ON – On #10

Atlanta #1328

Show Ur-Anus shows us some scenic views.

Start: AMC Movie Theatre at Cumberland Boulevard, off I-75.

***

Having handed over my fiver plus one to the money grabbing bimbo Piggy’s Bitch, I don’t regret to report that I completely missed the chalk talk this fine January hash as I was engrossed head down in the back of a SUV with Ouch who was showing me her wares.

As the chalk talk seemed to involve comments regarding square roots of count backs I’m sure it would have made my head hurt anyway, and was thus best avoided. Fondling Ouch’s beads was by far the better option.

I was quite excited as Ouch’s nimble fingers deftly rearranged APEY TITS onto my black leather thong. Proudly I emerged brandishing my very own arts and crafts project declaring TASTY PIE to all and sundry in pretty girly beads around my neck, just in time to realise that the live hare was long gone and the pack was giving chase.

So off we went up the trail, and down Spread Eagle plummeted, arse over tit. Legs akimbo, she sprawled in a ditch. The trail end of the pack cursorily checked she wasn’t broken before continuing on their way and crashing straight into a briar patch. Once extracted, progress slowed and then halted as thorns were tentatively plucked from one’s clothing and skin.

We sauntered onwards and I wouldn’t like to admit that too much idle talk and not enough paying attention led to us promptly losing trail and going in the opposite direction to hashers sighted running along a path on the other side of some water. It was clearly the hare’s fault, bad trail. *nods*

No worries. Following our noses, Martha, the stragglers and myself blindly carried on and cunningly intersected with dust just long enough to make it to the next check mark, where with the gossip freely flowing again we lost trail once more. On through a car park we boldly ran regardless, until hesistantly defeat was admitted and accompanied by low muttering, back to the last known powder we ambled.

Veering away from the car park amongst the trees more dust was uncovered and the sound of leaves crunching underfoot brought out the gazelle in us. We almost got carried away and broke into a bona fide run.

Hidden in the woods a scenic view perilously close to a sheer cliff revealed a turkey/eagle split and jolly abseillers dangling. They questioned where we were going and when told “We just follow the flour to the beer!”, they grinned and declared that was a perfectly reasonable thing to be doing on a Saturday afternoon.

Peering down to the path below there was never any doubt as to which trail to follow. Gladly we took the easy peasy lemon squeezy route and slid and stumbled down to the riverside where fishermen wading up to their middles in the waters of the Chattahoochee resembled river spirits.

Of course, hash law dictates that soon as you get to the bottom of a hill you only have to go and climb the blasted thing again. It was thus no surprise to run across a medley of hashers ducking under some mesh barrier and trying to scale a scree ridden embankment leading to the rather bizarre sight of a bicycle threaded onto a fence like some ritual sacrifice.

Baaaa. Stupidly Martha and I almost followed fellow hashers until we realised that they weren’t actually on trail, but were just looking. We decided we rather like our ankles intact so sticking to flour and chasing scent amongst the trees, we took a much more gentle climb. At least I did, Martha seemed to decide to tackle a spot of mini bouldering herself for when I looked back over my shoulder from my trail blazing *cough* I could just see her climbing up from behind a bush.

A Beer Stop would have been really good about now. *Hint* *Hint*

Scenic View number two was a picturesque vista of urban landscaping and tinkling fountain in the middle of what appeared to be a Toy Town movie set. Mysteriously, it doesn’t exist according to Google maps so maybe Show Ur-Anus has the power to take us to another dimension?

Are we nearly there yet?

Trudging desolately onwards, though spirits briefly uplifted by the Scenic View, hopes of a Beer Stop, or better, a Beer Near kept being dashed with every mark we passed. Curses!

Out of the undergrowth we burst and were confronted with unfamiliar territory. What’s this? A running track? People actually run around in circles on those things? What fools! Where’s the shiggy?

Hesitantly Just Erica, Martha and I embraced the lanes and pretended we knew what we were doing. This didn’t fool anyone, not least the two ladies who jogged past, looked us up and down and decided we couldn’t possibly fit the description of the group of agile cross country athletes that a solitary hasher had apparently been searching for moments before.

It wasn’t long before we found Spread Eagle scratching around the school claiming that a group of small children had sabotaged the check.

If it wasn’t enough that there was still no end in sight the appearance of Just Nate sent Martha into the doldrums. Sending the spry young feller me lad back to knock out a check with the excuse that she was more than twice his age, poor Ms Screw-It immediately threw herself into a mid life crisis. Next thing we know she’ll be out womanizing and shacking up with a sports car.

Prayers to the gods of hashing for some liquid refreshment were finally answered, but oh so cruelly. Instead of providing a nice little well earned Beer Stop, Show Ur-Anus delivered a rippling creek in which to wade and a nasty little tunnel through which to plod before he threw us back into daylight and the heart dropping sight of no other way out but a narrow slippery ledge above a deep smelly pool which seemed to be calling our names.

True colours came to light here as Martha did not break stride and intrepidly traversed the ledge of doom out of the concrete tunnel, expertly reaching dry land without falling like a tit into the murky waters of hell. As I dillied and dallied, tried to assess if the watery hole were really as deep as it looked and got very anxious, both Justs safely joined Martha on the other bank.

Goddamit what a wuss I am. Call myself a hasher? My back to the concrete wall and with nothing to hold onto for support I gritted my teeth and nervously edged along the ledge beneath an overhang of dry kudzu. Thus shamefully did I eventually follow in the soggy steps of braver hashers than I.

After an exhausting two hours on trail the sounds of merriment coming from the far side of a thick bamboo forest were very welcome. Overcome with emotion, Just Nate suddenly felt the urge to put a hefty bamboo shaft between his legs and proceed to hump, uhm I hope I mean climb, it.

Almost earning an impromptu naming of Straddle My Stump, fourth timer Just Erica excitedly burst out of the bamboo thickets and made a grand entrance. She stumbled and desperately clutching our precarious bridge over to the awaiting hashers at the On Down she ended up splayed over the fallen tree.

FRB Davey Crochet and, I think, Doggy Style over achieved in style and trotted home before the hare.

A search party would have been sent for DFLs Ballerina Booty Boy and Fill My Cavity. but the poor little hare hurt his foot on trail and couldn’t be arsed to hobble back to look for them.

Pinelake GM Davey Crochet had Martha ruing that she hadn’t done a GM exchange and gone on a Busman’s Holiday to his home hash as they were running closer to her home that day.

With a lack of rule six violations and other misdemeanors Down Downs went to hash lottery.

Meanwhile, it’s so difficult to tell them apart that Tripod and Dawgy Style were declared to be identical twins.

Hounds:
Okie Pokie Chicken Chokie, Tripod, Ouch, Piggy’s Bitch, Crack Pusher, Cums Online, Just Erica, Anal Fisher, Phred, Poonshine, Davey Crochet, Ballerina Booty Boy, Tasty Pie, Martha Screw-It, Just Nate, Fill My Cavity, Doggy Style, Spread Eagle.

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