Go F Yourself – another Hash post

Tonight I got to tell more deserving people to go fuck themselves. Yes, this is another Hash post.

We ran trail, a shiggy 5 miles through south Humble’s development. Only part of it was green belt sidewalk. The rest was marsh and twigs, my kind of terrain. Being a swamp born coonass those second wave marathon runners slowed me down through the brush. The first wave was long gone. The second could take me In a clear straightaway. This, however, was home. I ducked and weaves like willy the wabbit, bowing my sunglasses down when eye pokers threatened, letting my arms grow numb from the brambles and stickers, hopping over the wet bits by staying close to the trees and hobbling over downed logs. When there were not logs I made them with swift kicks to trees. I was determined to keep my feet dry. That was dad’s first rule of backcountry hiking: Always keep your shoes dry. Never get wet unless you have to.

Despite the three or four river crossings, I managed to have dry socks when I rolled into circle. Yes, I bragged. Yes, I knew I would have to drink for it. Yes, I threw a sock in the two faces of my accusers. Yes, they made me do a tea bag down down. This is where they laid me on the ground and poured beer through my sock and into my mouth. I knew it was coming so I saved my beer for it. With the two kegs sponsored by Karbach brewery floated in under an hour I knew the only alternative was pickle juice.

The walkers got lost. A game warden wrote a citation. A Galvez hasher exposed our identity. A crazy girl ran with pickles. Am I missing anything?

They spanked a twenty one year old birthday girl at the on after. Barbeque sauce was shuffleboarded down the row with a high score of 1 for team BBQ.

Someplace around there I started talking shit. Nah, the shit talking had begun long ago for me. Tonight I just kept them rolling. Some old guy I have met at every function played the not remembering me game. Guess what? You can go fuck yourself you old English prick. He was only interested in my persona because I got to spank the hot birthday girl and he didn’t. There were a few others. They got theirs. Most of those that got it last time either remembered or avoided which suited me just fine. Thats one way to remember someone. The hash casher girl asked me again who I was, which can be a bit upsetting because she actually has to write my name down to record runs or whatever. You remember 30 percent of what you write.

Chuggers asked about my broken legged friend. G did not. He probably has Alzheimer’s anyway. I respected my elders and told him, “Not that you remember but…” Blah. I also drank in circle for a titty twist and comment about someone’s dead grandma. Life is good. The trail was great. The on after had awesome food by an unappreciated Assgrabber. I jerked off and went to sleep.

Go fuck yourself.

Pondering My Workd

I lay here half drunk, the designated driver just got homemkimdamhalfmdrunk, drinking a beer in bed, beautiful woman passed out next to me, the its my birthday I can drink if I want to kinda drunk, and the whole world beckoned me to ponder it. So I did. Never do that. Or do it often. One of the two. Tonight we talked about limbs and conservationists and museum and art and running as oopposed to biking. Then the random shit started with people that claimed to throw up blood when faced with extreme emotion, a girl on a date with a cat psychic (like he knows,you have cats but doesn’t know the names variety), monkeys who won’t climb trees no matter how vast their dungeon, someone whose name may or not be James but prefers now to be called Jizz Hands for mysterious reasons and other of the like. I’ll have to tell her she snores in the am. Not every night. On her pre birthday birthday? Yes!

Here I am pondering the world – mostly harmless. Wikipedia shut down for a day. You could still get into a back door. I never saw it. I turned off the Internet. I typed “google” into Google and it broke. Instead I went door to door selling stock in myself. A couple of takers. They called me today to set up appointments.

One of the most ponder able moments was the dialogue about the Beatles lyric, “Oh, that magic feeling. Nowhere to go. Nowhere to go.” Each of us had a time when it applied. It always fit. Some were right outta college. Some were en media res. Each was a journey the other could never know. Nowhere to go. Magic!

We cursed people with cuss words in good fun. I would curse without cussing some other people in less fun later. Whatever. They are just jocks. They angered and frustrated me because I thought they did not like me, when, as it turns out, after I pissed all over the bed about it I realized that it was probably more that I did not really like them. We had no relation. They talked about running and beer and marathons and racing and winning shit like a Bostonian talking about baseball or a Boulderite and their diet. One dimensionals bother me. I want to know what they thought about politics or technology or the last movie they saw or a TV show they watch or even (gods forbid) how they feel about their job. I want a connection with people beyond the immediate easy road. If we met on the plane we can get the small talk stuff out of the way – this is a really big plane, do you fly often, is that your final destination, are you from there, where were you originally coming from, business or pleasure. Done. Now we can get into the really interesting stuff. I have had more connection with people on a city bus.

And my ponderance gives way to sleep as the final thoughts of teacher versus student accountability, Perry dropping out, whether “Food Stamp President” is truly racist or not, and the million stupid puns I can make about one eyed one horned flying SOPA / PIPA eaters.