SFH3 Run #1764
|:||34th Ave & Clement St|
|:||Chicken Bone Her & Crabs|
|:||Do Her Well|
Last time at the hash, the entire kennel lost their memories, proceeded to hash in a perfectly normal manner, and returned to their every day Tuesday lives with no more difficulty than usual due to the fact that they’d been phoning it in at their jobs for the last decade.
“So why do I have to go to find the Hashshit…” groaned Abbah. “Everyone seems just fine the way they are.”
“Because I’m pretty sure one of you owes me money,” commanded Masterbaster. “And I can’t find my car keys.”
“And Bay to Breakers is coming!” added Drunkin Honuts. “I can’t even remember what it is. I’m pretty sure when you are planning an event for hundreds of people that’s a problem.”
“Hasn’t been,” chimed in Cuming Mutha.
“I’m with Abbah,” said 9½ Wanks. “Most of the old farts don’t seem that different. Take Shaft, for instance.”
“Really?” Zippercised frowned. “You really want another conversation with Dickweed about cars he can’t remember he’s already had? Because he’s right behind you.”
“Okay, okay,” Abbah relented. “I’ll pencil it in, but only after the wedding.”
“Say cheese!” Vagina Dentata appeared with a camera.
“Ost!” Abbah smiled, pulling the random bride and groom towards him. “Make that the honeymoon.” He winked at the groom.
“Someday that could be us,” Stinky Floss sighed.
“Huh?” her virgin edged away nervously.
“He’s left Roman Showers alone the entire trail. Completely oblivious,” she nodded to Backside Banger, whose phone had begun to meld with the skin around his ear. “She told me he’s been like this all day.” As if sensing their observation, Backside Banger finally hung up, groaning as he stretched out his fingers. Perfect Woman silently appeared to massage his hand.
“Finally!” Resting Slut Face appeared beside them. “My mom just wouldn’t let me off the phone.”
“The age gap’s right, but who’s your daddy?” queried Deadbeat.
“Not here,” Muff Daddy informed them. “Else he might have fainted when both Motormount and Dickshank Redemption spilt the beer.”
At this, Titty Boo Boo swooned, forcing Cunty Butler to poke him with a branch she’d found. “You promise you wouldn’t pass out until after you’d whipped me for my birthday.” She looked around. “I guess I’ll just have to get Miss Delivery to do it.”
Bitch’s Bitch came over. “Did someone say whipping boy?”
Good Shit Lollicock huffed. “What she wants is a whipping man.” He stuck his chest out. “And I’m just the guy to sit here and watch Crabs do it.”
“Sorry man, I’m spent,” Crabs wiped his brow. “It’s hard work making sure Chicken Bone Her laid all the flour correctly. I even had to text her to make sure she picked up the orange food.”
“You did fine, Crabs,” Hand Pump exclaimed. “Almost as good as the 5K that Tricrapylete, Jack the Ripper, and I did this weekend.”
“I had no idea r*cism was contagious,” Ru Ru Rimmin remarked. “I wonder who gave it to them?” Dick Simmons pretended to take an artistic shot of the chalk talk bathed in moonlight.
“Hashers! I am prepared to go to my anointing!” Abbah emerged from the crowd with lipstick smeared over his face.
“You’ve finally got it up—I mean, got up to it?” Do Her Well inspected him thoroughly. “I am not sure if you can find the Hashshit alone.”
“I shall have companions!” Abbah cried, grabbing the leashes of Scatmaster and Hepatitis Seeing Eye Dog. “Find Twerxes!” he commanded them.
However, it was Primal Vagina that HepC/D took a whiff of instead, and darted off into the bushes with Scatmaster on his tail, Abbah barely letting go of the leashes in time.
“Hey, hey. You over there.” Abbah was not ready to give up. “With the tandem. Give me a lift?” Abbah wiggled his eyebrows at Just Eric appealingly.
“Of course!” Just Eric puffed his chest out, man bun cresting proudly on the top of his cranium. “I’m one of the fastest in the land. Just mount up behind me, and I can take you wherever you want to go.”
“Fantastic!” Abbah cried. “You shall be my Douchicorn!” And before them all Just Eric was transformed. Abbah lept astride him, and they took off into the night, flying across the sky on a rainbow made of Douchicorn farts. “To the Castle!” was Abbah’s resounding cry in the night.
“On after is actually the Tee Off,” Chicken Bone Her informed them.
“Meh,” harrumphed Eat My Pussy. “I think I’ll take the squad car over here, maybe they’ll appreciate my ass.” However, to his dismay the cops peeled off into the night, already having carded the group with the logical observation that anyone under twenty-one would have been too embarrassed to be there.
And with that the hash went in piece, with their hopes resting partly in Abbah, but mostly in the gargantuan load of carbohydrates that awaited them at the bar.