Hares: On Da Rag and Penis Colada
Date: Nov. 26, 2006
Title: Everything’s Relative
Oh yeah yeah yeah you right, it was the end of a perfect weekend. There was plenty of food for the “orphan” Thanksgiving and no one that I know of died from the turkey despite Boner Lisa’s fears, I slept in until 7:00 a.m. three days in a row, and the weather was gaw-geous. Sunday promised to be a great day to be alive and go hashin’.
Boy was I fucking wrong on one of the counts. Running late because I waited until the last possible minute to tear myself away from a house project and bombing down Williams cursing the bitch dumbass in front of me going 15 mph, I finally arrived in the Treasure Chest vicinity. I look in the right-hand parking lot: nobody. I look to the back parking lot toward the water: nobody. Now cursing my tardiness, I was about to say “fuck all” and drive straight to Loveland St. when like a mirage I saw dozens of hashers and quite a few pooches (dogs, not beer bellies) still milling about. They were hidden on my first approach by some bushes. Okay, so everything’s good to go, and after the chalk talk in which we were told to make note that “Beer Near” and “Beer Very Near” are two different animals, about five hashers took off. This confused the pack because we thought there were five hares, but no, PC and ODR informed us it was a dead trail. Masters of understatement they are.
At this point I’d like to interject that I skipped a morning r*nning workout, thinking that even though hashing isn’t official training, it’s better than doing nothing at all. As it turned out, the trail was MORE THAN THE WORKOUT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE. At the end of a gourmandish weekend, where was the fucking love??? Where had my “walking club with an eating problem” gone when I needed it the most???
For the first few miles, evidently down the levee toward downtown. I think the marks switched sides once to add topography. As Knave and I crossed the bridge at the pumping station, we spotted Jiggles Low’s woman walking her dog. She asked what we were doing, which right there folks is an instant down-down for her the next time she bothers to show up. So past the pumping station we finally come to a check that took us to the neighborhood. Grand, so we meander some looking at early holiday décor, when BAM we’re back on the levee. Somewhere in Lakeview marks took us back to the neighborhood, where Knave and I parted ways at a check. I dallied for a bit looking for marks until I found some going away from the levee on Academy St. As I peeked through the fence, I was running alongside a canal and then I emerged onto a cross street, crossed over the canal, and then ran back on the opposite bank I’d just been looking at. Fabulous, as were the perfectly evenly-spaced marks on the curb, approximately seven car lengths at a bitch dumbass pace of 15 mph.
After about an hour of these doldrums, I finally came across a “BN” mark, and grateful because I was exceedingly thirsty, I turned the corner fully expecting to see a truck or a group of walkers and a “BVN” at my feet. But no. I ran along the canal for a while, and then turned down another street, and then ran along another canal, and then turned down another street and came upon a check at the corner. I was everything good and kind because after following not one but TWO falses, I marked the check for those coming behind me. After about another half hour, I found the BVN, and I was grateful, because I was exceedingly thirsty. I turned the corner fully expecting to see a truck or a group of walkers drinking. But no. I ran on the street for a while, and then turned down another street, and then ran along another street, and Just Mike, G-String and Butt Gravy were coming up behind me. Finally we hit whatever is the closest street parallel to the levee, heading toward Power. This has got to be it, I muttered, because I seriously can’t go any farther. And then I saw Knave and Penis Colada and On Da Rag and Beer Fart under the power lines. And I was grateful, because I was exceedingly thirsty. So I proceeded to give the hares a right bitching for laying a trail based on a planetary and not human scale, even though it was exceedingly well marked. Eventually Just Mike, BG, G-String, Ass Grabber, Letter Licker, IHOV, Daddy’s Dick and others trickled in and we all made nice for the camera.
Knave and I took off for the on-in, which was the parking lot, which was still a mile away. After that everyone headed to Chez Rag, where Light Days was already in the kitchen like a good woman making sure everything was in order with Penis Colada’s sausage/bean concoction, because he had to go to Amite to drop off another woman he found over the weekend. When PC returned, he and ODR were treated to a peanut-butter-and-honey down-down, I guess for bragging about their sandwich skillz their last trail. We didn’t get any, no matter, I like crunchy. We did however partake of several holiday leftovers brought by other hashers, including jello shots and cookies courtesy of Sucks ‘Em Raw and Chex Mix made by Mama Knave. Hares drank for having a boring trail. Baton Rouge visitors Bug Fucker and Crotch Critter drank. Probing Sex Knave got his 200+ run award made by Father Scumbag. Somewhere along mile 18 we lost Gay Beret, who would have been a six-week wanker extraordinaire had he stayed. There were a surprising number of racing shirts, so they drank, although one hasher who shall remain nameless refused twice to get into the circle because they “didn’t feel like it.” Uh huh.
Things I’m thankful for:
That there weren’t arrows pointing into the lake, because all the arrows were true (as it should be)
That there wasn’t a “BVVN” mark
That there is another Father Scumbag award to proudly display
That Penis Colada makes kick-ass potato salad and that On Da Rag and Light Days opened up their home to us
That regardless of how sucky a trail may or may not turn out, there is a hash every week!