Let me tell you about hashing. In my day we hashed uphill both ways in the snow, for five hours at a time. We were all locked in a Fiat with Pepe Le Poop driving and there was no way to get out, unless you were Do Her Well falling off the rear bumper. Hand Pump was passing out swill in a can that came out of Little Sissy Pants Hasher Boy’s used gym socks, while Mouth Down South and Five Angry Inches were navigating. Each of them was looking at the map from opposite ends, and they both had it in the wrong direction.

 

 

 

Let me tell you about what we knew about marks! Nothing! We thought we knew big marks, and we thought we knew small marks. Even Whackaboob’s virgin knew more about marks than we did at that time. We looked for them, sniffed for them, Fucker offered someone a dollar for them, and that got us nothing but Crabs. Inflation’s a bitch. Back in Gloryhole’s day a dollar could get you a good time, even if it was sort of an odd one that smelled a bit like Elmer’s glue.

 

 

 

There were hashers that thought they were going the right direction. They were wrong. There were hashers that thought they were going the wrong direction. They were right. The best one at directions was Muff Daddy, who knew better than to even try. Bitch’s Bitch thought he’d planned for the smallest detail, but all he’d figured out by the end of the night was Millimeter Peter.  Chicken Bone Her wondered why he’d bothered.

 

 

 

You think we knew how to please the virgins? Hah. Your mother has pleased more virgins than the hash, and that’s saying something. Dick Simmons tried to take a picture of a virgin once, and it came up empty. Virgins might be the modern day equivalent of vampires, a fantasy story made up to scare children. Hello Titties thought he saw a virgin on trail, but it turned out to be a rat wearing glitter. Everything in the Castro has to wear glitter, that’s in the city charter.

 

 

 

Sir Menage-a-Lot came to the hash. Just Doesn’t Get It let one solitary tear fall. Sir Menage-a-Lot left the hash. We’ll see him again in seven years.

 

 

 

Randy Brandy told us she’d transplanted herself to SFH3, riding Red Rocket all the way.  Backwash told her she’d have a lot more fun coming if she just did that part at home. Bush And A Rack and Fuck Buddy both swore up and down that Backwash knew her business, but hashers wouldn’t be hashers if they listened to common sense.

 

 

 

You think we’re through with this shitshow yet? You’ve got another think coming, Sleazy, because after standing around in the polar vortex for ten years we still have to hear about more ways we can stand around and be cold, wet, and miserable in San Francisco. Masterbaster spends the entire year planning how to get Eat My Pussy in a dress, and the same damn strategy works every single time. Cockamole has sorted out at least twelve ways to get hashers disoriented, dislocated, and dismembered, and it’s called Bay2Blackout. Meanwhile, Dick Ass Mother Fucker sussed out how to get Just Justine back to the hash, and it rhymes with legging. Wee Wee announced that she was fucking tired of this bullshit.

 

 

 

Everyone said goodbye. Do you even know how long that takes for hashers? Hand Pump leaves with the beer and there are still people standing under a streetlight making faces at I’m Drunk’s house and generally getting the SFPD concerned that a new encampment has sprung up at Mission Pool. There’s a natural law called Bloqueen’s Corollary that says the closer you live to the start of the hash, the longer it takes you to get home, though Golden Snowball and Fleshlight say that rules are made to be broken. So is this stream of thought.

 

The End