Hares: General Ass Pounder and Placentos the Freshmaker
Bag Car: Wikipedophilia
Religious Advisor: THE Second Cumming
Scribe: Jolly GREEN Vagina
Four-legged Hashers: I Heart Salami, Virgin Bjorn
Lazy-Ass Pre-Lubers: Pubic Service Announcement, Taj My Hole
Sweat Test Failure: The Buttler Hit It
Weather: About 80, mostly sunny.
Pack: Super Teflon Dong, Spermatologist, I Eat Teabags, Willy Wonka and the Backdoor Factory, Friar F*ck, E Equals I’m a Douche, Goat Throat, Goes Down on Buoys, Anal Beads, Yankee Pay Five Dollar More, Pat My Fly, Harlot Globe Fondler, Virgin Jeremy, Just Alex, I Love Blowj*bs, Turd Dimension, Just Nathan, No Man on the Moon, Takes It In the Assberger, Just Kate, Mangia My Vagina, Pappy van Tinkle, Necrophiliac Jack, Bring Out the Gimp, Blowbot, Sketchy Ho, Boston Strangler, Takes It in the Rectory, I Licked Butts, Trickle Down Dickonomics, Furry Thing, High Anus, Spoonful of Semen, Stick It to the Bros, Spunk in the Trunk, Better Late Than Pregnant, Drippy Spigot, Peppermint P*ssy, Save a Tree Ride a Cowboy, Brokeback Baby, Vagitarian, Beat By a Girl, Bend Over Mommy, Hare Club for Queers, Dribbles, Master Gator
Its been a long time since I’ve scribed a Hash Trash, and those of you who are old and crusty enough to have read my Hash Trashes might remember that I usually saved the quotes for the end. For this one, though, I think it will be a better reading experience if the quotes are dropped at strategic points along the narrative, like Canadian goose turds on a riverside trail.
“Cabs with pink mustaches!” –Pat My Fly
The Pre-Lube was at some place called Roggie’s in Brighton, which I’d never heard of before, but which appeared to be the type of place that bears a lot of resemblance to a Republican senator: on the weekend, Roggie’s slums around serving cheap ass beer to underage BC students, and then during the week, it tries to pretend that it’s a respectable drinking and dining establishment that would never ever stick its cock through a hole in an airport bathroom stall for an anonymous gay blowj*b.
The reason I prefaced this section with a quote from Pat My Fly is because there was a lot about Roggie’s that was uncomfortable, much like talking to someone with senile dementia, but there was also a lot about Roggie’s that was surreal … which is also much like talking to someone with senile dementia. The uncomfortable part definitely revolved around the Asian family which had thought they were entering a respectable drinking and dining establishment (see above), and had sat down for some pizza and beverages only to find themselves surrounded and then constantly ‘accidentally’ teabagged by about 50 hashers as they jostled around the bar in search of beer and talked about yeast infections for the better part of an hour.
The surreal part came mostly revolved around this short guy in a dark suit, sneakers, and a yarmulke, who went around awkwardly trying to interest people in card tricks. However, he did manage to make a three of hearts to turn into a five of hearts by rubbing it on Spunk’s boobs, which I have to admit was a decent bit of sleight of hand. Either that or Spunk’s boobs are magic. Personally, I choose to believe the latter explanation, and I plan on bringing my own deck of cards to the next hash to see if I’m right.
“Most of the trail will be marked in flour.” –THE Second Cumming
So if you’ve never been on a GAP trail before, right now you’re probably thinking something like, “I don’t get it. Aren’t the quotes supposed to be funny or something? This Jolly Green Vagina guy is kind of losing me here.” On the other hand, if you *have* been on a GAP trail before, you’re probably wiping the tears from your eyes and trying to catch your breath due the sheer, balls-out magnitude of that particular lie, because you know the truth: when GAP is haring, most of the trail will not be marked *at all.*
And we were not disappointed. Although to be fair, it wasn’t GAP’s fault for the first half mile or so. From Chalk Talk, trail had immediately gone off into the woods and then out onto a gravel path around a small pond. But then the trail (which had indeed been marked with flour) seemed to disappear and go nowhere. The pack spent a few minutes wandering aimlessly and trying to re-establish the trail, before we realized that a small child with a plastic beach shovel was running around scooping up the flour marks. At that point, the pack collectively gritted its teeth and restrained itself from tossing the little sh*t in the pond, and then followed the shovel marks to find trail again.
From there, trail led into the BC Stadium parking lot, at which point the pack lost trail and spent several minutes wandering around a check in the parking lot. The blame for this is squarely – squarely, I say – on the pack, since they didn’t immediately look at the archway that led into the stadium itself. And you call yourselves hashers? Really, this was a complete gimme, guys. When was the last time any trail went up to a stadium or athletic field and *didn't* go across it? Even if there’s a game happening, you should at least expect a Song Check on the sidelines. For shame.
“It’s kind of like asking to be kicked in the nuts and then complaining when they wear a steel-toed boot.” –Anal Beads
And then there was a Turkey/Eagle split. Some people took cowardly route and went Turkey, and there’s a part of me that can’t blame them. But a larger part of me says: Oh, come the f*ck on. You came out to a GAP trail and you’re not going to experience everything it has to offer? You’re not going to squeeze out every drop of blood, sweat, tears, hobo urine, and parasite-filled pond water? Fine, then. You can p*ssy out and run the Turkey, while I go do the Eagle trail like a *real* hasher. But, uh, when we get to the Beer Check, I’d appreciate it if you could put peroxide on the scratches I got climbing through the barbed wire fence and calamine on the parts of me that got smeared when I ran through the poison oak.
Now, following that particular digression, a proper understanding of this particular Eagle trail requires that I digress a little more. Several years ago, GAP laid a trail that will live in infamy. If you’ve only started hashing in the past two or three years, find one of the old timers and ask them about it. I guarantee that most of them will remember running that trail (whether they actually did or not) and will be more than happy to tell you about it. In any event, an abridged version of the first half of the first leg of that trail goes like this: go to Chestnut Hill Mall, go to rocky outcrop behind Chestnut Hill mall, run through swamp, climb chain link fence, cross Green Line tracks (causing train stoppages in both directions), accidentally crawl 150 yards Shawshank-style through a storm drain, run a really long way.
A short version of the Eagle trail goes like this: run a pretty long way, visit the storm drain from the days of yore, have a Scotch check, climb chain link fence, cross Green Line tracks (causing train stoppage in only one direction), run around swamp, go to rocky outcrop behind Chestnut Hill Mall, go to Chestnut Hill Mall, look at GAP’s you-are-here chalk map drawn on the sidewalk. So in other words, it’s pretty much that trail from all those years ago, only backwards and with Scotch. I would call it GAP’s fuck-you from him to us, but there was Scotch, and that makes up for a lot.
“Is that a real person or a hasher?” –No Man on the Moon
Okay, time for another digression. I apologize, but I feel it’s important to paint a picture of the Chestnut Hill Mall, because if you’re a hasher, the Chestnut Hill Mall is probably a place that you have never been to. Probably it is a place where you will never have any reason to go to. The Chestnut Hill Mall caters to the sort of people who aren’t hashers. The Chestnut Hill Mall caters to the sort of people who are, in fact, the exact opposite of hashers. The Chestnut Hill Mall caters to respectable people.
In a nutshell, the Chestnut Hill Mall is in Newton.
When the hashers started arriving to look at the previously mentioned what-the-f*ck map, there were a dozen Canada geese strolling across the parking lot, and there were a bunch of people taking pictures of the Canada geese strolling across the parking lot. Because in Newton, a bunch of Canada geese strolling across a mall parking lot is a f*cking big deal. I mean, there was that 50% off sale on calcium-enriched Tropicana orange juice at Shaw’s last week, and that was pretty gosh-darn exciting, but a bunch of Canada geese in the Chestnut Hill Mall parking lot? Golly, that just blows the O.J. sale right out of the water!
“Who wants to have a blowj*b party?” –Super Teflon Dong
So at this particular point in time, a bunch of hashers had arrived in the back parking lot of the Chestnut Hill Mall and promptly blew the tiny yuppie minds of those people who were photographing the majestic elegance of a bunch of ornery bags of feathered sh*t. On the ground was drawn a crude map that took some deciphering, but eventually we managed to piece together the idea behind it. An X marked the ‘You Are Here’ spot. A dashed line showed the trail we ran to get there. A big dot marked the Beer Check. And a big f*cking circle helpfully marked the leech-infested, weed-choked, runoff/goose sh*t-filled pond that stood between us (the X) and the Beer Check (the dot).
Needless to say, reaction of the pack ranged from “F*ck GAP in his ear” to “No, really … f*ck GAP in his f*cking ear.”
At that point, the Eagle pack split up into four distinct groups. Drippy Spigot, Harlot Globe Fondler, and Peppermint P*ssy followed the edge of the pond around and eventually found the Beer Check. STD led a contingent of four or five that climbed a fence into a slightly more residential area and eventually found the Beer Check. Buoys and I, working independently, ran out to the road and then – since the hares were already on-out – followed marks backward to find the Beer Check. Finally, Goat Throat led about half of the Eagle pack on a walk of shame all the way back down the Eagle trail to circle around and reach the Beer Check around twenty or twenty-five minutes later.
And so we began the second leg of trail, which quickly led to a Song Check on the corner of Route 9. Since various hashers trickled out of the Beer Check at different times, there were at least three separate groups of hashers that stayed to sing a song, that were then were further subdivided by the ridiculously long cycle of the traffic light. I am not sure, but I think this sets a Boston Hash record for ‘shortest distance traveled from a Beer Check before the pack is completely spread the f*ck out.’ Congratulations GAP and Placentos!
“I like the kilt!” –A Newton cop
After a brief trip across a playground, the pack came to a second Beer Check. A policeman showed up fairly quickly because this was Newton and someone dialed 911, since clearly if there’s a group of runners hanging around, that means there’s probably a marathon bomb nearby and holy sh*t, think of what that would do to the property values. Anyway, the cop immediately told us to move on out once he saw the beer cans, but I have to admit that he was otherwise actually pretty cool, even going so far as to compliment one of the hashers on his choice of attire and arrest nobody.
After that, we ran across the campus of Pine Hill College, and had to deal with some security guards who were decidedly less cool, probably because they were sad, desperate losers stuck in dead end jobs so crappy that even mall cops looked down on them. But that’s just a guess.
Then we hit the world’s largest Dick Check.
“Is there a size requirement for this one?” –No Man on the Moon
No, really, it was like six feet long. It probably prompted a whole slew of 911 called from concerned Newton citizens the next day. Think of the children!
“He showed me some streets I’d never been on before.” –Beat by a Girl
Four words sum up the last leg of the trail: All Newton Death March. There was running. A lot of running. Mostly in a straight line, although there were a couple of token check marks that pretended that the trail might turn, only it didn’t. The check marks didn’t really matter, though, since no one was fooled, and we just kept running. And running. And running. After the deceptively short second leg, the On-In seemed like it would never come.
Unfortunately, it did.
“It smells like a tinkletarium.” –Anonymous reviewer on Yelp
The evening’s On-In was at Mary Ann’s. As soon as we walked through the door, we were immediately assaulted with the eye-watering reek of ammonia (otherwise known as ‘the smell of piss’) tinged with the dry heave-inducing aroma of various secondary and tertiary amines (otherwise known as ‘the smell of really old piss’). I kept waiting to get used to it, but although Circle took a good 45 minutes, I never did. I think it was because every time it got to the point where you could ignore it, someone opened the door to go to the bathroom and all of a sudden it was like you were huffing cheap glass cleaner out of a truck stop urinal.
As the pack began filtering in, we started drinking a beer substitute known as ‘Narragansett’ and watching a Hitler documentary on the televisions mounted over the bar. Eventually, Circle started with the standard rendition of ‘And the Hares,’ prompting a couple of angry closeted lesbians at the end of the bar to try to drown us out with sh*tty classic rock from the jukebox. It didn’t work, although there was a scary moment when Stick It to the Bros started singing along with Prince or possibly the Bee Gees – I’m not entirely sure which.
Highlights of the circle included a same shirt down-down for people wearing wife beaters, of which there were many, and of which Buoys was one. I only mention this last point because Buoys was walking around with a prodigiously fake handlebar mustache, which made him look like a circus strongman from the 1920’s who gone on a starvation diet or had perhaps gotten a slight case of lung cancer. There was also a backslider down-down, with far too many backsliders to count.
Then Virgin Jeremy was called into Circle and asked to demonstrate his favorite sexual position, at which point he asked his sponsor Turd Dimension to hold his ankles, then did a handstand, and then crushed a beer can (from the handstand position) with his forehead. I think I speak for many of us when I say that I have no f*cking idea how that qualified as a sexual position, and I’ve watched some pretty weird porn in my life.
Drippy Spigot was called into Circle for some accusation or other, and then made to do a Zombie down-down, which involves chugging a beer with your arm stuffed through a PVC pipe so that it's fully extended. To summarize the result: most awkward wet T-shirt contest ever. Then there was some other accusation that basically turned into a social by the end, followed by announcements, the best of which was “Is there food?” There was also something about a Pearl Necklace, although by that time I wasn’t paying attention. Then we finished with ‘Swing Low,’ and then we had wieners and pizza, and then everyone lived happily ever except for the poor bastards who got poison ivy from the Eagle trail, but f*ck them because you know they were totally asking for it.
-JGV
Bag Car: Wikipedophilia
Religious Advisor: THE Second Cumming
Scribe: Jolly GREEN Vagina
Four-legged Hashers: I Heart Salami, Virgin Bjorn
Lazy-Ass Pre-Lubers: Pubic Service Announcement, Taj My Hole
Sweat Test Failure: The Buttler Hit It
Weather: About 80, mostly sunny.
Pack: Super Teflon Dong, Spermatologist, I Eat Teabags, Willy Wonka and the Backdoor Factory, Friar F*ck, E Equals I’m a Douche, Goat Throat, Goes Down on Buoys, Anal Beads, Yankee Pay Five Dollar More, Pat My Fly, Harlot Globe Fondler, Virgin Jeremy, Just Alex, I Love Blowj*bs, Turd Dimension, Just Nathan, No Man on the Moon, Takes It In the Assberger, Just Kate, Mangia My Vagina, Pappy van Tinkle, Necrophiliac Jack, Bring Out the Gimp, Blowbot, Sketchy Ho, Boston Strangler, Takes It in the Rectory, I Licked Butts, Trickle Down Dickonomics, Furry Thing, High Anus, Spoonful of Semen, Stick It to the Bros, Spunk in the Trunk, Better Late Than Pregnant, Drippy Spigot, Peppermint P*ssy, Save a Tree Ride a Cowboy, Brokeback Baby, Vagitarian, Beat By a Girl, Bend Over Mommy, Hare Club for Queers, Dribbles, Master Gator
Its been a long time since I’ve scribed a Hash Trash, and those of you who are old and crusty enough to have read my Hash Trashes might remember that I usually saved the quotes for the end. For this one, though, I think it will be a better reading experience if the quotes are dropped at strategic points along the narrative, like Canadian goose turds on a riverside trail.
“Cabs with pink mustaches!” –Pat My Fly
The Pre-Lube was at some place called Roggie’s in Brighton, which I’d never heard of before, but which appeared to be the type of place that bears a lot of resemblance to a Republican senator: on the weekend, Roggie’s slums around serving cheap ass beer to underage BC students, and then during the week, it tries to pretend that it’s a respectable drinking and dining establishment that would never ever stick its cock through a hole in an airport bathroom stall for an anonymous gay blowj*b.
The reason I prefaced this section with a quote from Pat My Fly is because there was a lot about Roggie’s that was uncomfortable, much like talking to someone with senile dementia, but there was also a lot about Roggie’s that was surreal … which is also much like talking to someone with senile dementia. The uncomfortable part definitely revolved around the Asian family which had thought they were entering a respectable drinking and dining establishment (see above), and had sat down for some pizza and beverages only to find themselves surrounded and then constantly ‘accidentally’ teabagged by about 50 hashers as they jostled around the bar in search of beer and talked about yeast infections for the better part of an hour.
The surreal part came mostly revolved around this short guy in a dark suit, sneakers, and a yarmulke, who went around awkwardly trying to interest people in card tricks. However, he did manage to make a three of hearts to turn into a five of hearts by rubbing it on Spunk’s boobs, which I have to admit was a decent bit of sleight of hand. Either that or Spunk’s boobs are magic. Personally, I choose to believe the latter explanation, and I plan on bringing my own deck of cards to the next hash to see if I’m right.
“Most of the trail will be marked in flour.” –THE Second Cumming
So if you’ve never been on a GAP trail before, right now you’re probably thinking something like, “I don’t get it. Aren’t the quotes supposed to be funny or something? This Jolly Green Vagina guy is kind of losing me here.” On the other hand, if you *have* been on a GAP trail before, you’re probably wiping the tears from your eyes and trying to catch your breath due the sheer, balls-out magnitude of that particular lie, because you know the truth: when GAP is haring, most of the trail will not be marked *at all.*
And we were not disappointed. Although to be fair, it wasn’t GAP’s fault for the first half mile or so. From Chalk Talk, trail had immediately gone off into the woods and then out onto a gravel path around a small pond. But then the trail (which had indeed been marked with flour) seemed to disappear and go nowhere. The pack spent a few minutes wandering aimlessly and trying to re-establish the trail, before we realized that a small child with a plastic beach shovel was running around scooping up the flour marks. At that point, the pack collectively gritted its teeth and restrained itself from tossing the little sh*t in the pond, and then followed the shovel marks to find trail again.
From there, trail led into the BC Stadium parking lot, at which point the pack lost trail and spent several minutes wandering around a check in the parking lot. The blame for this is squarely – squarely, I say – on the pack, since they didn’t immediately look at the archway that led into the stadium itself. And you call yourselves hashers? Really, this was a complete gimme, guys. When was the last time any trail went up to a stadium or athletic field and *didn't* go across it? Even if there’s a game happening, you should at least expect a Song Check on the sidelines. For shame.
“It’s kind of like asking to be kicked in the nuts and then complaining when they wear a steel-toed boot.” –Anal Beads
And then there was a Turkey/Eagle split. Some people took cowardly route and went Turkey, and there’s a part of me that can’t blame them. But a larger part of me says: Oh, come the f*ck on. You came out to a GAP trail and you’re not going to experience everything it has to offer? You’re not going to squeeze out every drop of blood, sweat, tears, hobo urine, and parasite-filled pond water? Fine, then. You can p*ssy out and run the Turkey, while I go do the Eagle trail like a *real* hasher. But, uh, when we get to the Beer Check, I’d appreciate it if you could put peroxide on the scratches I got climbing through the barbed wire fence and calamine on the parts of me that got smeared when I ran through the poison oak.
Now, following that particular digression, a proper understanding of this particular Eagle trail requires that I digress a little more. Several years ago, GAP laid a trail that will live in infamy. If you’ve only started hashing in the past two or three years, find one of the old timers and ask them about it. I guarantee that most of them will remember running that trail (whether they actually did or not) and will be more than happy to tell you about it. In any event, an abridged version of the first half of the first leg of that trail goes like this: go to Chestnut Hill Mall, go to rocky outcrop behind Chestnut Hill mall, run through swamp, climb chain link fence, cross Green Line tracks (causing train stoppages in both directions), accidentally crawl 150 yards Shawshank-style through a storm drain, run a really long way.
A short version of the Eagle trail goes like this: run a pretty long way, visit the storm drain from the days of yore, have a Scotch check, climb chain link fence, cross Green Line tracks (causing train stoppage in only one direction), run around swamp, go to rocky outcrop behind Chestnut Hill Mall, go to Chestnut Hill Mall, look at GAP’s you-are-here chalk map drawn on the sidewalk. So in other words, it’s pretty much that trail from all those years ago, only backwards and with Scotch. I would call it GAP’s fuck-you from him to us, but there was Scotch, and that makes up for a lot.
“Is that a real person or a hasher?” –No Man on the Moon
Okay, time for another digression. I apologize, but I feel it’s important to paint a picture of the Chestnut Hill Mall, because if you’re a hasher, the Chestnut Hill Mall is probably a place that you have never been to. Probably it is a place where you will never have any reason to go to. The Chestnut Hill Mall caters to the sort of people who aren’t hashers. The Chestnut Hill Mall caters to the sort of people who are, in fact, the exact opposite of hashers. The Chestnut Hill Mall caters to respectable people.
In a nutshell, the Chestnut Hill Mall is in Newton.
When the hashers started arriving to look at the previously mentioned what-the-f*ck map, there were a dozen Canada geese strolling across the parking lot, and there were a bunch of people taking pictures of the Canada geese strolling across the parking lot. Because in Newton, a bunch of Canada geese strolling across a mall parking lot is a f*cking big deal. I mean, there was that 50% off sale on calcium-enriched Tropicana orange juice at Shaw’s last week, and that was pretty gosh-darn exciting, but a bunch of Canada geese in the Chestnut Hill Mall parking lot? Golly, that just blows the O.J. sale right out of the water!
“Who wants to have a blowj*b party?” –Super Teflon Dong
So at this particular point in time, a bunch of hashers had arrived in the back parking lot of the Chestnut Hill Mall and promptly blew the tiny yuppie minds of those people who were photographing the majestic elegance of a bunch of ornery bags of feathered sh*t. On the ground was drawn a crude map that took some deciphering, but eventually we managed to piece together the idea behind it. An X marked the ‘You Are Here’ spot. A dashed line showed the trail we ran to get there. A big dot marked the Beer Check. And a big f*cking circle helpfully marked the leech-infested, weed-choked, runoff/goose sh*t-filled pond that stood between us (the X) and the Beer Check (the dot).
Needless to say, reaction of the pack ranged from “F*ck GAP in his ear” to “No, really … f*ck GAP in his f*cking ear.”
At that point, the Eagle pack split up into four distinct groups. Drippy Spigot, Harlot Globe Fondler, and Peppermint P*ssy followed the edge of the pond around and eventually found the Beer Check. STD led a contingent of four or five that climbed a fence into a slightly more residential area and eventually found the Beer Check. Buoys and I, working independently, ran out to the road and then – since the hares were already on-out – followed marks backward to find the Beer Check. Finally, Goat Throat led about half of the Eagle pack on a walk of shame all the way back down the Eagle trail to circle around and reach the Beer Check around twenty or twenty-five minutes later.
And so we began the second leg of trail, which quickly led to a Song Check on the corner of Route 9. Since various hashers trickled out of the Beer Check at different times, there were at least three separate groups of hashers that stayed to sing a song, that were then were further subdivided by the ridiculously long cycle of the traffic light. I am not sure, but I think this sets a Boston Hash record for ‘shortest distance traveled from a Beer Check before the pack is completely spread the f*ck out.’ Congratulations GAP and Placentos!
“I like the kilt!” –A Newton cop
After a brief trip across a playground, the pack came to a second Beer Check. A policeman showed up fairly quickly because this was Newton and someone dialed 911, since clearly if there’s a group of runners hanging around, that means there’s probably a marathon bomb nearby and holy sh*t, think of what that would do to the property values. Anyway, the cop immediately told us to move on out once he saw the beer cans, but I have to admit that he was otherwise actually pretty cool, even going so far as to compliment one of the hashers on his choice of attire and arrest nobody.
After that, we ran across the campus of Pine Hill College, and had to deal with some security guards who were decidedly less cool, probably because they were sad, desperate losers stuck in dead end jobs so crappy that even mall cops looked down on them. But that’s just a guess.
Then we hit the world’s largest Dick Check.
“Is there a size requirement for this one?” –No Man on the Moon
No, really, it was like six feet long. It probably prompted a whole slew of 911 called from concerned Newton citizens the next day. Think of the children!
“He showed me some streets I’d never been on before.” –Beat by a Girl
Four words sum up the last leg of the trail: All Newton Death March. There was running. A lot of running. Mostly in a straight line, although there were a couple of token check marks that pretended that the trail might turn, only it didn’t. The check marks didn’t really matter, though, since no one was fooled, and we just kept running. And running. And running. After the deceptively short second leg, the On-In seemed like it would never come.
Unfortunately, it did.
“It smells like a tinkletarium.” –Anonymous reviewer on Yelp
The evening’s On-In was at Mary Ann’s. As soon as we walked through the door, we were immediately assaulted with the eye-watering reek of ammonia (otherwise known as ‘the smell of piss’) tinged with the dry heave-inducing aroma of various secondary and tertiary amines (otherwise known as ‘the smell of really old piss’). I kept waiting to get used to it, but although Circle took a good 45 minutes, I never did. I think it was because every time it got to the point where you could ignore it, someone opened the door to go to the bathroom and all of a sudden it was like you were huffing cheap glass cleaner out of a truck stop urinal.
As the pack began filtering in, we started drinking a beer substitute known as ‘Narragansett’ and watching a Hitler documentary on the televisions mounted over the bar. Eventually, Circle started with the standard rendition of ‘And the Hares,’ prompting a couple of angry closeted lesbians at the end of the bar to try to drown us out with sh*tty classic rock from the jukebox. It didn’t work, although there was a scary moment when Stick It to the Bros started singing along with Prince or possibly the Bee Gees – I’m not entirely sure which.
Highlights of the circle included a same shirt down-down for people wearing wife beaters, of which there were many, and of which Buoys was one. I only mention this last point because Buoys was walking around with a prodigiously fake handlebar mustache, which made him look like a circus strongman from the 1920’s who gone on a starvation diet or had perhaps gotten a slight case of lung cancer. There was also a backslider down-down, with far too many backsliders to count.
Then Virgin Jeremy was called into Circle and asked to demonstrate his favorite sexual position, at which point he asked his sponsor Turd Dimension to hold his ankles, then did a handstand, and then crushed a beer can (from the handstand position) with his forehead. I think I speak for many of us when I say that I have no f*cking idea how that qualified as a sexual position, and I’ve watched some pretty weird porn in my life.
Drippy Spigot was called into Circle for some accusation or other, and then made to do a Zombie down-down, which involves chugging a beer with your arm stuffed through a PVC pipe so that it's fully extended. To summarize the result: most awkward wet T-shirt contest ever. Then there was some other accusation that basically turned into a social by the end, followed by announcements, the best of which was “Is there food?” There was also something about a Pearl Necklace, although by that time I wasn’t paying attention. Then we finished with ‘Swing Low,’ and then we had wieners and pizza, and then everyone lived happily ever except for the poor bastards who got poison ivy from the Eagle trail, but f*ck them because you know they were totally asking for it.
-JGV
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