Marin Hash #7
Hare - Dead Dick

We all knew we were in trouble when we found out that Dead Dick was going to hare for us. The guy hasn’t hared in over a decade, and for good reason. We found that out in the first ¼ mile, when the pack crossed the in-trail not once, not twice, but THREE times. Apparently there’s not room enough in Marin for our illustrious hare to avoid coming within about 10 feet of the trail. Tongueless and Fits In, along with their modern-day Cerberus, Whippet In and Whippet Out, took one look at the trail laying mess, decided that they had enough, and immediately went to the Silver Peso for a frosty beer. Unfortunately, the rest of the pack wasn’t quite so bright. Just Kent, a newbie who doesn’t really deserve to be mentioned since he didn’t stay to buy me a beer, shortcut the whole trail. Not that that’s a crime, but he made it to the beer check about 25 minutes before the hare arrived with Vitamin J nourishment and his containers of cool, refreshing beverages. Clearly a rookie mistake for which he’ll be duly punished should he show up again. Likes 2 Lick and Hummer were so disappointed by the trail that they snuck off for a little bit of private bonding time – kind of a remake of In The Company Of Men, as it were. Meanwhile, Broken Trojan was showing the world just how directionally challenged he can be. Like all other men, he refused to ask directions as he led the pack up a false trail, claiming, also like all other men, “Trust me, it won’t hurt a bit.” This despite the cries of “on-on” coming from Wankee Doodle, who is clearly more in touch with his feminine side, and more in touch with the flour as well. To be fair to the pack, it’s not like the trail was marked especially well. The hare was clearly taking tips from Cupcake in the amount of flour he used (or didn’t use, as the case may be). Either that, or there’s a huge shortage of winter wheat in Wisconsin and we just don’t know about it. Given the lack of flour, it’s a miracle that Twinkle Tits was able to follow the trail, as she chose to ignore the bucolic beauty of the verdant mountain trail (and the lovely view of Dipshit’s shapely rear) in favor of Rain Man’s voice on her cell phone. Apparently the two of them finally decided to buy an oven after 13 years of microwaving Swanson’s Hungry Man Dinners at home, and for some reason the delivery just had to take place this Sunday afternoon from 1-3pm. Some hashers were apparently concerned that the trail wouldn’t be sufficiently challenging. How else to explain Toolbox, Useless Tool, Just Amy, and Bitch’s Bitch running a 5K race earlier in the day? And Just Carmen may have joined them. Or perhaps not; she’s not telling. When asked about her early morning activities, she coyly responded, “What didn’t I do?” and hiked up her shorts. The pack immediately ascertained that she didn’t do Naked Hasher, but short of that, her recreational preferences remain a mystery. (Note to Reverend Itchy: she has requested a “sexy” name when you get around to naming her. She then offered up “Frito Bitch” as she served Thurston Bowel the Turd his 78th chip. We leave her in the capable hands of the Fist of Steel.) The preferences of the shit brothers, Son of Shit and Shit Eating Grin, are clear, however. They opted for the ignominy (and pain and lack of beer) of a double Dipsea training run in lieu of the hash. For this transgression they should’ve been soundly punished, but the pack, in its boundless mercy and love, simply refreshed these misguided overachievers with a double down-down. Virgins Just Rika, Just Bill, and Just Cathy were also rewarded with the alcoholic munificence of the hash and were given suitable down-downs, as were our visiting hashers, Excess from the East Bay, and Cums Often from Ottawa. Alas, Just Bill took so long in telling his joke that we missed jokes, songs, or body parts from our other newbies. With that, the keg was killed and the pack stumbled off to Bob’s House of Imitation Chinese Food for the on-on-on. (The smart hashers, however, went straight to the Silver Peso and found Pencil Dick well into his 3rd pint of the evening.) And if you don’t believe any of this, remember that I have libel insurance.

On-on, Wankee Doodle