Outlined against a blue-gray June sky, the Two Wannabe Wyomingites rode for a final time. In dramatic lore they are known as Costume Change Girl and the Necklace Boob Accessory Kid. These are only aliases. Their hash names are Fishlips and Showme Your Tits. They formed the crest of the cyclone-themed hash before which another gang of drunken wankers was swept over the precipice at Town Run Park Saturday afternoon as 38 half-minds peered down upon the bewildering panorama spread out upon the green plain below.
Joining their farewell tour were a motley collection of rogues and charlatans with cognomen such as the lascivious 20 Pound Pussy; the mercurial Cockleganger; the felonious Butt Chug; the chimerical Dungeon Masterbator; the variegated Dinoslutt; the boffo Closet Fag; the dyspeptic Jewbacca; the unwitting I Got Skills; the furtive Hot to Twat; the comely Hit Me With Your Cum Shot; the canine Just Josh; the pack-carrying Load Warrior; the cheeky Nekkid Ninja; the resolute Silent But Deadly; the ethereal Best in Blow; the clamorous Lawrence of the Labia; the loquacious Pissing Ditzy; the venturesome Fuck Newton; the
bonhomous Gagging Me Softly; the irascible Money $hot; the capricious Brokeback Belcher; the unwavering Camo Tow; the singular Gutter Balls; the ravenous Venereal Day; the noisome Just Timothy; the virgin pure grouping of first timers and other non-named including Just Anna, Just Christy, Just Cory, Just Joel, Just Laine; Just Matt 8; and Just Steves 5 and 6; and your loyal narrator, the Rev. Dr. Double Fister, ordained and instructed by the Universal Life Church of Modesto, Calif., with advanced specializations in raconteuring and pagan ceremonies.
The hares of this trail, the No Place Like Home Hash (IndyScent #445), were Cuntrifuge and Just Alex, who would later be bestowed with the name of Recockulating for all his time lost on trail on his virgin lay despite his alleged professional association with the functionality of GPS systems. A small and silent type, he has been accused in less respectable quarters of being a carnie and smelling of cabbage. Nevertheless, these hares were evil indeed, as the trail offered a challenge in length, girth, and terrain, and yet their comeuppance came at hand (and in hand) at circle afterward.
A leisurely pre-hash included alternately bewildered and disgusted cyclists. Cameo appearances were made by Quack Quack Bitch and Patchoulipuss, who are happy to announce the forthcoming birth of their son, Brewtus von Applebee Willis Jr., who at a projected 19 lbs. 10 oz. and 4 inches in length will obliterate human baby density records, along with being the first American child named for a restaurant chain beer promotion.*
*-Disclaimer: The contents of this hash trash are not necessarily endorsed or supported by IndyScent Mismanagement, the people involved and referenced, or the author. Any questions about the rebroadcast or transmissions of images, words, or thoughts related to this hash or a range of topics including botany, the threat of unchecked global political hegemony, the Smurfs, and Japanese tentacle porn should seek the expressed written consent of Major League Baseball, Peyo, and Foghat.
Eventually, the Duke of Labia bellowed from his diaphragm on-out, and as I
grasped Nekkid Ninja's hand, I encouraged her to "run like the wind" before we could be caught by I Got Skills, who bears passing resemblance to yacht rock crooner Christopher Cross sans beard. After all, we had such a long way to go to make it to the border of Mexico. But I digress.
Up and down and up and around mountain bike trails we followed the trail until we came to a check that led to only a couple marks each way. Eventually the enterprising Camo Tow found trail a few yards southwest, and we were soon through brush and a field and clambering through heaps of various construction materials and rocks. The trail led us into the adjacent neighborhood and upon a pond large enough that a handful of boats were enjoying the afternoon. The hares sneakily tried to rebrand a "Jesus fish" mark into a regroup, but we all know a pussy slowdown maneuver when we see it. To kill time, Jewbacca recounted the story of a key party he attended in 1979 as the guest of Rip Taylor, Dame Edna,
and Cheri Daniels. But as soon as Fishlips was in sight, the FRBs took off
again, eventually finding our way into and around an office park, where I swear one could hear womanly screams, the sounds of crashing duct work and glass, and intense arguments about the reality of SkyNet.
From there, the veteran hashers knew the score and we proceeded into the bridge and drainage area under 465 where we found the first BN. After 2-plus miles and about 45 minutes on trail, all were thirsty, but some sort of basic science deficiency or ice mix-up led to lukewarm High Life, High Life Light and PBR. Drinkable, but the pack loves bitching. The dirty creek made for a wading pool for the likes of Butt Chug, Just {aine, P Ditz and others who took a dip and god knows what else in there in their underwear. Just Matt was disappointed not to see the Chugger's Prince Albert, which has been seen more times in this market than Everybody Loves Raymond re-runs. With Butt Chug around, there also was a
high probability of something being inserted in somebody's rectum. To pass the time and get nostalgic, Fuck Newton scaled the rock pile up to 465, and jumped off, receiving compound fractures in both legs; however, 20 Pound stuffed his broken torso and legs into her backpack like C3PO, and we carried on.
After demolishing the beer and water, we were back off and found a turkey/eagle split that met back up at a shot check underneath 465 again a few hundred yards east. We assume it was vodka mixed with gallons of fruit punch and orange drink, but it could have been lighter fluid or breast milk schnapps for all we knew. Anyway, it was cold and tasted good. At one point Best in Blow did a gallon stand. In a demonstration of the NFL rules for spearing, I rammed 20 Pound with my sweaty head, and we down-down'd the remaining drink to the tune of Asshole, Asshole, A Soldier I Will Be.
The next part of trail took us back to the bike paths on the way to the on-in, but after taking a false trail, I tried to cut back to where Lawrence and Showme had found true trail. Instead of a quick jaunt or even a wade, I soon found myself in deep water and swimming to the other side. No matter, as the second BN was reached on an isthmus that the Dungeon Master compared to some sort of Pokemon secret chamber or something. There was more bitching about beer temperature and group photos, and at some point we convinced the hares to lay an eagle across the retention pond and up to a dock. Many brave hashers forded that
pass. The Ninja, Brokeback and I tried our hands at the "tweagle" or swimming the pond in the middle, but there was a current on that mother and we retreated to shore after a few dozen yards or hard paddling. The rest of the trail was a march back to the Town Run trailhead and parking lot.
Circle commenced under the direction of P-Ditz, and the hares were brought forth with the addition of Skills, who had signed on to the trail but backed out when he was embroiled in international intrigue over the past weekend. Or so he says. Anyway, Showme doused them with flour, which had been packed back by Skills, the ultimate mule, and there was a great flour covering and abundant rejoicing.
Hash crimes flew fast and furious, including Fishlips for a new boot when she tried to burn pristine Keds instead of her hash shoes, and then for wearing one shoe in circle; Dungeon Master for D&D references on trail; and Lawrence and some other bare-chesteds for their studliness of going shirtless; and Jewbacca for doing his best Congressman Weiner impression by showing off his bulge in a black onesy. At some point, the non-swimmers were called into circle and Just Anna, sporting a wife beater, somehow mysteriously exited circle drenched in water, her ample personality still glowing from her virginal indoctrination. I never got a chance to call out Butt Chug for stunts on trail as he had left the scene early.
With Jacoochie absent, Fishlips performed the on-sec duties one final time, including Gutter and Closet celebrating 69 by actually performing a 69 in circle; Jewbacca for reaching 99 and moving one away from the centurion mug; and 75 for 75-Pound Pussy. For the record, Fishlips departs with 116 record IndyScent hashes, and Showme with 79. So, at a rate of 3 per year, be sure to attend that July Saturday hash in 2018 when Showme gets his mug!
After Recockulating's naming, we commenced with the going-away ceremonial
burning of the shoes, and Fishlips returned and passed down a collection of items including the boob balls, the tire inner tube, etc. There was a lot of moisture during the final songs, which included singing Twenty Toes to the shoes arranged in suitable position. Some of those were tears but there were plenty of female sexual arousal fluids at the sight of shirtless Lawrence, and a lot of butt sweat on such a humid day. In the end, it all smelled like a Burger King at closing: all cock, balls, yeast infection, bleach, dirty water, burnt canvas, and shame.
The on-after was popularly chosen as Kip's, and I couldn't attend, but I can report through hearsay and fabrication that it included an orgiastic celebration of alcohol abuse, under-table finger-banging, above-table hand jiving, opium smoking with elderly Chinese janitors, macramé, and popular crock pot dinner recipe swapping that made both Caligula and Rachel Ray blush.
In closing, let me personally bid adieu to the harriette who required months of sneaky plotting on my part to foist the cash hag and record keeping responsibilities on her. It took my unique skills as a talent evaluator to determine that a middle school math teacher could properly handle addition and subtraction. Fishlips, with your aptitude on a basic calculator, you will truly put the "EQUAL" in the Equality State.
And to her itinerant gentleman who served honorably not only in Afghanistan, but also as haberdasher and substitute Religious Adviser, may you ride the range without chafing for all your days. Good luck, but I recommend plenty of talc.
For you both, may your trails be live hared and your beer be cold at your
variety of Big Sky hashing stops. I will miss the shit out of you guys for the next month until I move, when I will quickly forget you in the absence of monetary incentive.
Speaking of getting rid of people, FREEDOM!!! Hash #6 on Friday July 1 at Money $hot's palatial estate in suburban Beech Grove will be the going-away hash for Double Fister, C. Source and Trail Tail as we prepare to bolt for Chicago. So mark your calendars for something other than your birth control cycle or your weed dealer's availability. After a combined 452 hashes over the past several years, we will walk away barefoot, and for the first time, a departing canine will incinerate his bandana. If we're especially careless, we might even burn down Money $hot's house and give him that aneurysm he's been cultivating so lovingly for so long!
I submit this report on 13 June 2011 as partially factual, unabashedly
overwritten, ridiculously under-edited, and gleefully under-sourced.
Yours untruly and unruly,
Double Fister
IndyScent Grand Master Emeritus