“So you wanted to go for a little jog, eh?”
Run #1517: Camel Toe and Da Vinci Load
Dolores Park, the Gay Beach, sadly devoid of naked men and lapdogs on this frosty December night. Happily, the hash had Camel Toe and Da Vinci Load haring to keep us all decidedly uncomfortable. This, of course, was achieved by making the pack follow their shitty trail up, up, up, up and up the hills of the Castro…and then up some more.
The pack, still recovering from SnoBall the Friday before, wheezed and huffed their way past Christmas lights; Shaft stopped to admire Tom & Jerry’s Redwood Christmas Tree while Millimeter Peter checked the status of his own wood, too much disappointment. Greeted by a check at the top of the hill, Cherry Poppins and Cumming Mutha skedaddled up in one direction while Just Doesn’t Get It scooted down the hill in hopes that our inclined torture was an end. Sadly, Cherry located trail and on on we went to more hills.
Clearly, we of the Pack must have done something to insult to collective pride of our hares- with no Turkey/Eagle splits but plenty of back checks, circle jerks and general tomfoolery we found ourselves wondering if this was a hash or just a poorly executed run designed by the San Francisco Road Runners. Toasty Tits, a visitor from Rochester, NY should have some interesting stories to tell of “that time she ran a bitch trail in San Francisco.”
Massive Cock Check, working on his bikini body for his move to the Southern Hemisphere, kept Just Ian and our new boots company while wHole Blow Out attempted to outsmart trail by climbing fences at the base of Twin Peaks, her plan thwarted by a rabid Yorkshire Terrier; the most foul, cruel, and bad-tempered canine you ever set eyes on.
The Pack seemed stumped by a check placed on the backside of Tank Hill Park, an area of San Francisco that our hares would have known to avoid had they scouted or bothered showing up to Sit On My Facebook and wHole Blow Out’s well received Hangover Hash. My guess is that they were too busy running intervals and Kezar Stadium followed by deep tissue massages and team sponsored time in the oxygen bar.
After somewhere in the neighborhood of 7 hours on trail, the glorious chalk scribbling denoting beer in the general proximity could be seen and we ran, exhausted, up yet another hill to quench our thirst and begin circle. Crabs orated on the glory of Commingwood St., Just Jennifer threw a beret in the air while simultaneously flying a kite as we named her Mary Tyler Whore, Bitches Bitch made our hares look like pussy r*cists as he regaled the hash with tales of blowing out his third leg chasing little boys, and the keg wasn’t kicked before the hash got a piece.