ON – On #13

Atlanta #1331

February 3rd 2007 – Skin Flute Pie with secret hare Little Willie

start: Wayfield Foods, Bouldercrest Drive

It seemed such a simple start location for me to find. Yet my easy route of “ah straight up Bouldercrest from East Atlanta Village” had me somehow entering a squishy hole in the space-time continuum, getting a bit lost, and pulling into the supermarket car park just as the Hash Cash had packed up and everyone was hopping from foot to foot, looking terribly chilly, somewhat pimply and ready to get the hell out of there.

I barely had time to rue the fact that if only I’d thought about it I could have returned that lost and lonely Wayfield shopping trolley that’s been hanging out as prime centrepiece in my white trash themed *cough* backyard since forever, and slam my hash bag into the back of someone’s truck before the hounds were off and chasing flour.

Speaking of garden ornaments, trail started off terribly scenically (with the emphasis on terribly) and led us straight down into some scrubby shiggy and over an awfully decorative trio of burnt out cars. I began to have minor anxiety about leaving my poor ride unattended.

With this area being a popular hash stomping ground, and with three hashes in as many days using the location, too often I found myself getting far too close to dodgy looking scraps of toilet paper in an attempt to forensically determine their age and establish whether they had been laid by Skin Flute. Incidentally, this led to a recounting of how Snot Rag got his name. Not the being laid by Skin Flute (at least as far as I know, but probably in his dreams) but the getting personal with toilet paper on trail…and then putting it back. Eeeuch!

Making a complete hash out of traversing a wire fence Martha declared that “if she had a time machine she wouldn’t be doing what she’s doing right now!”

On up the trail I staggered gloomily into a river crossing where the very gallant Piggy’s Bitch was being the spitting image of St Christopher and ferrying helpless lady hashers across the gushing murk. Politely declining a Piggyback ride myself, desperately I searched for alternative means to cross but eventually had to concede and get very wet.

Blazing a path down some railway tracks Martha was just saying that the one of the great things about hashing is that no matter how far behind you think you are someone will always give you hope by appearing from another direction entirely. Cue PWD intersecting our path, flanked by two female virgins like a hot (and very sweaty) dog in a bun. He had no idea where he was, where he had come from, or even if he was on trail. Get two ladies running in front of him and he completely loses his mind. Once he’s locked onto a pair of bottoms that’s it. He’s a goner, a happy one mind.

Running slowed to jogging and very soon even any pretense of jogging dissolved as I joined a growing congregation of hashers ambling along the trail that brisk winter afternoon. Sprinting suddenly seemed very appealing though when I found myself rambling along amidst a gaggle of women opening admitting that they sleep with their dogs. Indeed, I think it may have been at this point that the real four legged Portuguese Water Dog and his owner decided to make like the squits and run.

Martha deserves a slap for this quote overheard on trail: “speaking of big fat arses, I was just talking to Tasty Pie…”

Finally out of the shiggy and onto road we were puffing our way up a hill when the joyous words “Beer Near” could be heard echoing down into the valley. Excited, we quickened our pace only to see a group of deer charge across the road ahead. Booo! That was “Deer Near!”

Curious purple messages “Help Me!” and “Death to the hare!” were spotted amongst the flour as we stumbled on towards the On In, which we reached just in time to miss a dog fight. Despite the gnashing and strangle hold he endured, original PWD was unscathed and thus almost got renamed Tough Skin

With five runs under her shorts it was time to bestow a hash name upon Just Erica during circle. It was already quite unfortunate that her job involves building children’s playgrounds but when her mobile rang to the tune of Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” you could see, and perhaps delight in, the look of doom crossing her face.

If Sleaze Puppy had had her strange, crazy and insistent way we’d have been welcoming “I want to be an eight year old boy” to the kennel. The most publishable and noteworthy suggestions bandied about were Blow’s Bubbles and Play On My Ground before consensus settled on Swinger. Lucky Swinger.

ON – ON!

High Dicker, Tripod, Supersuck, Piggy’s Bitch, Crack Pusher, Virgin Amanda, Virgin Jocelyn, Boner, Cooter Scooter (too long), Martha Screw-It, Dry Hole, PWD, Just Erica (5th), Coffee Bean, No Name Tosh, Dingi, Sleeze Puppy, Squat & Swallow, Landing Strip, Choose To Cum, Swamp Thing, Tasty Pie.

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