moon trail of the month. Starting at Mirircle of Science! $5, Luarance my Labia and Bum Fucking Vagabond.

August 14,15,16 – GAP Weekend! Sign up

September 27th: NERD (the official one) I think the rego’s on the Northboro H3 facebook group?

October 3rd: AGM! Sign up for Mismanagment Positions. It’s fun, I promise!

Novemember: Sadie Hawkins!

December: Antibuffet!

Feburary: Moon away!

April 15,16,16: Marathon Weekend!

May: NURD (the unofficial one)

July: IN DA PANTIES 10!!!

Interscandi 2015 - Unoffical Visitors trash (about 3 years ago)
I normally don’t like summaries, or cliff notes, or whatever, but this was posted to the Boston Hash House FB page by Sex Reject, and it is the most accurate TL:DR for this weekend I can come up with. I add it here as a preface:

Good afternoon Boston! This is Sex Reject, VP Information for the InterScandi 2015 event which just finished up in Galway, Ireland. I would like to file a report on the behaviour of the representatives you sent us, namely:
Dry Hoes
Goes Down on Buoys
Statory Swallows
E=I’m A Douche

They were DRUNK
They were LOUD
They were OBNOXIOUS 
They were NEKKID (and covered in Jello)
In 20 years of hashing I do not think I have ever witnessed such drunken debauchery and lewd comportment. It was nigh on impossible for us to tear our eyes away from them, as we gazed on in abject horror wondering what filth would spew from them next.
In summary, they were FUCKING AMAZING and a TOTAL BLAST. Boston Hashers are welcome back to InterScandi anytime!
On on!
Sex Reject, still humming "Young Girls" and smiling...

Now..for what we did to earn that glowing review…

What: Interscandi 2015
Where: Galway, Ireland
(which is apparently in Scandonavia)?
Who: Not sure who the organizing committee/Mismanagment are for Galway/Interscandi, but they did a great job. Know who you are, and know that you were loved.
PacK: Um, yeah, I’m not even going to try to remember everyones names.

[Friday (the first day]:

I have little or no knowledge of what transpired on the prelube trails; other than a bunch of hashers humped a row of sheep in some other Irish town and posted the video to Failbook. My tale begins when I landed in Dublin and was greeted by a less than friendly border guard who did his best to keep my out of his buecolic island home.
“What are you doing in Ireland?”
“Um, running?”
“A race?”
“Not really.”
“Galway, I think. I don’t know?”
“You don’t know where the race is?”
“Well, it starts in Galway, but I don’t know where it ends.”
“What kind of race?”
“One you run, like a 5k, or something. I don’t know.”
“You’re making this sound more suspicious.”
“I know.”
“Welcome to Ireland”

After having survived the entrance interview, I found CPA and Bouys two deep after having breakfast at the Oak Bar in the airport.  They offered me beer, but  I declined, and we ordered our tickets for the bus that would take us to Galway. A short walk around Dublin airport later, we climbed on the bus and were greeted by calls of “ONON” as we were not the only hashers on the bus. A group of hashers in the front based us back a few cups of “chicken soup” (cider) to easy the journey. We made a quick stop in Dublin to get more people, and more hashers, before heading west.

               A few hours, and lots of cows and sheep later, we arrived in Galway and made our way towards the hostel/hotel/information desk for registration. On our way there we were waylaid outside the main square when my unicorn hat was spotted by Dry House, Douche, and Swallows who were biding away the hours wait for our arrival at a bar. Upon seeing us they rush out of the bar and ran to meet us. I ran across the road to meet them and, thinking the hugging in traffic might not be the best idea, the two groups ran past each other, arms wide, before returning and gathering on the, lets call it, left hand side of the street. They told us to register first, then go to the hostel and put our stuff in the room. They didn’t think it was required that we go to the information desk, but to meet us back at the bar when we were settled.

               Saying our quick goodbyes, we continued on with the rest of the hashers towards to the hotel to register. After reciving our neon green hoodies and thingys-on-stringingy we cross the street to the hostel and got our room got, unpacked, tossed on some hash attire and returned to the unicorns in the bar.

               By the time we returned to the bar the unicorn song had drawn locals – a hasher from china whom I will call Irish Paul until such time as I insert his narrative into this story – and drinking had continued in some cases or commenced in others. After struggling mightily to get the bartenders attention (how they didn’t notice my unicorn hat will remain a mystery) we closed our tab and moved across the street to order a round of Hookers beer. I was never quiet sure from the bartender at the Sly Fox, but, incase my European readers are unaware, Hooker is another name for a lady of the night, a girl of ill repute, or, more commonly known as a whore or a prostitute. The American hashers therefore took a sophomoric delight in ordering a Hooker. After we had our teenage chuckle, we decided that the locals were giving us not-to-friendly looks and decide to head back to the hostel for free beer.

               We returned to the hostel and attempted to socialize. CPA was the first to go to the information desk, mainly because she had been complaining about all the spam from it for months, and returned with a sly smile on her face. I was enjoying my free beer and decided to demure her suggestion, but Bouys admitted to being lost and needing information so he went over a made friends. After making the rounds again, and explaining to people that I was indeed wearing a kilt, I also decided that I was confused and needed information. I was asked if I wanted labeled or unlabeled; I said unlabeled, and was then poured shot of the most painful drink I have ever had. It was vodka – that was fine. What wasn’t fine was to corrugating flame that accompanied it. Apparently that vodka had been steeping in death chilis since the Vikings abandoned the Norse gods, or something. Holy hell fire shit.

               After what seemed like forever, we were told to GTFO of the hostel and that the Friday pub crawl trail was starting in Eire square. We filled out of the building and assembled in what could be called a circle. Some versions of introductions were given, but no one was paying attention. Pack, or the hares, I was never quite sure, shortly flowed out of circle and across the trail in a stream of neon green hoodies, with a few unicorn hats sprinkled along the route. Trail was a very nice tour of Galway, though if you ask me to trace it on a map I couldn’t. We cross a road, walked down a couple narrow bar-lined streets, across another road, passed a building with a deep gated court yard – in which Swallows and I paused for a second – then eventually turned a corner and came upon a man in a van down by the river. This man was handing out beer. I liked this man.

               At the beer check, the lack of food and accumulation of alcohol in my veins started to take effect. I started out across the bay and was quickly broken from my repose by Swallows and Bouys who had a conversation about whether or not they could swim the channel. One of the locals, being very concerned about what these drunk Americans were about to do, decided to step in a try to talk them down. I thought to myself that perhaps I didn’t want to witness this either and went to get more beer. Not dissuaded at all Swallows walked to the edge and was on the stairs down by the time Dry Hose and Bouys managed to convince her that perhaps more beer was a better idea than swimming in a Nordic shipping channel.

               Pack departed the beer check and continued our stroll, back towards town, along the channel. Remembering the length of the first leg, I had taken a road soda, and apparently other people had too. I reacquainted myself with the Information Desk and their new devotee CPA, who encouraged me to have some information about the long stroll that was facing us. The second leg of trail wasn’t very long and ended with a shot check in front of a center for troubled youth, I think. I say this because I saw some troubled youth (they could have been hashers) standing at a distance watching the green clad herd pass around shots that I do not remember. Quickly determining that they were youth, and not hashers, I beat a hasty retreat back to my people. My sense of time, which is normally rather good, and sun driven, was broken my entire time in Ireland. I cannot tell you how long we remained at the shot check, or what time it was when we returned to the hostel.

               Instead of returning to the hostel, I decided I would follow the other roughly half of pack and go to the hotel for quazi free (drink ticket) beer. There was an okay Irish band playing, and a rather well apportioned bar, though the beer selection was none better than at the hostel. Using one drink ticket I milled around though the only group of hashers I remember talking to was the quartet from Spain. They seemed nice, and young, and pretty, so I talked to them while drinking my free beer. After a while I decided I should go find my unicorns and perhaps start looking around for food – as I hadn’t eaten since the flight over.

               Returning to the unicorn dorm, I found that they had all recently spent time befriending the locals by bar tending and were, like me, searching for food. We decided to strike out into the still lit night and see what we could find. We found Hillbillys Fried Chicken. I should note for the record that none of the Unicorns/BH3ers are particularly well known for their love of fried chicken; in fact it was the first time I had seen anyone eat it. However, something magic happened when we went up to the counter and ordered a party bucket. As we were sitting around eating it, we started to sing, as we are want to do, “Party cock is in your mouth tonight!” then changed it to “Battered cock is in your mouth tonight!” as we scared the locals and shoved battered cock down our throughts. Full and drunk we returned to the hostel and retired into the Unicorn dorm. Where we found that Dry Hose had requsitioned two bottles of wine and two baggos from the bar to the dorm, and laid a trail of glowsticks to the shrine of alcohol in the center of the room. Many rounds of baggo were played until eventually the unicorns subcomb to the night and drifted off into ragey sleep.

The End of the First Day.


               Saturday morning, bright and early, we were awoken by mumbles of “one more hour of breakfast and ballbusters away.” Deciding that one was a far better idea than the other, we stumbled to the caferteria and had an enjoyable breakfast of scones and cold cut sandwiches. Dry Hose, noticing a troubling lack of alcohol on our table, left and returned with a round of beer-mossas; his walk through the crowd with a tray full of beer at 10am drew more than a few stares. Apparently beer mossas aren’t a thing in Europe? He then returned with a few bottles of a prosecco and we converted our beer mossas into Chamwow-js and the rage began. After filling our bellies and prepping our livers with breakfast beer, we retreated to the unicorn cave for a quick nap before trail – deciding that ball busting was a bad idea. I had txted the former Boston Hasher SUPER Teflong Dong (STD) who knows Cosmo if I should go on the ball buster trail; his reply was “only if you want to die.” I trust STD, so I had another beermossa and rested.

               The time of the bus came and we all filled out of the hostel – not before grabbing some bus wine – and made our way to the back of the last bus. Classy seats for classy people. The bus ride was fine, we talked, made friends, based around the wine, which didn’t last very long and were generally excited about trail. After a nice drive through the Irish countryside, the bus stops and starts to attempt a 3 point turn near a trout hatchery. Yeah, so that didn’t work. Word leaked back that the bus driver was lost and cries of WIKILOST arose from the Boston hashers. We continued on until we found, what I’m calling, a farmer’s driveway, in which we were able to turn around, finally arriving at the start, DFL, some amount of time later. I only hope the other buses had more beer.

               We filled out of the bus and made our way to a set of youth soccer fields conveniently placed in the middle of nowhere. We were separated into two groups – walkers and runners. With much mumbling, it was decided that we hadn’t flown across the Atlantic to do a walkers trail so we went down to do chalk talk with the runners, until it was announced that trail would be about 12k (6.5 miles) with ONE BEER CHECK. With that news, we RAN UP THE HILL to the walkers circle, anticipating a short walk to cold beer.

[Walkers-trail, pt 1; ie, Rape Forest – I Survived Interscandi Walkers Trail]

               We milled about while we waited for the runners to leave, then walked around the periphery of the soccer fields before merging back onto the road for a nice up hill stroll. For no apparent reason, the hare decided to turn trail up hill again over a semi-cleared “logging road” as I’d call it. The once compact dirt quickly gave way to a wet, muddy trail seemed to get wetter as we got higher. Sparerib saw a “caution shooting” sign and tried to turn it into a tit check. Silly man. I jogged ahead a few paces, flipped over a rock, drew a pair of tits with chalk from my pocket, and waited until I was freed. Catching back up with the hares as we were entering a large meadow of sorts, I found them using technology on trail and discussing where to go. A second WIKILOST on a trail I wasn’t haring? Things weren’t looking up.  As we crossed the field, I learned that science – which sub-branch I do not known – does not work in Ireland. Apparently, unlike the rest of the world where the water flows down from higher elevations, in Ireland, the water stays at the top and hides from science under landscapes that look dangerously like pleasant mountain meadows, but are really muddy, prickly, uneven mountain top death traps. Seeing such an expanse before us, about half of the walkers decided that walkers trails really shouldn’t go over 1 on the shaggy scale, and definitely not cross 4 or 5,  and turned back to follow the roads to the beer. However, this decision was not adequately communicated to the rest of the walkers so we trudged across this meadow of death on a course straight for Rape Forest.

               What is Rape Forest? Well, let me explain. In the North American wilderness, that vast expanse of deep oak forest, pine groves, rolling hills and mountains eventually giving way to vast the vast expanse of the planes, the forests to not attack you; they stand by a silent guardians, keepers of  past and shepherds of the future. Yeah, none of that idyllic shit happens in Ireland. In Ireland, the forest floor is a labyrinth of muddy rivulets and collapsed rotting trees; you are never sure if your next step will be on dry land, fall through into a knee or thigh deep pile of rotting wood, or swallow your leg, and possibly shoe in a previously unknown pool of fowl, stagnant water. That is not to mention the trees. The trees are all about 10-15 feet high and look, from afar, like overgrown Christmas trees. When you get closer, their branches are covered in prickly nettles, which intertwine with on another forming an almost impenetrable wall; you have two choices to get through, either get low, and pray the that the ground beneath you doesn’t cave in, follow so closely behind your companions that you are not hit by the throw-back, or, duck under your arms and shoulders  and sacrifice the flesh on your exterminates to protect yourself the vicious attacks of the pine trees. I swear I’ll never cut down a Christmas tree again!

               Time and distance did not come into the experience of the Interscandi Walkers Trail. We continued on because we had to continue on. Two or three times the hare (Codpeice) stopped to let pack catch up, and for us to devour the jager and redbull mix that some brilliant hasher decided to put in his camel pack. There was Information on trail, but it was far behind and probably ran out. Eventually, blessidly, we came to a road. We stumbled out of the forest and looked around to regather our thoughts and try to process what we had just been through. After a few minutes, we learned that we were still a mile and a half from the beer along the road, or maybe half a mile if we wanted to dive back into The Bush. I’m actually pretty sure no one even suggested the second option, for if they had they would not be alive to read this trash.  Most of the walkers resumed their pleasant stroll down the hill, and we caught up with the walkers who decided not give to the Interscandi 2015 Walkers Trail Blood Drive, and finally, blessedly found the beer.

{Editorial} Normally this is where I decided the shenanigans that happen at the beer check, and I will, but first I would like to offer up Goes Down On Bouys take on the normal runners trail because apparently they also only had one beer check.


The bus ride from Galway to the Chalk-talk was rather cheery although a bit subdued due to the prior evening's information. Bus trail to the beginning was an hour's drive including a bus back-check of 6.9 kilometers, so bus trail to the start was probably a bit shorter.

Trail began and we immediately departed from a rugby / track field by the town of Tullyvealnaslee, aka - the middle of nowhere, western Ireland about an hour's drive northwest of Galway. About three quarters of the runners fled the field with St. Etienne's lager in their fists, running while downing the delicious brew for the first part of trail. Trail led up a country road and turned down a burnt out field and down a slippery stream for about 10 minutes before trail led us into the first of several forests. Much shiggy was had including a thick and dense undergrowth, briars, thickets, and creek water up to our ankles and knees.

After wandering and zig-zagging through the lower forest next to the town of Derrymoyle, we came out by the Lough Corrib (big old Irish Lake dotted with peninsulas and islands), which was epically beautiful. After pictures were taken and songs were sung, we headed to the first beer check. Oh wait, no there was no beer. More running and slogging along. Pack then headed back inland for a while and we did a Fishhook-5 check which essentially was a clever way to keep the FRB's together with the rest of the pack. After over-shooting the trail marks which were wiped out by the constantly flowing Irish rain, the hares who were sweeping pointed us in the direction of trail once more which led us into more forested bog. Pack bottlenecked again through the muck and mire for a good twenty minutes with several eager hashers plunging knee and even waist deep into the muddy, smelly water chasing the ever elusive beer. There was still no beer after a good hour by this point, so amidst some grumblings, we On-On'ed once again onto the steep roads, heading ever upwards.

It was around this point that I noticed a cute Irish harriette and decided to keep a friendly pace with her so that I wouldn't foolishly over exert myself along these cute country roads and miss all of the 125 year old Irish cottages along the countryside. Pack became strung out, upwards and upwards we climbed, virtually every hasher walked on and off during points up the long twisty roads. Was there beer at the top? Hah hah, this is the REAL Ireland, drinks are ever hard to come by on trail...

After many more miles, through the ups and downs of country roads, pristine views of the Lough, and locals bewildered at what we were doing before them, along with plenty more light shiggy, we eventually made it to a barbed wire crossing and then through more woods, elevating ever upwards, and becoming ever thirstier. After about an hour and 45 minutes of trail, we finally found the BEER! Truth be told at this point I went straight for the chips and popcorn and then downed more cheap pints of Irish Lager. The walkers met up with the runners within minutes and we had ample time to share stories of woe and battle while beginning the process of inebriation.

After a good 40 minutes of revelry at the BC we walked with almost 200 hashers to the On-In, about another two miles down some more country roads.
Scribed by Goes Down on Bouys

[Beer Check #1]

I was really thirst after rape forest, so I decided to run the mile to the beer check, get a beer for myself, then load up my pockets and return to my fellow unicorns with the much needed nectar. I’m not sure from which direction the runner came, since I found marks in both directions, but, whatever. I will note that the beer check location was beautiful. It was on a road, next to a clearing overlooking a pond and some hills behind. If I were haring I would have brought trail up that far hill with a Turkey/Eagle split at the lake shore so that those who wanted to could take a refreshing dip on their way to the beer, but, I digress. Having grabbed my beers I returned to the unicorns and give them much needed nourishment and then return to the BC with them. Refilling my beer, I milled around and probably inhaled a few bags of popcorn. I tried to rally people to come and look at the view of the lake with me, but people seemed more interested in the beer. Who can blame them? After the beer supplies were destroyed, the left overs were loaded into the beer van and we were told to follow the road for a mile and a half back to the buses for circle. Learning from our mistakes, most of pack took a road soda, or two, for the walk back.

[Long walk back to the buses]

At least it was downhill; it was a causal stroll for all; some people ran, but not many. Nothing of note happened.

{Editorial and Promises}
The most common conversation on the walk back was a description of the basic building blocks of Boston area trails namely, the beer to mile ratio. The highest ratio is a beer mile – 4 beers, 1 mile – and the lowest is ball buster – 1 beer check every 2 to 3 miles, with each trail having 3-4 (up to 6), and those crazy unicorns pulling a 13/13, but, whatever. The main Boston kennels (Moon, Beaver, BH3), normally have alcohol (beer, wine, shots), every mile and the pack will mutiny if they are run more than 2 miles w/o refreshments. We, of course, solved the ratio by downing a couple of road soda, and “walk back to the busses wine” so, in the end, no one really cared…but we invite y’all to Boston to sample our trail rage.

We got back to the busses and were fed surprisingly good sandwhiches – I believe the rough review was chicken salad was the best, the egg salad, and ham was on the bottom. We waited and waited and waited for the Ballbusters to arrive, and when their bus showed up, we quickly moved back o the soccer fields for 3 different – trail specific – circles. Parts of me really like that idea, actually.

However, before we get to the circle trash, here’s what happened on the ball buster trail:

[Ball Buster Trail]

Dear readers please understand that it was not without some sense of trepidation that I joined the other masochists that day of days to attend the aptly labelled "Ballbreaker Run" the tension was palpable on the bus as people cracked the occasional joke met to gentle hums of nervous laughter. Some were there for pride, some came to restore sensation to long numb genitals but there was one motivation that united us all. We wanted to hear more of Cosmo's sultry voice.

We were not to be disappointed as the Hare and RA for the day boarded our bus and proceeded to give a performance worthy of the first half of a certain Stanley Kubrick war movie as he explain the incredibly intricate marking system that the Hares had devised for the day.
Proudly he held up used prophylactics, (of the coloured variety) trophies from the night befores activities and informed us that if we saw one used condom we were on trail, if we saw 2 we were off, if we saw 4 we were checking and if we saw 3 we needed to drink more water as we were getting delusional.

As soon as our the overly enthusiastic Hares had finished their introduction there was a deluge of hasher's who suddenly came to the realisation they had got on the wrong bus and attempted to leave but it was too late we were already in motion. Cosmo gave one last piece of advice as the bus turned the corner and drove away from the hostel "Bring a spare change of clothes..."

God damn it yeah let me just go pull those out of my ass right away RA cheers.

The rest of the journey was fairly quiet as Hashers turned to the windows in hopes to find clues of our final destination. We watched in misery as our surroundings became more and more desolate. As an Irishman I had of course always known the expression "To Hell or to Connaught", a phrase popular between English and Irish alike to describe the countryside surrounding Galway. I must confess i never truly understood it though until our bus approached the barren wasteland that was our final destination. The scene before us would have been right at home in the work of Dante or, for the less cultured hashers out there, a Mad Max movie.

As the bus pulled up Hashers jostled to secure the best pissing spots as an icy wind cut right to our bones. At least one Harriette got on her knees and begged to be allowed back on the bus as she looked up at the  We lined up to take one last group photo before our lives would be changed forever. The bus driver was tasked to take the actual photo but he seemed more interested in taking pictures of the Harriettes who remained squatting down, guess he was a bit of a kinky bear.

Eventually we headed off in search of the fabled used condoms promised by our hares. And gradually we made our way across the field to the foot of a fairly unthreatening hill. as we made our way up the hill it became apparent that the ground here was, not unlike short people from an overrated fantasy series, Tricksy. Sometimes you would put your foot down only to discover that the seemingly solid ground below was nothing but a thick muddy soup it's consistency was something similar to the morning after bathroom deposits resulting from far too much guinness.

A very handsome hasher by the name of Ding Bu Dong found himself enjoying a mud bath on trail while other hasher's jealous of his boyish good looks and charm looked on with lust.
Once upon the peak a heart-warming whiskey was passed around to all and much merriment was had little did we know that the day's trials were just beginning.

Descending the mountain as it turned out would be much more complicated then ascending As one enigmatic hasher put it we climbed a hill and descended a mountain.  Timidly the hashers held on for dear life to the conveniently placed fence and put one foot in front of the other, it wasn’t so much running as falling with dignity.

The difficulty of the terrain did not turn our Hares off of putting in checks and false trails everywhere so progress down the mountain was slow to say the least. Once we had fallen far enough the ground eventually levelled out and we were able to stretch our legs out as we solved more complicated checks. And eventually found ourselves on the fabled “plank section”.

The planks were treacherous, deadly even. One Harriett twisted her ankle here and Hasher dislocated his shoulder trying to navigate this twisted “The floor is lava” game. The thing was they seemed so innocuous, the flat grippy surface dared you to run and then when you did it would throw you off to your certain doom. Once again I was impressed by the Hares lack of concern for our safety.

It was while on the planks that I was subject to some sincere kindness from a true gentleman of the Hash by the name of Daddy Long Legs. You see as a racist I like to deprive myself of water on the trail in a sad attempt to motivate myself to reach the On-In faster. Daddy Long Legs noticed that my footing was becoming somewhat erratic and offered me some water and a chocolate bar. My beloved reader please understand that I am not one for hyperbole. The taste of Daddy Long Leg’s juice and the salty sensation of his brown stick on my tongue cause me to ejaculate instantly and suddenly I found myself energised and ready for the trials ahead.

Much like my sex life that sensation lasted all of five minutes and shortly after my body resigned itself to walking the last km home.

I fell asleep on the bus to the designated down-down area. Once there though the ball breakers invaded the only sheltered down-down area much to the annoyance of the other 150 hashers left out to bear the brunt of Galway’s weather.

Scribed by Ding Bu Dong

[Walkers Circle]

I will quickly note that I am in favour of how private parties were delt with in circle; giving hashers shots for talking seems like a bad idea; giving hasher shots on undrinkable vileness is a brilliant idea. To get circle started there were two harriets in too-short nurses uniforms prowling the sidelines while Sparerib did is best RA impression. First in were the hares – Codpeice and someone else? Honestly, I kept thinking how much he looked like 2004 Johnny Damon to catch his name, but whatever. They laid a shitty trail and they knew it. I’m really not sure what else happened in circle, as I rarely pay attention to what happening. At some point visitors were called in, and we first sang a group of Australians a song about they are born criminals, then Boston was called in to sing and we promised a short one. Apparently Young Girls is long? We won’ t go there, but it was well received (who doesn’t love a song about blow jobs?). At some other point we were called in and started singing “Shitty Hare” (A Krusty The Meat Miser original, to the tune of Livin’ on a Prayer), which Bouys heard and came running over from the other circle to join in. I hope the runners made him drink for that. It got cold and it started to rain so we swang low, picked up our trash (hashers pollute their bodies, not the environment), grabbed “bus wine” each and returned went back to the buses to rage in Galway.

[Runners  Circle]

Bouys was going to write this, but his apartment caught fire (everyone’s okay, he was rescued by a hot female fire fighter who asked him to hose her down…)

[Ballbuster Circle]

During Down Down’s it became apparent that an unnamed hasher had more than a passing interest in nipples he spent some time comparing the hardness of Shitnav and Airtight’s pink stubby erections and thus earned himself the honourable title of “Wrong Tit” in one of the most violent naming ceremonies I have personally ever witnessed.

As we got back on the bus to head home I swore I could see a spark in Cosmo’s eyes and an erection in his shorts as he thought back on the abject misery he had inflicted on his charges that day of days.

Scribed by Ding Bu Dong


Having learned from our mistakes on the bus ride to trail, all the unicorns grabbed a bottle of wine to fortify us for the long drive home. The back of the walkers us (ie, rage bus) broke into song before the wheels were in motion and didn’t stop until the doors opened and we were forced to stop singing for at least a few minutes. While we were singing, and passing around (and empting) all 6 bottles of wine that we brought with us, we also discovered that the bathroom on the bus was small, unfunctional and quiet terrifying. Harriets could fit into it with relative ease, though I hope CPA taught them all proper public toilet usage positioning, while the male hashers could chose to either, well, aim, or fall over.  UTIs for everyone!


Not gonna lie here folks, I passed out after we got off the bus, and rallied a few hours (I really had no sense of time the entire weekend, again, I blame the sun) later and found the hostel empty so I grabbed my drink tickets and headed to the hotel. I was told I was too late for the first sitting and had to wait at the bar until some people finished. Eventually there was room at a table and I sat down. I’m not gonna say this was the worst hash event  food I’ve ever had (I’ve never really thought about who would win that; probably no one, it’s food, we’re all drunk), but it wasn’t the best (GAP smokers, MEAT PIES, etc, PGH3 custom-made-pizza…). Anyway, with out complaint I shovled all of it down my guliver in a vain attempt at sobriety and good decisions, but who am I kidding; this is Bad Decision Saturday. There was a band playing on the stage, and dancing (I’ll call it Irish because we were in Ireland), but my  drunken mind craved either thumping beats, dance lights and smoke, or the unadulterated excesses of Saturday nights at hash weekends. I vaguely recalling someone telling me the time – 9:30. I leaned my cranium back and yelled “2.5 hours to UGH!” to a crowd of startled, though still dancing hashers. Seeing that they did not know my call to arms, I went in search of my breathern. I found CPA and Bouys at the other bar in the hotel and told them my good news; 2.5 hours to ugh! They understood and suggested that we repair to the hostel, find the other unicorns and rally for strippy cup. This we did. We first obtained permission from the staff “do you mind if we play where people get naked?” “Nope, go right ahead.” Permission uptained, I ran back to the hotel to try to rally more hashers to our cause. Back at the hostel we grabbed a table and moved it in front of the bar. CPA went to the bathroom and when she returned the table had been moved to the middle of the cafertia. The staff told her, and I (roughly quote) “We moved your naked drinking came to the cafertia so we can mop up after.” Rage. I returned with the hashers from spain (roga maybe?) and the game begain. We played strippy cup then for the next two hours. Once both teams had “lost” (were naked) we’d pause and put our clothes back on and start again. Unfortunately, the team size didn’t change much over the course of the game, instead hashers coming back from the hotel would stare in wonder at the dozen naked people drinking in the middle of the hostel. At midnight, as promised, I attempted to hare and UGH with CPA, but she demurred saying that urban ughing in the US is one thing, but in another country…I suggested that we ugh around the hostel, and instead it was suggested that we start naked jello wrestling. I was drunk, so I agreed. The first match was Ding Bu Bong v. Wiki, and Ding won with a body slam and pin and I gave up. Up next was Ding Bu Bong v. Innertube and innertube won quickly and easily. Next was Innertube v. Wiki. This was a 5 rounder folks! I got the initial pin and wrapped my legs around her waist, and my arms around her shoulders, effective controlling her. I rolled onto my back and waited for her to tap, but she never did. She kept squirming and trying to get lose, and I held on. Getting frustrated, I rolled over again so that she was pinned against the wall and I still had her back and arms controlled. Again I tried to anaconda a tap on from her, and again she resisted. Getting tired I rolled her one more time, onto her back, got top mount and pinned her shoulders down. She finally tapped. Now, I could have done that way earlier, but thought it would be easier for all involved if I didn’t have to mount and pin her. Clearly I wasn’t thinking like a hasher.  I stepped up and saw the birthday girl staring me down. CPA lunged and got me to the ground first, mainly because her main strategy was to savagely go after my balls. It’s hard to establish arm control if you’re defending your junk. Risking painful injury, I let down my ball defense and grabbed her upper arms, then tripped her, and mounted into back control. Again, I rolled CPA onto her stomach with my legs around her waist and arms locked behind her back, and again, my opponent kept struggling. For a second time I was at “checkmate in 1 move” and allowing mercy tap, and, again, they kept struggling. I believe I mutter “sorry” before rolling again with CPA under, pinning her hips and arms and she finally tapped. I arose and saw that Burger Queen was standing to challenge and I bravely ran away. As I was stepping out of the pool of jello I saw a little white van floating in the muck and reached up to find that my necklace had broken! I would like to officially apologize to the amazing, beautiful and embodiment of rage that is Jello Wreckem (the undisputed jello wrestling champion in new England) for destroying the necklace she made for me; I petition, publically, for her forgiveness as I lost it defending the honor of Boston Hash Harriers in the Jello Pool. I also destroyed a 413/GAP towel. I went to the bathroom to shower off the jello. The unfortunate side effect being that I unintentionally raged back into the hostel and found the information desk well manned at 2:30 in the morning, so I learned a bit before looking around and seeing that I was winning last man standing and retreated to the unicorn cave and a bucket of battered cock. As we were sitting around happily eating our battered cock sparerib came in and sat down for the hot battered cock. Instead her ripped CPAs shirt off her back, said “Nice tits love” and ran out. We shrugged it off and went to bed.


Honestly, I didn’t think that I did anything regrettable Saturday night. I mean yeah, I was hung over, but, I expected that. Yeah, I did a morning boot and rally (first of the day), but that’s not entirely unexpected, right? What I didn’t predict were the looks of shock and awe as I took an unexpected stride of rage through the cafeteria to get my breakfast. I brought it back to the room and told them “Guys, everyone in the café seemed to surprised to see me alive.” CPA and douche reported similar responses as all the unicorns ate breakfast in the room. Eventually (and I’m probably skipping over showers, laundry, etc), we were called down Eyre square again for fatboy trail. No fool us, we again all stocked up on breakfast wine to help us deal with trail. At chalk talk it was announced that some people would be running – and some people did – which prompted stories of the Best Wiki Fat Boy Trail Ever, and more wine. Trail was similar, but different, from Friday’s stroll, as we again crossed the square, but then turned and walked along the canal for a way. Luckily the information desk had caught up with us and we traded stories for information and wine. We then attempted to bribe Sex Reject, Sparerib and I’m sure others to come to Boston (see announcements below.)  After an aggressive fatboy trail, which, interestingly, intersected and went along a triathalon course, we eventually made it to almost the tip (just the shaft?) of a peninsula jutting out into water body of water that was for ONIN and 
Final Cricle.


Sparerib, Cosmo and a Viking Lady (never caught her name) RA’d this shit show. We called in (I’m assuming) all the hares for the weekend, and made them drink, followed by (I hope) the Mismanagement for the host kennel and the Co-Chairs for this amazing event. I hope we made them drink too. {For serial guys – it was amazing, and I had a blast…see above and below for examples). Then sparerib called CPA for lost sh*t; apparently half her bra fell off? I don’t know how these things work. Anyway, she drank out of it. Then she was called back in for the other half – I guess that makes sense? – and drank for that. Then she was called in for the bra itself, and drank for that too. She was thrown out of circle, and anyone who jello wrestled was called in, Wiki, Bing Bong, Innertube and, wait for it, CPA. We drank. Then, according to pictures we shots fired someone? God I hope it was Sparerib. And drank for that, then were kicked out of circle by the Viking Lady. The excitement of shot firing caused me to go out to the edge of the peninsula and “dragon” (as apparently it’s called) before returning to circle. The man with the hell-vodka was called in, and apparently I drunkenly requested to be send home with it, so he poured me a shot (which might have slipped out of my hand) and we did a down-down. Sadily, that bottle was never seen again. Apparently Dry Hose “took care of it.” CPA and Bouys were then called in for Birthdays, and by all accounts I thought we were going to cake them (beer, flower, egg), but instead it was just a rather tame dumping of beer.  Sex Reject then accused me of trying to bribe him into coming to Boston, so we drank. CPA was then called in for the shirt which Sparerib and ripped off her back, and we sung about how we wanted a “rich, young, blonde, nymphomaniac” as a final down-down, then, I believe swang low.


Okay folks, here’s where my memory officially gets fuzzy.

There were two announced sets of post-trail rage; there was food somewhere, then beer somewhere at 5. The unicorns decided to beat a hasty retreat to the hostel to nap before venturing out again, but of course we did so with two road sodas and a bottle of wine each. On the way back, Bouys got mad at a swan and threw the mostly-full bottle at it (don’t worry, he missed). We took pictures of the beautiful town of which we had no memories before arriving back at the hostel for a quick nap until the free beer started again. As everybody but Douche and CPA bedded down for a quick rage nap, those two beautiful soles thought that passing on in Eire square would be a swell idea. It’s probably a good thing they did, since I don’t think they’d’ve been able to wake up anyway. We grab one last bottle of “tea time wine” for the walk over to the free beer bar, but on the way over there the hand off between Swallows and I failed and the bottle dropped and shattered on the ground. We started longinly at it for a second, then decided that it was probably for the best. My apologies to the family (mom, dad, two kids) that was did this behind, but, whatever. Rage. Arriving at the bar we found the food had been exhausted but the beer was still good. I went to the bathroom and lost track of the Boston crowd (apparently they went up stairs to eat on their own, smart?). Instead of I found a group of locals and amused them with tales of rage before getting up to find my tribe. I grabbed a beer on my way up stairs and found them about hallway through their, we’ll call them dinner (amazing steak, potato things and a seafood pasta to die for) – they let me sample. We went back downstairs and had another beer outside. Eventually the tab ran out and we headed back to the hostel. Having missed the free food, I suggested that we stop in for some battered cock. I believe I ordered “can I have a party cock?” and surprisingly the guy (who I think also worked Friday and Saturday) knew what I meant, took my Euros and gave me what I am now calling “heart burn in a pocket.” We stuffed our faces and moved onto the next bar, where we met some other hashers and Bouys bought a round. From there it was back to the hostel to get our drink tickets, in case they still worked at the hotel – they didn’t. Things get really hazy now. I think I had a beer there, maybe two, but eventually I remember being brought back to the hostel and “put to bed” by Bouys because while my body was awake physically, my mind had long since checked out.

I feel required to mention that at some point (2 or 3am) about a dozen hashers were invited into the unicorn cave, raged around a passed out wiki and arranged all the beds in a row. Everyone else seemed to love it, so I’m sure it was a great time.

On – May the Vikings Ride again on waves of Beer – On

(with assistance from)
Dry Hose
Goes Down on Bouys
Dind do Bong.


(I’m sure there are more, but here some some oppurtunities to come rage with Boston):

July 10,11,12: Invihash – Burlington H3 Campout in Northern VT. Like Ireland, more bugs, less more, more rage.


April 15-18 – Boston Hash House Harriers Marathon Weekend – Think that raging with 5 cats from Boston is fun? IMAGINE OVER 150!

May 6-8 – NURD – Northeast Unoffical Red Dress Run – Campout weekend in upstate New York, Red Dress Run around some local city, then rageface at a girl scout camp.

Zig Zag Trail Hash Trash (over 3 years ago)
What: The Zig Zag Hash
Where: Flat Top Johnnies

Hares: Just Jeff, Queer and Foaming

Pack: Um, 6 virgins, 5 visitors, and the following people I remember:
Pappy Van Tinkle, Jolly Green Vagaina, Udder Whore, Anal Disco, Bring Out The Gimp, The Butler Hit It, Blondie Mc Fucksalot, Gone GAYWOL, +2 Coonass, Easy as 123, Krusty the Meet Miser, Goat Throat, Shart of Darkness, No Man on the Moon, CPA, Wikipedophilia, Orgasmn Falmon, Twat My Mom, Sketchy Ho, Spunk in the Trunk, A gaggle of justs, other people I probably had deep, soul affirming conversations which but whom I forget.


 Arriving at Flat Top Johnies about an hour early, I stumbled upon the phoenix vistors and had a pleasant conversation with them about how much they loved Boston, and were worried that it was going to be too cold, but the RAs had done their job, and the weather was surprisingly Pheonix-like. I’m sure we talked about other things. As pack began to arrive, I started walking around practicing my financial tact in asking for Hashcash, but apparently failed miserably. My new rule will be to not ask anyone for money until they’ve already had a beer, sorry CPA. The Hares were announced as being gay, but then weren’t, then were announced again, and who knows if they were, but we eventually meandered across a couple of streets to the “Shiggy” car. Introductions were made, royal baby names were suggested and the virgins were terrified.

Trail zig-zag:

We should have expected that a trail laid by one of the up and cuming trail heads would feature zig zags, as we ran in a circle around the bar, then in a circle around Kendal square – after telling the guests of the Marriot about why we couldn’t maintain a job in Chicago. We then stumbled upon a very strong shot check and two zig zags full of trail heads, with flame provided. Pack participated in whatever inherbrient they most identified with, then continue to run a zig zag through MIT and across the Longfellow bridge. Our beer-dars were sound red alert, and after the bridge there was allegedy a turkey-eagle split, though the vast majority of pack took the turkey because of the aforementioned beer-dar returns. Unfortunately, the hares were part of the Skunk works and fooled our highly tuned beer-dars and lead us on a pleasant stroll along the banks of the Charles, with tit, dick, and song checks galore. After some false zenning around the west end, and tancit scouting of the trio of beer checks in that area, we crossed back over the Charles and looped around the Musem of Science to beer check at the end of that path thing.

Beer Check #1:

There was beer, there were, and there were zenning bastards who turned back over the Longfellow once they saw pack running and decided the beer had never crossed the river, and a Mangina my Vagainia sighting. “I showed up at a beer check and left, this is what I do.” The sun set over the city and the sky was getting dark as pack continued to trickle in. After about 30 minutes, no one had seen the eagles, though we had been told that eagle trail looped up through gov’t center, and around north station before rejoining in front of the MoS. Slightly concerned, we didn’t know what to do, but the hares had to get going so they left some beers (5) for the assumed number of eagles and left. About 10 minutes later – please note that all measures of time are completely fictional – one lone eagle showed up with glowing shoes and was given a beer. About 5 minutes later, Easy, +2, Goat and Krusty came and and were greated by people running towards them to give them beer. We turned our backs and returned to the BC, only to see the vistors come struggling over the bridge to a beerless beer check. We apologized profusely, then took off to find the hares.

Trail 2.0:

Continuing in their zig-zag tradition, the hares zig-zaged trail through the Cambridge Side Gallaria, then brought trail cruely close to both Courtside and Sunset, only to give us a pair of shot checks in a park and an uphill climb to some revolutionary fort overlooking the city to the second beer.

Beer check castle:

Was in a castle. It was windy and I was told to keep my kilt down because it’s a kilt. Beers were drunk and the hares were gay. We chased them

Trail downhill (ish):

Giving up the high ground is never a good idea, but we did it and ran through Union square. A group hug was honked at, then we missed the light and everyone waved at the traffic. Trail continued through Imman, past a gas station, and eventually to another BN/BC. After quelling a near rebellion – the BC was really an ONIN – we took over some hybrid yoga studio/art gallery/psychotropic theoropy center. Pizzas were secured and circle was started.


Lead by the sole-less Krusty and the Sole-full Bloody, we called the hares in and made them kneel. After forcing them to breath the beautiful, calming oder with which we filled the space, we went around and got comments on trail; the most common of which being that pack was surprised the ballbuster decided to run on a Wednesday.  We then sang to/with the hares a rousing rendition of the hare version of “Cause I got high” and I think threw them out of circle. Next in were the FRBs (Blowbot), FBI (Falmon), and DFL (CPA), and we sang to them. At this point there were six very confused people watching this spectical unfold with some sort of terror, so we called the virgins in. I have no idea their names, but they were sponsored by a just, a transplant, shart, blondie and I think CPA. CPA and Disco demented them – they suck at math, one knows what a cow sounds like, and they are all backwoods. We then demonstrated down-downs, and while we do not find them worthy (they never are), we will take them anyway (because we are desperate). Next called in were … visitors? Sure, I’ll go with that. The visitors were called in and elected to show us body parts instead of singing, except for the male visitor who sang us some version of Amazing Hash, I think. We then called in all the rasicts from the past weekend (Twat, Udder, and Wiki) and I’m assuming called us dumb? The hares were called back in for some reason, probably for laying a ballbuster, and were told to use more flour and chalk next time (though actually the marks were fine…). At that point Sketchy and Spunk had arrived with the pizza, and the hare-made pulled pork was getting cold so we swang low. Oh, at some point in time we Old McDonald’d GAYWOL, Luvalamp and Douche, because they are GAYWOL, Luvalamp and Douche. See announcements below.


On – May ballbuster is in the books – On


THIS WEEKEND: NURD – kegs are tapped in less than 24 hours; buy regos online, or trade of cheaper ones.
MONDAY, 5/11: 3rd Anal Taco-versery. Cambridge Common, Cambridge. Ladies bring bago and prepare to rage.
WEDNESDAY 5/13: Party Like You’re a Just Trail – Just Bill and Just Emily will recreate the rage of a Just trail.
SATURDAY 5/16: E4BH3 trail in Glocster, brownbag start at the Glocster Commuter rail, hare is Ass-Stache.
SATURDAY 5/16: CVNT Damnit Jimmy (Part 3) – (aka Vomit and Nutters “final” hash) – info is in the CVNT FB group. Start and End and “crashing” in Putney VT.
WEDNESDAY 5/20: Langerie Hash #3 (or 4?) – Bondage Themed, starting at Club Café.
JULY 10,11,12: INVIHASH – Rego will be up soonish? I have no idea. It’s a Burlington thing.
AUGUST 15-17: GAP – Rego is up (  - LAST GAP EVER (of 2015)
SEPTEMBER – Probably something
OCTOBER – Probably AGM
OCTOBER – Probably PooF Away
NOVEMEBER – Probably Saddie
DECEMEBER – Probably Antibuffet
JANUARARY – Proably Furry Hash
FEBURARAY – Porbably Moon Away
MARCH – Probably a hash or two
Why are you still reading?
Go get a beer.
And drink it.

Though if you’ve read this far, you should probably get two.

Yeaster Hash (over 3 years ago)

Yeaster Hash!
Hare: Udder Whore
Pre-lube: Globe Bar and Café
Pack: Famine, CPA, Plus 2 Coonass, Goat Throat, 2 male virgins (Brian and Alexis?), PSA, Cum Ear, Bouy’s, Five Inch Penalty, Sex the Final Frontier, Pulp Friction (transplant), Po Po Peep Show, Fellowship of the C*ock Ring, Douche, Double Bag/Just Jeff, others I forgot?
Bag Car: Bend Over Mommy

The Jews of the hash and everyone else who got out of Easter early or made the excellent decision to choose hash family over all else gathered at Globe around 3pm this past Sunday. I was thrilled to discover that Globe has $5 brunch cocktails so your scribe (Orgasm Famine) was happy and tipsy when we trooped out in search of bag car. Thanks to parking being challenging near Copley the walk to bag car might have been longer than some of the legs of trail. Coonass stepped up to RA since the regular suspects were missing. He led us through introductions and explained to pack and the virgins that Udder had elected to subject us to a Cajun trail. We were warned to expect wine on trail, Easter candy, and of course every mark was a check. We ran off and quickly found a song check where we sang a short but enthusiastic version of Jesus can’t go hashing since, really, what other option did we have?

Leg 1- Running 2-3 miles within a square half-mile
From that point on I would describe the first leg of trail as a clusterfuck. I can’t count the number of times we got lost. The wind tunnels of Boston were cold so I tried to keep moving but that really just meant I continuously ran falses. I am pretty sure each mark was at least a block apart, regardless of the size of the block. For some reason our hare seemed to think hashers are willing to run really far in possibly the wrong direction over and over again in search of Cajun marks. Well don’t worry we proved her wrong. Many of us stopped checking all together and waited for a few racist ass-holes to call us onward. Even those of us who checked often gave up on a direction before finding the next mark. Pack slowly circled their way around Copley through many an ally way. At one point the chalk turned black which caused 5 inch to miss a tit check while scouting. I guess he really did not want to see tits because that got us lost for a solid 10 minutes. We eventually made it over to Comm Ave and it was around that time that the walkers either got really bored at the beer check or got worried we were never going to make it because the beer check location was revealed to some of pack and we started running straight there. We finally found beer, walkers, orange food, peeps, and the fearful hare under the overpass between Kenmore and Hynes. It was an Easter miracle that we didn’t lose either of the Virgins.

Leg 2 – Never out of sight of a mark
At the first beer check someone must have put the fear of the Easter Bunny in the hare because the second leg of trail had a mark every 5 feet. I did not hear a single hasher complain about that, which is probably good, because after the first leg of trail pack likely would have torn anyone who complained about having too many marks limb from limb. We ran towards Kenmore, found a GH just past it, and sang about interesting things to do at a ballpark in front of Fenway.  From there we wound towards and into the fens. We saw the hare standing with a bag of wine near a war memorial and we all paused to pass around the bago at the wine check as the hare scampered off. Someone made a joke about the blood of Christ having turned white as we drank the white wine. After finishing the wine and giving the hare more time than we probably should have we ran off after her through the fens. We wound out of the fens, back into the fens, and ended up at the big structure near the middle where the moon masquerade ball beer check was.

On-In - Where we hung out in buttsex forest for a time
Due to the wonderful prevalence of marks on the second leg of trail pack beat bag car to the on-in. We hung out mourning the lack of beer and slowly realizing we had arrived at on-in not just another beer check. When Bend Over Mommy arrived we grabbed, bags, beer, and pizza (Shout out to Goat for making pizza happen!) from the car and huddled as close to the back of the structure as possible to try to avoid being visible from the street. Someone declared pizza before circle just in case we ended up getting broken up by the cops. After eating a few pieces of pizza we sang in our shitty hare, she performed her down-down, and led us in a rousing round of el-camino. Five inch sang a verse I had never heard before which I wish I still remembered. Once Udder left circle Coonass requested a few comments on trail. He walked around circle and half-bullied people into sharing their thoughts, which included not enough marks, not enough black chalk, not enough time spent in ally 422, not enough Jesus, and not enough candy. Udder and CPA volunteered as dementresses to help our virgins lose their purity.  They both claimed to be good at math but one of them was way too good at it and instantly declared that the square root of 69 is 8.3. Seriously who just knows that? We informed him he was wrong and the square root is really ate something. I want to say both Virgins said they were backwoods but I might be making that up. When someone held a dollar bill up in front of Udders crotch and the virgins were asked what that was one of the virgins responded with something great about a Washington being over a Bush. Think about it. We told him that was a great response but we generally call it all you can eat for under a dollar. Both Virgins made themselves cum to the hash so volunteer sponsors demonstrated down-downs and we sang the virgins their own down-down song. They properly inverted their vessels over their craniums and arose Virgins no more. Just like Jesus! It was sometime around then that a few bike cops arrived on the scene. We all hastily hid our beer and pretended to be a running group that was just stretching. The personal trainer part of me feels the need to point out that most of the attempts to stretch looked rather pathetic. We drink way better than we stretch. Goat offered the cops some pizza, which they declined, but they seemed ok with us. We thought perhaps they had not seen the beer until as they were riding away they told us to hide the beer and finish quickly. Well hashers know how to finish ;) We re-formed circle, called friendly cops an Easter miracle and continued. The transplant was called in to sing us a song of his people, or show us a body part or provide a joke. He went for the triple play as he sang to us about how White house in DC are all assholes and then showed us a bodypart which I believe our RA informed him was also a joke. Can’t say BH3 is inhospitable. There were a couple accusations. Jews were called in for drinking beer during Passover. 5 Inch was called in for missing the tit check and then again for not running far enough down an alley to find the next mark. I admitted that I gave up on that ally with him so I joined him and drank for that. There were more accusations and then some announcements about Marathon. We drank more, swang low, and then went to Ramrod.

On-Afer – Where else could we go from the fens?
We went to Ramrod en masse. Pitchers were purchased and then more pitchers were purchased. It got late for a Sunday. The bartender told me we made his night. The next morning those who were not there asked if we ever made it out of Ramrod because nothing was heard from anyone till late morning since we were all too busy regretting our Sunday night Ramrod decisions to communicate with the world.

On-Easter Miracles-On

-Orgasm Famine


Saturday 4/11: PooF H3 Trail in Milton
Sunday 4/12: BH3 Trail
Monday 4/13: RI H3 Trail
Tuesday 4/14: Beaver Marathon Pre-lube 6:30HST
Wednesday 4/15: Taco Marathon pre-lube 6:30HST
Thursday 4/16: Ball-buster Marathon pre-lube 6:30HST
Friday 4/17: C*mbridge beer mile and pub crawl 6:30HST
Saturday 4/18: Disney Princess Marathon Trail!
Sunday 4/19: Boston Moon fat boy 2:30HST

Wrestle Mainia Hash (over 3 years ago)

Wrestle Mainia/ The Hash where only Gimp wore a singlet
Hares: Wiki and Clit Notes
Pre-lube: Kelly Square Pub by the airport T stop
On-In: Outside by the river kinda near Wellington
Pack: Gimp, Famine, Blow bot, Ass-Stache, Friar, Cum Ear, Female Virgin, Male Virgin, Douche, Hoover, Butler, Visitor from DC  (something about a Stapler?)
Bag Car: Udder Whore

This was a Wiki trail. From start to finish. By that I mean first all of us foolish wankers traveled to a bar near the airport, only to follow Wiki around all the parts of Boston where they dump dead bodies, and then stand around at dusk in the cold singing to our hares about how shitty they were.  That being said I (Famine) did have some fun.

We gathered in the local pub to drink in preparation for trail. A brave DC visitor had brought 2 virgins so some of us socialized with them and tried our best not to scare them off before we got started. Our hares departed and we gave them what was likely far too much time as we waited for stragglers and eventually trickled out to the bag car. Butler ran a rather subdued chalk talk with surprisingly well-drawn genetalia. We introduced ourselves, told the virgins what to expect, and described the Wiki lost mark as a ‘trump card’ that negates all else. Butler led a rousing rendition of every day is Wednesday and we ran off in search of marks. Following trail went relatively smoothly until just before the bridge to Chelsea where a WN mark caused pack to mill about, someone to get yelled at by an angry salvage yard guy (or was it a crane operator?) and general mayhem. After an extended search for marks on our side of the bridge and much discussion of weather WN meant the dreaded Wiki Lost or something else I ran off across the bridge and found trail. After I had left someone found a bag of wine since apparently WN meant Wine Near. They must have stood around drinking that for some time because I got stopped by a dick check 2/3rds of the way over the bridge and waited for around 5 minutes while 7 passing cars honked at me before a hasher caught up and freed me. From there trail curved around back towards the river on a side street and down an ally, but a dearth of marks and questionably pointing arrows made for slow going as we kept losing trail. Soon after that we came upon a song check next to a dog park so we sang about some poor dog (rover?) and then there was a tit check in an ally. As I ran out about my 5th false of the day, pack found marks along the river that led to the first beer check!

The walkers had beaten us there and Cum Ear was gleefully searching for sea creatures along the shore line of our scenic coastal drinking spot. We drank our hard earned beers, ate orange food, told stories to terrify the virgins, and remarked on the presence of sunshine. A proper amount of time after the hares ran off we followed them and followed marks / zenned over many grassy and rocky areas in a very up-hill direction until we found a song check where we re-grouped and sang something. We found a confusing set of marks in a driveway with a true trail leading to a false 6 inches away from it and eventually found other marks leading back down the hill. Trail meandered through roads and parking lots, past a parked police man who watched me jaywalk 3 times as I ran out falses, past salvage yards and sketchy trucking areas, to yet another dick check where I didn’t really feel comfortable standing and waiting alone so I ran around and pre-checked until people caught up and freed me.  Pack seemed to be losing enthusiasm for running since suddenly a lot of walking seemed to be happening.  After running out one particularly long false I heard shouts of Beer Near and eventually found the hares and bag car hanging out in an ally. We drank more, ate more, socialized, gave the hares tons of time to mess with us, and ran on.

The third leg of trail caused the most consternation and wails of anguish within pack. It started out all right with marks and checks near major intersections that we navigated remarkably well, but soon after singing about why Jesus can’t go hashing, in front of a church, on Palm Sunday, things began to go downhill. We got mildly confused near a pizza shop that had the word food written in one color chalk and a questions mark in another color next to it. Fortunately 5 feet away from that there was an arrow-indicating trail (thank you Clit Notes). Then as far as I could tell trail totally disappeared for a while but we ran straight and found a check. We quickly found trail and another check, but that check was the last mark I saw that did not end up being a false for about 20 minutes. All of pack except for Blow-bot, who somehow went the right way, followed the false trail, milled about and searched for marks, got barked at by dogs, and searched a Best Buy parking lot for marks until the male virgin found a mark in a tennis court which we followed across a baseball field to a check where we found Blow-bot napping on some bleachers. Soon after that we realized where trail was going and ran straight to the on-in near the river.

For all that the on-in was outdoors on a day that did not quite get above 40 degrees it was rather pretty and snow free. We ate pizza before circle and then sang in our shitty hares. Comments on trail were somewhat standard but reflected the general shit-show nature of certain sections of trail. Wiki and Clit Notes sang us something I don’t remember. FRB (Blow-bot) and FBI (Famine) were called in to drink for our racist tendencies. DFL (Butler) was asked if he was lonesome tonight. I believe Wiki ended up joining him for cutting off the RA to initiate the song and then messing up the words. Udder was elected as Dementress of the day to de-virginize our 2 virgins. Both Virgins declared themselves backwoods. The male virgin sadly would not help his uncle jack off a horse, and his response to what is the square root of 69 was ‘my mouth’.  Their sponsors demonstrated down-downs, we sang them their down down song, they drank, and we decided to take them despite their un-worthiness. Accusations included technology on trail, peeing on trail, auto-hashing, and a whole lot more that I now forget. Once we started getting cold we announced some stuff and swung low.

ON-but there might not be marks-ON
-Orgasm Famine

Wednesday 4/1: Mismanagement Meeting 7PM Tasty Burger
Sunday 4/5 at 2:30HST: BH3 Yeaster Trail starting at The Globe near Copley
Saturday 4/11: PooF H3 Trail
Sunday 4/12: BH3 Trail
Monday 4/13: RI H3 Trail
Tuesday 4/14: Beaver Marathon Pre-lube 6:30HST
Wednesday 4/15: Taco Marathon pre-lube 6:30HST
Thursday 4/16: Ball-buster Marathon pre-lube 6:30HST
Friday 4/17: C*mbridge beer mile and pub crawl 6:30HST
Saturday 4/18: Disney Princess Marathon Trail!
Sunday 4/19: Boston Moon fat boy 2:30HST