SF Hash Trash

November 28, 2005 *un #1178

Crabs Caught Wearing Ridiculous Pancho!!

So here’s a couple of interesting things to consider. After my hash trash a couple of weeks ago, I think most of you saw Rocky Mountain Oyster’s opinion on the list , albeit implied, that I lied about something. There were definitions of lying, with various forms of the word floating around in his response. A little obtuse, but the message was clear. And I’m thinking, geez, I think that’s a little strong, maybe I’ll have a meeting with my fact checking department, you know, I’m a little concerned to have such aspersions cast on my stories. Sure, I’m feeling a little defensive about it.

Then, last week, I’m talking to Whoracle at the beer check. And she goes, “Muff Snatcher, your hash trashes are SO funny!” And I’m like, cool, thanks! She adds, “You know what’s really funny? When I read one for a run that I wasn’t at. Because I’m never quite sure, you know, what really happened and what didn’t happen.” And we totally cracked up. And she’s got that Whoracle charm and big North Dakota smile going. Yeah, we laughed and laughed about that. And, again, I’m like, cool, thanks, that’s really funny, I’ve never thought about it from that perspective before.

Then I got to thinking, there’s really no difference between what Rocky and Whoracle told me. I mean, Whoracle called me a liar too. The only difference is I thanked her for it and felt like a million bucks.

And just for that moment, the world made perfect sense.

But what were we talking about? Oh yeah, hashing. Why the digression, you ask? Because, if hashing is nothing else, it is a crossroads of sorts, isn’t it? A check! Yes, the hash is one big giant check, and you’re not quite sure where it’s going. Matter of fact, pick a direction. Isn’t that what keeps you coming back? Inspiration can come from the most unlikely of places, as I’ve discovered writing hash trashes. How am I doing on truth so far, Rocky?

Yeah, the world was making perfect sense.

And then, Fuck Buddy showed up. And, as if to out-do her own persona (that I’ve personally worked very hard to create), Fuck Buddy brought with her rain. A lot of rain. And Fuck Buddy brought with her wind. And Fuck Buddy brought with her cold. A lot of cold. And Fuck Buddy, covered in wet flour, brought with her a co-hare, Skid Mark, and a trail that started at 20^th and Dolores, Dolores Park.

It’s Monday, November 28^th. The brave and only the brave showed up in a cold, rainy downpour on the corner of 20^th and Dolores at Dolores Park. So, again, I ask, where were you? The brave are worth mentioning. Huddled in the entryway of a nearby apartment building as rain pelted Dolores park were myself, Udder Moron, hares Fuck Buddy and Skid Mark, Do Me Decimal, Slug, Muff Daddy, Just Meg, Where’s My Vagina, Who’s Your Daddy, Mr. Bone Jangles, Salt Lick, and Nymph Fisher. I’m sure I missed a couple of others, but there weren’t many more. Oh, and Hoseblower. But Hoseblower wasn’t quite with us yet. In fact, as we were enjoying our cover, Muff Daddy noticed Hoseblower standing by himself in the pouring rain on the park corner. “Hey REEEtard!!”, yelled Muff Daddy. Soon, Hoseblower joined us. We’re brave, but not so big on pleasantries, I suppose.

Hare Skid Mark kicked off the slip and slide *un heading down Dolores. It was a live *un, and he didn’t fool himself into thinking it a possibility that we would actually wait around for an extra 10 minutes. So, we followed him. Closely. So close that you actually had to be careful about catching wet, flying flour. Small price to pay for getting this thing over with. This little scenario was lost on Salt Lick, however, who, several blocks and turns in the *un, asked, “So how do we know which way to go?” Umm, did you happen to notice that the “live” hare is being set, like, 2 feet in front of us? Mr. Bone Jangles decided to make a triathlon of sorts out of it, first popping some balloons, then grabbing a tiny bike and doing his impression of Rastumpkin, which led us to the first gathering spot, a pet shop check. Yes, it was London-style, making sure we didn’t lose anyone. For once, we actually ran as a pack, officially kicking off Stroke and Blow’s No Hasher Left Behind program. Then it was off again. After a couple more people checks, Little Willy stepped up to the plate and took several on the harriettes-only-eagle-trail! The rest of us drowned rats headed straight for the beer check, Eat My Pussy’s garage. There was shelter, snacks, and great generosity, as Nymph Fisher handed out beer for the thirsty (we were betting against, but Willy did eventually return with the harriettes).

Everyone met back at Elixir at 16^th and Guerro, where Beastie conducted down downs. Viagra’s new spokesman Who’s Your Daddy drank for his response to a woman who yelled out “Keep it up!”. “I am already up!” he followed with. Salt Lick, rumored to have started a campaign here to be named New York Bitch, had to move to New York to get named, and she drank for it. Apparently Fuck Buddy changed in Eat My Pussy’s garage. She thought she was being discrete (riiiiiiiiiiiight….), but she in fact later discovered that there was a carpenter’s mirror that provided quite the little nudie show. And apparently Rocky paid his quarter and got quite the viewing. Crabs drank for showing up to Eat My Pussy’s beer check in what was called a “ridiculous” pancho. And well he should. It’s hard to decribe this thing he was wearing. Picture a giant blue tarp, one that SBC Park could use to cover the entire diamond during a rain, with a little Crabs head on top. I was probably the least prepared for the evening, thereby winning the stupid award. Let me first remind you how freezing cold and rainy it was. Check this out - I was wearing running shorts and a short sleeve cotton t-shirt. I’m still freezing my ass at the beer check, and in walks Crabs and his ridiculous pancho. Although he insisted it was a used rubber, we all know with his city government connections, he probably did borrow it from SBC Park.

Muff Snatcher