The other day, four city folk, Gutter Balls, Closet Fag, Pissing Ditzy and the one and only 20# Pussy, your narrator [Gutter: “damn 20, you're talking again"], traveled a great distance to visit their estranged companions in the Wild Wild West. On our journey we encountered drunken pilots, bacon nazi Mexicans, llamas, sheep, prairie dogs on a spigot, jack-a-lopes, tight white butts and several other oddities. If we would have watched a little longer those fake dear would have moved too. Upon our 12:14 arrival we were greeted by two pooches and a bag of treats for each. We soaked in the Wyoming sun and helped ourselves to the brew stashed in the gazebo. Within a whip of a horse tail, the head honcho, Show Me arrived. We laughed, cried, gossiped and frolicked in the fresh air. Several bottles later, our crew set out on a jaunt to the boot store. The trip was interrupted with a stop at the local pharmacy to get anti-poop medicine. We toured, milled, frolicked and loitered as Show Me squeezed his cheeks and waited in line. The sun was setting and Mrs. Show Me would soon be done with work. Someone, it might have been me, suggested we return to the ranch to greet her. Show Me gave me the evil eye exclaiming “She will be pissed if you guys don’t dress up and look cute! We ARE GETTING BOOTS!” So, he grabbed the reins of the Tahoe and off we went. The kids made a straight bee line for the boots. For the next two hours, we modeled boots, hats, belts, jeans, hats, strap-ons and whips. Mrs. Show Me, Fish Lips arrived and immediately directed Gutter Balls to take off his pants because there was “too much going on there”.
The trek back briefly interrupted by milking tight white butts. Once we got back, the brew started flowing as the lassies primped themselves and the lads pimped themselves. Then, on out to the Out Law Saloon. We parked the giant beast and skipped toward that entrance. Then from the depths of the beast was a pounding followed by a weak whimper. Show Me for got to get his wife out of the trunk. Finally, we all made it to the bar. We sat down at a tiny unstable table and ordered a double round for everyone. Before the first round was down, we decided we weren’t going to get drunk fast enough so a rule was implemented that anytime part of someone’s hash name was said, we all have to drink. I don’t think I heard anyone’s mother given name the rest of the evening. Just David, our adopted virgin, settled into the table next, casually glanced over and 20# blurted out "do you want to see my belt buckle?" That's all it took. Just David put an additional 43.2 miles on our harriets. Gutter wondered, "did I get unlimited miles on these girls?" If not for Regina the Whore and the voo-doo witch butting in for attention I'm sure Just David would have earned the respectable hash name “Who's Next?” We drank the bar dry and headed to the ranch. Then we sat in the smokey windy gazebo and consumed more beer and enjoyed the fire. I believe I was the first to go to bed. Soon the rest followed and gathered in the kitchen. H1N1 is back. [Fish: Go to bed 20].
In the morning a delicious breakfast was prepared by the ladies [Ditz: “Get out of the way 20”] Ok, I take delicious back. MOST of it was except for the eggs that came from a chicken that ate rotting fish poop.
We packed the cooler with drinks and food and off we went to Medicine Bow, of course stopping at any and all places of interest. As we wound are way up the mountains, I began to feel a whoozie. Moments later I felt as though I had just had a clam bake with Cheech and Chong, or the rotting jackaloope poop I inhaled at the Medicine Bow sign. From then on, I was placed in the front seat. Meanwhile, in the back, the rest of the pack had to take their turn in the trunk. We made our way up through the mountains using Gutter’s Zen, which became questionable because he was in the idiot chair. At some point there was a salad fork in the road. There was a debate and bet to see who was right. Eventually, it was girls against boys. There are more of us, of course we will win. I had nothing to do with it. The car was parked but I thought we were rolling backwards. We finally made it to the trailhead (head?) to Pole Mountain. We were all surprised it wasn't a brass Pole Mountain. Two mountain bikers come barreling down. This won’t be so hard. Two minutes later and 50 feet later, we huffed and puffed and complained. Fag commented that nobody else had a poop bucket on trail. Ditz pointed out a pretty purple flower, that took 5 pictures to capture because I was still high and couldn’t see it, we climbed on and became acclimated with the thin air and dusty trail. Many more photo opts, a modeling session by Ditz, a lot of horse feces, horses and their cowboys, a few pups and a squirrel with a giant dildo, we decide to stop for lunch and swap fish and biscuits. In due time, we headed back down the mountain. Along the way, Ditz and I found a beautiful prairie to frolick in. Frolicking ceased at Show Me’s command. We continued down, down, down and eventually made it back. The girls told the chaps to sit at the table. Like good little ladies, will delivered their beer to them. This had nothing to do with any bets. We are just nice hot chicks. We drove the rest of the way down the mountain, again stopping at any and all places of interest. We learned about bouldering, Ditz climbed a poop rock, I pooped like a prairie dog and Closet sat on the ground and chugged a beer.
Once we arrived back at the ranch, we pulled our sleeves up and started dinner. Oh, forgot to mention we went to the market to get food from the peach nazi. Similar to breakfast, the ladies cooked, I stayed out of the way and was the photographer/garbage wench/beer bitch. The dinner was AMAZING. Thanks kids. Off to the Gazebo for another night of nonsense.
Up and at em! We get ready and head to breakfast at a swanky little country Mexican joint. Show Me got to test his poop pills. Ditz finally poo’d in a real potty. Up to Estes park. Wait, first we went to see Special Agent Tits’s truck on the base. Apparently he is bad ass. He deputized everyone with a patch with dildos in handcuffs. We all have Nuclear Dildo authority. It was a hoot. We saw a hooter too.
Ok, now we are off. Up, up, around, around, up, around….. You get the picture, I’m not going to relive it because I’m all out of my saltines. It was beautiful drive. After a short break at the Kum & Go, we headed up to the Stanley hotel. We enjoyed horse turds (HA! I that that is what they were called when I was little) and beer on the porch. We took Devils Gulch to the bottom. Again, stopping to take pictures of our crew, the view and a Harley Davidson caught by a fisherman, and, of course, to barf.
The rest of the day, well, I’m not going into all of the details, but eventually, our best option was Plan C, version 83, Part 3. We stopped at the Beaver Brewery. Got some shaved tail and whiskey dick. We went back, modeled our pink beavers, ate a light dinner and started hammering the shots. Again, the lassies primped and the lads pimped. Off to the Outlaw. [Fag: Shut up 20, Fag wants to talk] More shots, kisses, funny facings, weird faces, cowboys and more shots. Back home and straight to the gazebo. Right then and there, the Hash House Harrier kennel CheynDescent was born. Everyone drank for poop. Everyone drank for boots. Everyone (but 20#) drank for knee blow jobs in the trunk. Everyone drank for everything. Things get foggy now. I do remember spanking Ditz with the hashit, a half naked dance party and other nonsense. I was last to go to bed and last up.
The morning broke sad and only a preview of the upcoming documentary lighted the vibe. Leaving PDitz's ass hole behind the ride to Denver was iffy with only one poo incident at 11:59. Once we arrived I did what my bestie would do… forced myself to hurl. Much better. Ate, no beer and made it home by 11:30. There aren’t too many cowgirls in Indy Airport at 11pm.
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Gutter Balls Closet Fag Pissing Ditzy Show Me Your Tits Fish Lips 20 # Pussy…. Chug up and Cheers to ALL!
20 # Shaved Pussy