Veteran s Day Hash  September 12, 2007

The TLA Hash

Sausage Factory and co-conspirators Dr. Kimball, Satellite Dick, Voyeur and Snowball 37 led a battalion of grunts on a forced march through a field of hazmat sites. No, not the beaches, the Presidio.  Pin Prick was appointed Drill Instructor but couldn t make it due to his engagement in launching a strike against civilian members of the hash. Hey Pin, twist up a fatty and chill, bro!

For the second week in a row, hashers enjoyed actual trail on trail. Well done lads! Could it be that we re evolving beyond miles of mind-numbing, body-slamming pavement?  Naaaa, we ll return you to your regularly scheduled joint-pounding on the concrete dance floor next week.    Everything was perfect: WMTs (well marked trail), POCs (plenty of checks), and YBFs to mess up the FRBs.  Perfect that is, until we reached the BC.  I say beer check because there was a point near the end of the run at which the hares dispensed a foamy liquid from a KLO (keg-like object).  But it didn t look like beer, didn t smell like beer and it didn t taste like beer  the hares called it PBR.  Be afraid, be very afraid.....

Back at the ranch, Sausage Factory introduced us civilians to the grog & chow dished up to our proud men and women abroad by Halliburton, Blackwater and other fine contractors. Hoisting a tin vessel overhead, SF crowed in the army we make toilet bowl punch in an actual toilet bowl but tonight we re using a Goodwill coffee percolator!  I guess there wasn t time for dumpster diving before the hash, but anyway into the percolator SF poured a generous quantity of PBR.  Already this punch looked pretty grim.  Next came several slugs of three bucks for five liters red wine.  I did the math for you and let s just say this plonk was a lot cheaper than TBC (Two Buck Chuck).  Add to that some shitty rum and some cheap vodka and you basically have a LIT (Long-Island Iced Tea) served at a bar that caters to the twenty-something crowd.  But we re not done yet.

You know that MRE is the three-letter acronym (TLA) for military, so SF hoisted a notebook sized packet in a military brown wrapper described as Menu 22  Jambalaya.   It s quite good actually, SF explained, I keep these in my earthquake kit. Let me show you what s inside!   Naturally the pack was damn curious  you do wanna know what s inside a MRE right?  C mon, admit it.  SF ripped open the top and out popped a moist towelette because you don t want to get gun grease on your grub.  Next came the TP  that s for later.  Then he pulled out some chicklets gum, because when you run into a cute journalist from NPR you want to have fresh breath, right?  When you re having jambalaya you ve got to have hot sauce and it s nice to know the MRE comes complete with everything.  So where do you think the Tabasco and the chicklets went?   If you said into the toilet bowl punch! give yourself full marks and thanks for playing along at home.  After enjoying this fine meal in Falluja you don t want to fall asleep holding a machine gun, so here s some Diet Coke, SF added, pouring a can into the toxic stew.  We drink about four of these in an afternoon. 

RMO continued the festivities by accusing Voyeur of requisitioning catpiss beer for the march. This isn t milspec, it s swillspec! your oyster charged.  T-th-th-thi-isss-ssss is g-g-go-goo-goood b-b-b-b-b-be-bee-beer the flummoxed Voyeur stammered apoplectically, blowing a gasket and insisting that RMO drink for dissing the hares beverage selection.  The pack would have none of it though, demanding that RA s Coming Mutha and Eat My Pussy break out the Zombie Killer and bring up the hares!  Gotta hand it to SF though, the dude is prepared.  He s got MREs in his earthquake kit and he wears a beer-proof hood drawn tight around his face when doing the ZK.  While pouring toilet bowl punch (TBP) all over his taxpayer-supplied cammo jacket, the pack screamed hood! hood! hood! at SF, so he was handed another ZK TBP down-down.  God man, haring is such a rewarding job....

All this note-taking made me kinda thirsty so I grabbed another beer and mumbled how singularly awful it was, and that s when Bitch s Bitch gave me the sly look and explained this is why I keep a couple of emergency beers in my car.  I throw some ice in there and I m good to go!  DAMN  why didn t I think of that?  Speaking of BB, I did the stupidest thing of my life last weekend. Useless Tool and BB  signed up for a 50K, a crime in itself, but when they showed up were told that due to weather the *un was cancelled.  BB ran it anyway, by himself, for no apparent reason.  He drank for that.  Shaft got rolled in Rome by some Boy Scouts, while EMP was incensed that he was not accosted by the Cub Scouts spotted on trail.  Different strokes I guess.  Wet Nurse got a down-down for something that I can t remember, but I do remember the pack remarking on how cold it was.  Captain Organ, having a thing for Marines, creamed on the floor at the Veteran s Day dance party.  Splat slipped on the spooj and pulled a groin muscle. He was later seen walking with the aid of a cane.

The sweet Do Me Decimal visited us from Seattle and said she misses us all very much.  Good luck in Seattle DMD and come back and visit us again.  Escrowtum paid us a visit, but as far as I know she has not moved out of the area so there s no excuse.  Bring on the Zombie Killer!

No Hands whined how he d worn new shoes at several hash events over the past year and hadn t gotten busted.  He got busted this time, along with  Blue Scrotum of Death and John Handcock who joined him for a drink-out-of-the-shoe-tea-bag-toilet-bowl-punch down down.   Eeeeeeeeeewwwwwwwwwwww  gross!!!!

The hash repaired to the Final-Final but I have no idea what happened there cuz I had a date with a buffalo burger from The Bull s Head and a Boont Amber at the Philosopher s Club back in West Portal.

All dialog repeated verbatim,

RMO