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.
of the flEA 