SFH3 Run #1834
|:||Sarah Cunter, Tongue Jury, & Just Devon|
|:||Do Her Well|
“We’ve had it up to here—“ Masterbaster gestured around the height of Just Doesn’t Get It’s cranium. “The number of shitty trails have been increasing. Do Her Well, pull out the chart. No, the other one.” Do Her Well slowly put away her anatomy book, and pulled out a page torn from a notebook with thick red crayon lines scrawled across.
“Hasher confidence in hares is plummeting, drunkenness is stable if anything, and depravity is at an all time low… er high… er, whichever one is bad for us.”
“So, we’ve found a solution,” Do Her Well twirled around and fell on her ass. She continued, unperterbed, “Presenting our hare, Just Devon! She comes straight from elementary school, armed with the chalk she stole from teacher—out of the mouths of babes, you know…”
“Babes? I love babes,” Muff Daddy cried with glee.
“No!” Mouth Down South poked him. “That’s very, very illegal!”
“I’m only safe for work between 9 and 10 AM on Wednesdays,” Zippercised complained.
“I can’t even manage that,” Cockagami boasted.
“Guys, we just have to make the most of this, this thing that’s going on,” Wee Wee gestured wildly. “If we just mind our tongues and… oh skittles, Brown Eye’s peeing in the bushes again!” Thinking quickly she lifted her shirt to block the view.
“How was that any better?” wondered Udder Moron.
“From my perspective it was,” argued My Little Porno, and everyone else muttered agreement.
“Besides, everyone knows-- tits are for kids!” Dick Ass Mother Fucker raised his glass.
“Okay, everyone here needs to calm the fuck down,” Sarah Cunter held her hands up. “Just Devon here was raised by me and Tongue Jury—veteran hashers, I’ll have you know—and she has been trained from a young age to set cunning trails which will befuddle and confound even the cleverest of hounds. So now you all have your chance to test your wit and find out—are you smarter than a first grader?”
“Definitely not!” Douchicorn bellowed.
“I wasn’t even smart enough to do a marathon drinking session rather than a marathon running session this weekend!” Lizzardo announced.
“I’m only half as dumb as this guy, and that’s not saying much,” Miss Delivery added.
“I had one job, and one job only, and that was to keep my virgins out of my new shoe supply,” Little Sissy Pants Hasher Boy cried. “Oops.”
“Hold my beer while I run in traffic,” Pepe Le Poop declared. Millimeter Peter did, and then promptly drank most of it.
“We’ve been doing this hashing thing for longer than some of you have been alive,” Cuming Mutha and On All Fours declared.
“Is this some sort of stupid competition?” Chicken Bone Her asked Fuck Norris.
“It’s always a competition!” yelled Stinky Floss.
“Well it’s our birthdays,” Fucker and Shaft linked arms. “And we can win if we want to.”
Cheeseturd applauded, and even I Cunt Hear nodded at their words. However, before the roar of the crowd could die down, Weekend at Abba’s and Reverse Schoolgirl were shoved aside violently by the hasher that strode forth confidently from the masses. Whorifist gasped, and Big Cock Chains could not even lift his eyes in the man’s presence.
“And as the holder of the hashshit— “ Good Shit Lollicock paused for maximum drama. “I declare myself the winner of this stupid contest!” He raised the wooden cock high.
“Huh, I guess he has a point,” Cockamole agreed after a beat. Boxcar Willie, not accustomed to the glory of the hashshit, had to be consoled by her in the corner.
Goodshit continued to wave it above him. “I now declare this trail— agh!” Just Maverick, drawn by the waggling object, had leapt from Resting Slut Face’s grasp and attacked the hash shit. The pair went down in a tangle of fur, paws, and teeth.
“Well, it’s past our bedtime anyway,” Whorifist remarked to Wash This Asshole. “Wanna be my teddy bear?”