Let me tell you about the hash last Monday. We got to the hash, forty minutes late, and like usual, the hash had not started. Hashing in San Francisco will make you feel so, so good about your punctuality. Like you know how when you were a child, and you were late to the field trip, because your mother had a cautionary tale for you about Jack The Ripper. And then when you get to the field trip, your teacher says to you, ‘Now Do Her Well, you know when you behave poorly, you’re not reflecting on just yourself, but your behavior reflects on all of us.’

 

 

 

Hashing is the opposite of that.

 

 

 

So there we were, standing in the not-quite rain of San Francisco, waiting for the wise words of One Night Only, and she told us just to follow the arrows. That if we saw arrows, we should just keep going. All of us were under the presumption that there would be more arrows after that. To be fair to One Night Only, she did not at any point in time say those words.

 

 

 

And then she kind of nodded in a direction, which Pepe Le Poop took to mean run straight into the San Francisco Bay. Pepe Le Poop was just as correct as any of the rest of us, which is to say flat out wrong.

 


At some point during the proceedings, I don’t know if it was two blocks or twenty, Cream Throat Willy says to me, “I think we’re going the wrong way. You see, I’ve seen arrows, but all of them were pointed towards us. I’ve seen them for two blocks now like that.” He said ‘two blocks’, but let’s just pretend he said ‘twenty blocks’ because it would make all of our decisions a lot more understandable.

 

 

 

And I said, ‘That doesn’t make any sense to me, Cream Throat Willy. Wee Wee is going this way. Cum Test Dummy is going this way. And Just Doesn’t Get It is going the opposite way. Quite clearly it is the correct way. Q.E.D.”

 

 

 

Can’t Eat Pussy had even more evidence for us. He waved this flag that he had taken from the hands of a small child. “I found this flag,” he told us. “I wouldn’t have found the flag if we’d gone the other way.”

 

 

 

The child was now crying. “Don’t cry,” I told the child. “Mouth Down South will be here soon.” The child cried harder.

 

 

 

Don’t take this as a slight on Mouth Down South. I could have told the child that Hand Pump would be here soon, and it still would have cried. Children are creatures of poor rationality prone to displays of inappropriate emotion. In any case, Mouth Down South was not there soon, as he was a creature of greater logic than the average child and therefore decided to shortcut trail.

 

 

 

Because of this, the child will, in my estimation, grow up to expect bitter disappointment and poor social interaction for the rest of its life, and we can count on an additional $7.69 hash cash (allowing for inflation) to make its way into Muff Daddy’s hands approximately fifteen years from now.

 

 

 

In any case, we did so continue, and thus as might have been expected by us, we encountered Wrinklepecker running the opposite direction around the midpoint of trail. Wrinklepecker, in some circles, is known as a man of esteem and high sophistication. Given that he was clearly mistaken in his path, one does begin to wonder.

 

 

 

Following the collision of the group that was running in the correct path and had so been awarded the tears of a child and a small flag, and the group that was running in the incorrect path and had been given nothing but lies and pain, it was then that I began to wonder. Where are we going? Do all hashers pee themselves a little when they stop at a check? If we do destroy the environment in the next fifty years will we have to buy oxygen tanks to breathe? What secrets do Just Jeff, Just Courtney, and Just Will hide? How many hashers will sign up for Bay 2 Blackout? Does everyone think that their friends secretly hate them or is it just me?

 

 

 

At this point, Dick Ass Mother Fucker asked me kindly to stop thinking aloud as he was getting a migraine.

 

 

 

Following the completion of trail, which is best left to the imagination but involved daring exploits with the mafia, a secret treasure map, and a marmoset—not together, of course—we quaffed beer and consumed the finest orange food that Safeway has to offer. At this point, Tuna on Top and Five Angry Inches came to collect crimes.

 


Crimes are problematic because everyone wants crimes to mean something, but they can’t mean too much. For instance, let’s say Cockamole was a fan of torturing small kittens. Bringing that fact up in circle might be slightly awkward and also lead to questions at a police station later. No one wants Dick Ass Mother Fucker testifying in front of a jury about the hash.

 

 

 

So generally speaking it’s only the right level of crimes that are reported. Let’s say Just Will got lost on trail, or Fucker bought a fancy yacht (although after the eighth week of that it’s getting old). Those are the right level of crime. It’s a fine art. And besides, Cockamole doesn’t torture small kittens anyway, only large ones.

 

 

 

After that, we decided enough was enough and even Miss Delivery, despite arriving later than all the rest of us, was quite through with putting up with standing outside in the cold. And I imagine, if you were to ask him, he’s quite through with reading this trash as well.