Interscandi 2015 - Unoffical Visitors trash

I normally don’t like summaries, or cliff notes, or whatever, but this was posted to the Boston Hash House FB page by Sex Reject, and it is the most accurate TL:DR for this weekend I can come up with. I add it here as a preface:

Good afternoon Boston! This is Sex Reject, VP Information for the InterScandi 2015 event which just finished up in Galway, Ireland. I would like to file a report on the behaviour of the representatives you sent us, namely:

Dry Hoes
Wilipedophilia
Goes Down on Buoys

Statory Swallows

CPA

E=I’m A Douche

They were DRUNK
They were LOUD
They were OBNOXIOUS 
They SANG DIRTY SONGS
They were NEKKID (and covered in Jello)

In 20 years of hashing I do not think I have ever witnessed such drunken debauchery and lewd comportment. It was nigh on impossible for us to tear our eyes away from them, as we gazed on in abject horror wondering what filth would spew from them next.

In summary, they were FUCKING AMAZING and a TOTAL BLAST. Boston Hashers are welcome back to InterScandi anytime!

On on!

Sex Reject, still humming "Young Girls" and smiling...

Now..for what we did to earn that glowing review…

What: Interscandi 2015

Where: Galway, Ireland

(which is apparently in Scandonavia)?

Who: Not sure who the organizing committee/Mismanagment are for Galway/Interscandi, but they did a great job. Know who you are, and know that you were loved.

PacK: Um, yeah, I’m not even going to try to remember everyones names.

[Friday (the first day]:

I have little or no knowledge of what transpired on the prelube trails; other than a bunch of hashers humped a row of sheep in some other Irish town and posted the video to Failbook. My tale begins when I landed in Dublin and was greeted by a less than friendly border guard who did his best to keep my out of his buecolic island home.

“What are you doing in Ireland?”

“Um, running?”

“A race?”

“Not really.”

“Where?”

“Galway, I think. I don’t know?”

“You don’t know where the race is?”

“Well, it starts in Galway, but I don’t know where it ends.”

“What kind of race?”

“One you run, like a 5k, or something. I don’t know.”

“You’re making this sound more suspicious.”

“I know.”

<Pause>

“Welcome to Ireland”

“Thanks.”

After having survived the entrance interview, I found CPA and Bouys two deep after having breakfast at the Oak Bar in the airport.  They offered me beer, but  I declined, and we ordered our tickets for the bus that would take us to Galway. A short walk around Dublin airport later, we climbed on the bus and were greeted by calls of “ONON” as we were not the only hashers on the bus. A group of hashers in the front based us back a few cups of “chicken soup” (cider) to easy the journey. We made a quick stop in Dublin to get more people, and more hashers, before heading west.

               A few hours, and lots of cows and sheep later, we arrived in Galway and made our way towards the hostel/hotel/information desk for registration. On our way there we were waylaid outside the main square when my unicorn hat was spotted by Dry House, Douche, and Swallows who were biding away the hours wait for our arrival at a bar. Upon seeing us they rush out of the bar and ran to meet us. I ran across the road to meet them and, thinking the hugging in traffic might not be the best idea, the two groups ran past each other, arms wide, before returning and gathering on the, lets call it, left hand side of the street. They told us to register first, then go to the hostel and put our stuff in the room. They didn’t think it was required that we go to the information desk, but to meet us back at the bar when we were settled.

               Saying our quick goodbyes, we continued on with the rest of the hashers towards to the hotel to register. After reciving our neon green hoodies and thingys-on-stringingy we cross the street to the hostel and got our room got, unpacked, tossed on some hash attire and returned to the unicorns in the bar.

               By the time we returned to the bar the unicorn song had drawn locals – a hasher from china whom I will call Irish Paul until such time as I insert his narrative into this story – and drinking had continued in some cases or commenced in others. After struggling mightily to get the bartenders attention (how they didn’t notice my unicorn hat will remain a mystery) we closed our tab and moved across the street to order a round of Hookers beer. I was never quiet sure from the bartender at the Sly Fox, but, incase my European readers are unaware, Hooker is another name for a lady of the night, a girl of ill repute, or, more commonly known as a whore or a prostitute. The American hashers therefore took a sophomoric delight in ordering a Hooker. After we had our teenage chuckle, we decided that the locals were giving us not-to-friendly looks and decide to head back to the hostel for free beer.

               We returned to the hostel and attempted to socialize. CPA was the first to go to the information desk, mainly because she had been complaining about all the spam from it for months, and returned with a sly smile on her face. I was enjoying my free beer and decided to demure her suggestion, but Bouys admitted to being lost and needing information so he went over a made friends. After making the rounds again, and explaining to people that I was indeed wearing a kilt, I also decided that I was confused and needed information. I was asked if I wanted labeled or unlabeled; I said unlabeled, and was then poured shot of the most painful drink I have ever had. It was vodka – that was fine. What wasn’t fine was to corrugating flame that accompanied it. Apparently that vodka had been steeping in death chilis since the Vikings abandoned the Norse gods, or something. Holy hell fire shit.

               After what seemed like forever, we were told to GTFO of the hostel and that the Friday pub crawl trail was starting in Eire square. We filled out of the building and assembled in what could be called a circle. Some versions of introductions were given, but no one was paying attention. Pack, or the hares, I was never quite sure, shortly flowed out of circle and across the trail in a stream of neon green hoodies, with a few unicorn hats sprinkled along the route. Trail was a very nice tour of Galway, though if you ask me to trace it on a map I couldn’t. We cross a road, walked down a couple narrow bar-lined streets, across another road, passed a building with a deep gated court yard – in which Swallows and I paused for a second – then eventually turned a corner and came upon a man in a van down by the river. This man was handing out beer. I liked this man.

               At the beer check, the lack of food and accumulation of alcohol in my veins started to take effect. I started out across the bay and was quickly broken from my repose by Swallows and Bouys who had a conversation about whether or not they could swim the channel. One of the locals, being very concerned about what these drunk Americans were about to do, decided to step in a try to talk them down. I thought to myself that perhaps I didn’t want to witness this either and went to get more beer. Not dissuaded at all Swallows walked to the edge and was on the stairs down by the time Dry Hose and Bouys managed to convince her that perhaps more beer was a better idea than swimming in a Nordic shipping channel.

               Pack departed the beer check and continued our stroll, back towards town, along the channel. Remembering the length of the first leg, I had taken a road soda, and apparently other people had too. I reacquainted myself with the Information Desk and their new devotee CPA, who encouraged me to have some information about the long stroll that was facing us. The second leg of trail wasn’t very long and ended with a shot check in front of a center for troubled youth, I think. I say this because I saw some troubled youth (they could have been hashers) standing at a distance watching the green clad herd pass around shots that I do not remember. Quickly determining that they were youth, and not hashers, I beat a hasty retreat back to my people. My sense of time, which is normally rather good, and sun driven, was broken my entire time in Ireland. I cannot tell you how long we remained at the shot check, or what time it was when we returned to the hostel.

               Instead of returning to the hostel, I decided I would follow the other roughly half of pack and go to the hotel for quazi free (drink ticket) beer. There was an okay Irish band playing, and a rather well apportioned bar, though the beer selection was none better than at the hostel. Using one drink ticket I milled around though the only group of hashers I remember talking to was the quartet from Spain. They seemed nice, and young, and pretty, so I talked to them while drinking my free beer. After a while I decided I should go find my unicorns and perhaps start looking around for food – as I hadn’t eaten since the flight over.

               Returning to the unicorn dorm, I found that they had all recently spent time befriending the locals by bar tending and were, like me, searching for food. We decided to strike out into the still lit night and see what we could find. We found Hillbillys Fried Chicken. I should note for the record that none of the Unicorns/BH3ers are particularly well known for their love of fried chicken; in fact it was the first time I had seen anyone eat it. However, something magic happened when we went up to the counter and ordered a party bucket. As we were sitting around eating it, we started to sing, as we are want to do, “Party cock is in your mouth tonight!” then changed it to “Battered cock is in your mouth tonight!” as we scared the locals and shoved battered cock down our throughts. Full and drunk we returned to the hostel and retired into the Unicorn dorm. Where we found that Dry Hose had requsitioned two bottles of wine and two baggos from the bar to the dorm, and laid a trail of glowsticks to the shrine of alcohol in the center of the room. Many rounds of baggo were played until eventually the unicorns subcomb to the night and drifted off into ragey sleep.

The End of the First Day.

[Saturday-RAGE-Day]

               Saturday morning, bright and early, we were awoken by mumbles of “one more hour of breakfast and ballbusters away.” Deciding that one was a far better idea than the other, we stumbled to the caferteria and had an enjoyable breakfast of scones and cold cut sandwiches. Dry Hose, noticing a troubling lack of alcohol on our table, left and returned with a round of beer-mossas; his walk through the crowd with a tray full of beer at 10am drew more than a few stares. Apparently beer mossas aren’t a thing in Europe? He then returned with a few bottles of a prosecco and we converted our beer mossas into Chamwow-js and the rage began. After filling our bellies and prepping our livers with breakfast beer, we retreated to the unicorn cave for a quick nap before trail – deciding that ball busting was a bad idea. I had txted the former Boston Hasher SUPER Teflong Dong (STD) who knows Cosmo if I should go on the ball buster trail; his reply was “only if you want to die.” I trust STD, so I had another beermossa and rested.

               The time of the bus came and we all filled out of the hostel – not before grabbing some bus wine – and made our way to the back of the last bus. Classy seats for classy people. The bus ride was fine, we talked, made friends, based around the wine, which didn’t last very long and were generally excited about trail. After a nice drive through the Irish countryside, the bus stops and starts to attempt a 3 point turn near a trout hatchery. Yeah, so that didn’t work. Word leaked back that the bus driver was lost and cries of WIKILOST arose from the Boston hashers. We continued on until we found, what I’m calling, a farmer’s driveway, in which we were able to turn around, finally arriving at the start, DFL, some amount of time later. I only hope the other buses had more beer.

               We filled out of the bus and made our way to a set of youth soccer fields conveniently placed in the middle of nowhere. We were separated into two groups – walkers and runners. With much mumbling, it was decided that we hadn’t flown across the Atlantic to do a walkers trail so we went down to do chalk talk with the runners, until it was announced that trail would be about 12k (6.5 miles) with ONE BEER CHECK. With that news, we RAN UP THE HILL to the walkers circle, anticipating a short walk to cold beer.

[Walkers-trail, pt 1; ie, Rape Forest – I Survived Interscandi Walkers Trail]

               We milled about while we waited for the runners to leave, then walked around the periphery of the soccer fields before merging back onto the road for a nice up hill stroll. For no apparent reason, the hare decided to turn trail up hill again over a semi-cleared “logging road” as I’d call it. The once compact dirt quickly gave way to a wet, muddy trail seemed to get wetter as we got higher. Sparerib saw a “caution shooting” sign and tried to turn it into a tit check. Silly man. I jogged ahead a few paces, flipped over a rock, drew a pair of tits with chalk from my pocket, and waited until I was freed. Catching back up with the hares as we were entering a large meadow of sorts, I found them using technology on trail and discussing where to go. A second WIKILOST on a trail I wasn’t haring? Things weren’t looking up.  As we crossed the field, I learned that science – which sub-branch I do not known – does not work in Ireland. Apparently, unlike the rest of the world where the water flows down from higher elevations, in Ireland, the water stays at the top and hides from science under landscapes that look dangerously like pleasant mountain meadows, but are really muddy, prickly, uneven mountain top death traps. Seeing such an expanse before us, about half of the walkers decided that walkers trails really shouldn’t go over 1 on the shaggy scale, and definitely not cross 4 or 5,  and turned back to follow the roads to the beer. However, this decision was not adequately communicated to the rest of the walkers so we trudged across this meadow of death on a course straight for Rape Forest.

               What is Rape Forest? Well, let me explain. In the North American wilderness, that vast expanse of deep oak forest, pine groves, rolling hills and mountains eventually giving way to vast the vast expanse of the planes, the forests to not attack you; they stand by a silent guardians, keepers of  past and shepherds of the future. Yeah, none of that idyllic shit happens in Ireland. In Ireland, the forest floor is a labyrinth of muddy rivulets and collapsed rotting trees; you are never sure if your next step will be on dry land, fall through into a knee or thigh deep pile of rotting wood, or swallow your leg, and possibly shoe in a previously unknown pool of fowl, stagnant water. That is not to mention the trees. The trees are all about 10-15 feet high and look, from afar, like overgrown Christmas trees. When you get closer, their branches are covered in prickly nettles, which intertwine with on another forming an almost impenetrable wall; you have two choices to get through, either get low, and pray the that the ground beneath you doesn’t cave in, follow so closely behind your companions that you are not hit by the throw-back, or, duck under your arms and shoulders  and sacrifice the flesh on your exterminates to protect yourself the vicious attacks of the pine trees. I swear I’ll never cut down a Christmas tree again!

               Time and distance did not come into the experience of the Interscandi Walkers Trail. We continued on because we had to continue on. Two or three times the hare (Codpeice) stopped to let pack catch up, and for us to devour the jager and redbull mix that some brilliant hasher decided to put in his camel pack. There was Information on trail, but it was far behind and probably ran out. Eventually, blessidly, we came to a road. We stumbled out of the forest and looked around to regather our thoughts and try to process what we had just been through. After a few minutes, we learned that we were still a mile and a half from the beer along the road, or maybe half a mile if we wanted to dive back into The Bush. I’m actually pretty sure no one even suggested the second option, for if they had they would not be alive to read this trash.  Most of the walkers resumed their pleasant stroll down the hill, and we caught up with the walkers who decided not give to the Interscandi 2015 Walkers Trail Blood Drive, and finally, blessedly found the beer.

{Editorial} Normally this is where I decided the shenanigans that happen at the beer check, and I will, but first I would like to offer up Goes Down On Bouys take on the normal runners trail because apparently they also only had one beer check.

[MEDIUM TRAIL, aka the NO BOG, NO MOUNTAIN trail]

The bus ride from Galway to the Chalk-talk was rather cheery although a bit subdued due to the prior evening's information. Bus trail to the beginning was an hour's drive including a bus back-check of 6.9 kilometers, so bus trail to the start was probably a bit shorter.

Trail began and we immediately departed from a rugby / track field by the town of Tullyvealnaslee, aka - the middle of nowhere, western Ireland about an hour's drive northwest of Galway. About three quarters of the runners fled the field with St. Etienne's lager in their fists, running while downing the delicious brew for the first part of trail. Trail led up a country road and turned down a burnt out field and down a slippery stream for about 10 minutes before trail led us into the first of several forests. Much shiggy was had including a thick and dense undergrowth, briars, thickets, and creek water up to our ankles and knees.

After wandering and zig-zagging through the lower forest next to the town of Derrymoyle, we came out by the Lough Corrib (big old Irish Lake dotted with peninsulas and islands), which was epically beautiful. After pictures were taken and songs were sung, we headed to the first beer check. Oh wait, no there was no beer. More running and slogging along. Pack then headed back inland for a while and we did a Fishhook-5 check which essentially was a clever way to keep the FRB's together with the rest of the pack. After over-shooting the trail marks which were wiped out by the constantly flowing Irish rain, the hares who were sweeping pointed us in the direction of trail once more which led us into more forested bog. Pack bottlenecked again through the muck and mire for a good twenty minutes with several eager hashers plunging knee and even waist deep into the muddy, smelly water chasing the ever elusive beer. There was still no beer after a good hour by this point, so amidst some grumblings, we On-On'ed once again onto the steep roads, heading ever upwards.

It was around this point that I noticed a cute Irish harriette and decided to keep a friendly pace with her so that I wouldn't foolishly over exert myself along these cute country roads and miss all of the 125 year old Irish cottages along the countryside. Pack became strung out, upwards and upwards we climbed, virtually every hasher walked on and off during points up the long twisty roads. Was there beer at the top? Hah hah, this is the REAL Ireland, drinks are ever hard to come by on trail...

After many more miles, through the ups and downs of country roads, pristine views of the Lough, and locals bewildered at what we were doing before them, along with plenty more light shiggy, we eventually made it to a barbed wire crossing and then through more woods, elevating ever upwards, and becoming ever thirstier. After about an hour and 45 minutes of trail, we finally found the BEER! Truth be told at this point I went straight for the chips and popcorn and then downed more cheap pints of Irish Lager. The walkers met up with the runners within minutes and we had ample time to share stories of woe and battle while beginning the process of inebriation.

After a good 40 minutes of revelry at the BC we walked with almost 200 hashers to the On-In, about another two miles down some more country roads.

Scribed by Goes Down on Bouys

[Beer Check #1]

I was really thirst after rape forest, so I decided to run the mile to the beer check, get a beer for myself, then load up my pockets and return to my fellow unicorns with the much needed nectar. I’m not sure from which direction the runner came, since I found marks in both directions, but, whatever. I will note that the beer check location was beautiful. It was on a road, next to a clearing overlooking a pond and some hills behind. If I were haring I would have brought trail up that far hill with a Turkey/Eagle split at the lake shore so that those who wanted to could take a refreshing dip on their way to the beer, but, I digress. Having grabbed my beers I returned to the unicorns and give them much needed nourishment and then return to the BC with them. Refilling my beer, I milled around and probably inhaled a few bags of popcorn. I tried to rally people to come and look at the view of the lake with me, but people seemed more interested in the beer. Who can blame them? After the beer supplies were destroyed, the left overs were loaded into the beer van and we were told to follow the road for a mile and a half back to the buses for circle. Learning from our mistakes, most of pack took a road soda, or two, for the walk back.

[Long walk back to the buses]

At least it was downhill; it was a causal stroll for all; some people ran, but not many. Nothing of note happened.

{Editorial and Promises}

The most common conversation on the walk back was a description of the basic building blocks of Boston area trails namely, the beer to mile ratio. The highest ratio is a beer mile – 4 beers, 1 mile – and the lowest is ball buster – 1 beer check every 2 to 3 miles, with each trail having 3-4 (up to 6), and those crazy unicorns pulling a 13/13, but, whatever. The main Boston kennels (Moon, Beaver, BH3), normally have alcohol (beer, wine, shots), every mile and the pack will mutiny if they are run more than 2 miles w/o refreshments. We, of course, solved the ratio by downing a couple of road soda, and “walk back to the busses wine” so, in the end, no one really cared…but we invite y’all to Boston to sample our trail rage.

We got back to the busses and were fed surprisingly good sandwhiches – I believe the rough review was chicken salad was the best, the egg salad, and ham was on the bottom. We waited and waited and waited for the Ballbusters to arrive, and when their bus showed up, we quickly moved back o the soccer fields for 3 different – trail specific – circles. Parts of me really like that idea, actually.

However, before we get to the circle trash, here’s what happened on the ball buster trail:

[Ball Buster Trail]

Dear readers please understand that it was not without some sense of trepidation that I joined the other masochists that day of days to attend the aptly labelled "Ballbreaker Run" the tension was palpable on the bus as people cracked the occasional joke met to gentle hums of nervous laughter. Some were there for pride, some came to restore sensation to long numb genitals but there was one motivation that united us all. We wanted to hear more of Cosmo's sultry voice.

We were not to be disappointed as the Hare and RA for the day boarded our bus and proceeded to give a performance worthy of the first half of a certain Stanley Kubrick war movie as he explain the incredibly intricate marking system that the Hares had devised for the day.

Proudly he held up used prophylactics, (of the coloured variety) trophies from the night befores activities and informed us that if we saw one used condom we were on trail, if we saw 2 we were off, if we saw 4 we were checking and if we saw 3 we needed to drink more water as we were getting delusional.

As soon as our the overly enthusiastic Hares had finished their introduction there was a deluge of hasher's who suddenly came to the realisation they had got on the wrong bus and attempted to leave but it was too late we were already in motion. Cosmo gave one last piece of advice as the bus turned the corner and drove away from the hostel "Bring a spare change of clothes..."

God damn it yeah let me just go pull those out of my ass right away RA cheers.

The rest of the journey was fairly quiet as Hashers turned to the windows in hopes to find clues of our final destination. We watched in misery as our surroundings became more and more desolate. As an Irishman I had of course always known the expression "To Hell or to Connaught", a phrase popular between English and Irish alike to describe the countryside surrounding Galway. I must confess i never truly understood it though until our bus approached the barren wasteland that was our final destination. The scene before us would have been right at home in the work of Dante or, for the less cultured hashers out there, a Mad Max movie.

As the bus pulled up Hashers jostled to secure the best pissing spots as an icy wind cut right to our bones. At least one Harriette got on her knees and begged to be allowed back on the bus as she looked up at the  We lined up to take one last group photo before our lives would be changed forever. The bus driver was tasked to take the actual photo but he seemed more interested in taking pictures of the Harriettes who remained squatting down, guess he was a bit of a kinky bear.

Eventually we headed off in search of the fabled used condoms promised by our hares. And gradually we made our way across the field to the foot of a fairly unthreatening hill. as we made our way up the hill it became apparent that the ground here was, not unlike short people from an overrated fantasy series, Tricksy. Sometimes you would put your foot down only to discover that the seemingly solid ground below was nothing but a thick muddy soup it's consistency was something similar to the morning after bathroom deposits resulting from far too much guinness.

A very handsome hasher by the name of Ding Bu Dong found himself enjoying a mud bath on trail while other hasher's jealous of his boyish good looks and charm looked on with lust.

Once upon the peak a heart-warming whiskey was passed around to all and much merriment was had little did we know that the day's trials were just beginning.

Descending the mountain as it turned out would be much more complicated then ascending As one enigmatic hasher put it we climbed a hill and descended a mountain.  Timidly the hashers held on for dear life to the conveniently placed fence and put one foot in front of the other, it wasn’t so much running as falling with dignity.

The difficulty of the terrain did not turn our Hares off of putting in checks and false trails everywhere so progress down the mountain was slow to say the least. Once we had fallen far enough the ground eventually levelled out and we were able to stretch our legs out as we solved more complicated checks. And eventually found ourselves on the fabled “plank section”.

The planks were treacherous, deadly even. One Harriett twisted her ankle here and Hasher dislocated his shoulder trying to navigate this twisted “The floor is lava” game. The thing was they seemed so innocuous, the flat grippy surface dared you to run and then when you did it would throw you off to your certain doom. Once again I was impressed by the Hares lack of concern for our safety.

It was while on the planks that I was subject to some sincere kindness from a true gentleman of the Hash by the name of Daddy Long Legs. You see as a racist I like to deprive myself of water on the trail in a sad attempt to motivate myself to reach the On-In faster. Daddy Long Legs noticed that my footing was becoming somewhat erratic and offered me some water and a chocolate bar. My beloved reader please understand that I am not one for hyperbole. The taste of Daddy Long Leg’s juice and the salty sensation of his brown stick on my tongue cause me to ejaculate instantly and suddenly I found myself energised and ready for the trials ahead.

Much like my sex life that sensation lasted all of five minutes and shortly after my body resigned itself to walking the last km home.

I fell asleep on the bus to the designated down-down area. Once there though the ball breakers invaded the only sheltered down-down area much to the annoyance of the other 150 hashers left out to bear the brunt of Galway’s weather.

Scribed by Ding Bu Dong

[Walkers Circle]

I will quickly note that I am in favour of how private parties were delt with in circle; giving hashers shots for talking seems like a bad idea; giving hasher shots on undrinkable vileness is a brilliant idea. To get circle started there were two harriets in too-short nurses uniforms prowling the sidelines while Sparerib did is best RA impression. First in were the hares – Codpeice and someone else? Honestly, I kept thinking how much he looked like 2004 Johnny Damon to catch his name, but whatever. They laid a shitty trail and they knew it. I’m really not sure what else happened in circle, as I rarely pay attention to what happening. At some point visitors were called in, and we first sang a group of Australians a song about they are born criminals, then Boston was called in to sing and we promised a short one. Apparently Young Girls is long? We won’ t go there, but it was well received (who doesn’t love a song about blow jobs?). At some other point we were called in and started singing “Shitty Hare” (A Krusty The Meat Miser original, to the tune of Livin’ on a Prayer), which Bouys heard and came running over from the other circle to join in. I hope the runners made him drink for that. It got cold and it started to rain so we swang low, picked up our trash (hashers pollute their bodies, not the environment), grabbed “bus wine” each and returned went back to the buses to rage in Galway.

[Runners  Circle]

Bouys was going to write this, but his apartment caught fire (everyone’s okay, he was rescued by a hot female fire fighter who asked him to hose her down…)

[Ballbuster Circle]

During Down Down’s it became apparent that an unnamed hasher had more than a passing interest in nipples he spent some time comparing the hardness of Shitnav and Airtight’s pink stubby erections and thus earned himself the honourable title of “Wrong Tit” in one of the most violent naming ceremonies I have personally ever witnessed.

As we got back on the bus to head home I swore I could see a spark in Cosmo’s eyes and an erection in his shorts as he thought back on the abject misery he had inflicted on his charges that day of days.

On-On

Scribed by Ding Bu Dong

[RAGE BUS HOME]

Having learned from our mistakes on the bus ride to trail, all the unicorns grabbed a bottle of wine to fortify us for the long drive home. The back of the walkers us (ie, rage bus) broke into song before the wheels were in motion and didn’t stop until the doors opened and we were forced to stop singing for at least a few minutes. While we were singing, and passing around (and empting) all 6 bottles of wine that we brought with us, we also discovered that the bathroom on the bus was small, unfunctional and quiet terrifying. Harriets could fit into it with relative ease, though I hope CPA taught them all proper public toilet usage positioning, while the male hashers could chose to either, well, aim, or fall over.  UTIs for everyone!

[BAD DECISION SATURDAY!]

Not gonna lie here folks, I passed out after we got off the bus, and rallied a few hours (I really had no sense of time the entire weekend, again, I blame the sun) later and found the hostel empty so I grabbed my drink tickets and headed to the hotel. I was told I was too late for the first sitting and had to wait at the bar until some people finished. Eventually there was room at a table and I sat down. I’m not gonna say this was the worst hash event  food I’ve ever had (I’ve never really thought about who would win that; probably no one, it’s food, we’re all drunk), but it wasn’t the best (GAP smokers, MEAT PIES, etc, PGH3 custom-made-pizza…). Anyway, with out complaint I shovled all of it down my guliver in a vain attempt at sobriety and good decisions, but who am I kidding; this is Bad Decision Saturday. There was a band playing on the stage, and dancing (I’ll call it Irish because we were in Ireland), but my  drunken mind craved either thumping beats, dance lights and smoke, or the unadulterated excesses of Saturday nights at hash weekends. I vaguely recalling someone telling me the time – 9:30. I leaned my cranium back and yelled “2.5 hours to UGH!” to a crowd of startled, though still dancing hashers. Seeing that they did not know my call to arms, I went in search of my breathern. I found CPA and Bouys at the other bar in the hotel and told them my good news; 2.5 hours to ugh! They understood and suggested that we repair to the hostel, find the other unicorns and rally for strippy cup. This we did. We first obtained permission from the staff “do you mind if we play where people get naked?” “Nope, go right ahead.” Permission uptained, I ran back to the hotel to try to rally more hashers to our cause. Back at the hostel we grabbed a table and moved it in front of the bar. CPA went to the bathroom and when she returned the table had been moved to the middle of the cafertia. The staff told her, and I (roughly quote) “We moved your naked drinking came to the cafertia so we can mop up after.” Rage. I returned with the hashers from spain (roga maybe?) and the game begain. We played strippy cup then for the next two hours. Once both teams had “lost” (were naked) we’d pause and put our clothes back on and start again. Unfortunately, the team size didn’t change much over the course of the game, instead hashers coming back from the hotel would stare in wonder at the dozen naked people drinking in the middle of the hostel. At midnight, as promised, I attempted to hare and UGH with CPA, but she demurred saying that urban ughing in the US is one thing, but in another country…I suggested that we ugh around the hostel, and instead it was suggested that we start naked jello wrestling. I was drunk, so I agreed. The first match was Ding Bu Bong v. Wiki, and Ding won with a body slam and pin and I gave up. Up next was Ding Bu Bong v. Innertube and innertube won quickly and easily. Next was Innertube v. Wiki. This was a 5 rounder folks! I got the initial pin and wrapped my legs around her waist, and my arms around her shoulders, effective controlling her. I rolled onto my back and waited for her to tap, but she never did. She kept squirming and trying to get lose, and I held on. Getting frustrated, I rolled over again so that she was pinned against the wall and I still had her back and arms controlled. Again I tried to anaconda a tap on from her, and again she resisted. Getting tired I rolled her one more time, onto her back, got top mount and pinned her shoulders down. She finally tapped. Now, I could have done that way earlier, but thought it would be easier for all involved if I didn’t have to mount and pin her. Clearly I wasn’t thinking like a hasher.  I stepped up and saw the birthday girl staring me down. CPA lunged and got me to the ground first, mainly because her main strategy was to savagely go after my balls. It’s hard to establish arm control if you’re defending your junk. Risking painful injury, I let down my ball defense and grabbed her upper arms, then tripped her, and mounted into back control. Again, I rolled CPA onto her stomach with my legs around her waist and arms locked behind her back, and again, my opponent kept struggling. For a second time I was at “checkmate in 1 move” and allowing mercy tap, and, again, they kept struggling. I believe I mutter “sorry” before rolling again with CPA under, pinning her hips and arms and she finally tapped. I arose and saw that Burger Queen was standing to challenge and I bravely ran away. As I was stepping out of the pool of jello I saw a little white van floating in the muck and reached up to find that my necklace had broken! I would like to officially apologize to the amazing, beautiful and embodiment of rage that is Jello Wreckem (the undisputed jello wrestling champion in new England) for destroying the necklace she made for me; I petition, publically, for her forgiveness as I lost it defending the honor of Boston Hash Harriers in the Jello Pool. I also destroyed a 413/GAP towel. I went to the bathroom to shower off the jello. The unfortunate side effect being that I unintentionally raged back into the hostel and found the information desk well manned at 2:30 in the morning, so I learned a bit before looking around and seeing that I was winning last man standing and retreated to the unicorn cave and a bucket of battered cock. As we were sitting around happily eating our battered cock sparerib came in and sat down for the hot battered cock. Instead her ripped CPAs shirt off her back, said “Nice tits love” and ran out. We shrugged it off and went to bed.

[SUNDAY FATBOY TRAIL]

Honestly, I didn’t think that I did anything regrettable Saturday night. I mean yeah, I was hung over, but, I expected that. Yeah, I did a morning boot and rally (first of the day), but that’s not entirely unexpected, right? What I didn’t predict were the looks of shock and awe as I took an unexpected stride of rage through the cafeteria to get my breakfast. I brought it back to the room and told them “Guys, everyone in the café seemed to surprised to see me alive.” CPA and douche reported similar responses as all the unicorns ate breakfast in the room. Eventually (and I’m probably skipping over showers, laundry, etc), we were called down Eyre square again for fatboy trail. No fool us, we again all stocked up on breakfast wine to help us deal with trail. At chalk talk it was announced that some people would be running – and some people did – which prompted stories of the Best Wiki Fat Boy Trail Ever, and more wine. Trail was similar, but different, from Friday’s stroll, as we again crossed the square, but then turned and walked along the canal for a way. Luckily the information desk had caught up with us and we traded stories for information and wine. We then attempted to bribe Sex Reject, Sparerib and I’m sure others to come to Boston (see announcements below.)  After an aggressive fatboy trail, which, interestingly, intersected and went along a triathalon course, we eventually made it to almost the tip (just the shaft?) of a peninsula jutting out into water body of water that was for ONIN and 

Final Cricle.

[CIRCLE]

Sparerib, Cosmo and a Viking Lady (never caught her name) RA’d this shit show. We called in (I’m assuming) all the hares for the weekend, and made them drink, followed by (I hope) the Mismanagement for the host kennel and the Co-Chairs for this amazing event. I hope we made them drink too. {For serial guys – it was amazing, and I had a blast…see above and below for examples). Then sparerib called CPA for lost sh*t; apparently half her bra fell off? I don’t know how these things work. Anyway, she drank out of it. Then she was called back in for the other half – I guess that makes sense? – and drank for that. Then she was called in for the bra itself, and drank for that too. She was thrown out of circle, and anyone who jello wrestled was called in, Wiki, Bing Bong, Innertube and, wait for it, CPA. We drank. Then, according to pictures we shots fired someone? God I hope it was Sparerib. And drank for that, then were kicked out of circle by the Viking Lady. The excitement of shot firing caused me to go out to the edge of the peninsula and “dragon” (as apparently it’s called) before returning to circle. The man with the hell-vodka was called in, and apparently I drunkenly requested to be send home with it, so he poured me a shot (which might have slipped out of my hand) and we did a down-down. Sadily, that bottle was never seen again. Apparently Dry Hose “took care of it.” CPA and Bouys were then called in for Birthdays, and by all accounts I thought we were going to cake them (beer, flower, egg), but instead it was just a rather tame dumping of beer.  Sex Reject then accused me of trying to bribe him into coming to Boston, so we drank. CPA was then called in for the shirt which Sparerib and ripped off her back, and we sung about how we wanted a “rich, young, blonde, nymphomaniac” as a final down-down, then, I believe swang low.

[SUNDAY RAGE DAY]

Okay folks, here’s where my memory officially gets fuzzy.

There were two announced sets of post-trail rage; there was food somewhere, then beer somewhere at 5. The unicorns decided to beat a hasty retreat to the hostel to nap before venturing out again, but of course we did so with two road sodas and a bottle of wine each. On the way back, Bouys got mad at a swan and threw the mostly-full bottle at it (don’t worry, he missed). We took pictures of the beautiful town of which we had no memories before arriving back at the hostel for a quick nap until the free beer started again. As everybody but Douche and CPA bedded down for a quick rage nap, those two beautiful soles thought that passing on in Eire square would be a swell idea. It’s probably a good thing they did, since I don’t think they’d’ve been able to wake up anyway. We grab one last bottle of “tea time wine” for the walk over to the free beer bar, but on the way over there the hand off between Swallows and I failed and the bottle dropped and shattered on the ground. We started longinly at it for a second, then decided that it was probably for the best. My apologies to the family (mom, dad, two kids) that was did this behind, but, whatever. Rage. Arriving at the bar we found the food had been exhausted but the beer was still good. I went to the bathroom and lost track of the Boston crowd (apparently they went up stairs to eat on their own, smart?). Instead of I found a group of locals and amused them with tales of rage before getting up to find my tribe. I grabbed a beer on my way up stairs and found them about hallway through their, we’ll call them dinner (amazing steak, potato things and a seafood pasta to die for) – they let me sample. We went back downstairs and had another beer outside. Eventually the tab ran out and we headed back to the hostel. Having missed the free food, I suggested that we stop in for some battered cock. I believe I ordered “can I have a party cock?” and surprisingly the guy (who I think also worked Friday and Saturday) knew what I meant, took my Euros and gave me what I am now calling “heart burn in a pocket.” We stuffed our faces and moved onto the next bar, where we met some other hashers and Bouys bought a round. From there it was back to the hostel to get our drink tickets, in case they still worked at the hotel – they didn’t. Things get really hazy now. I think I had a beer there, maybe two, but eventually I remember being brought back to the hostel and “put to bed” by Bouys because while my body was awake physically, my mind had long since checked out.

I feel required to mention that at some point (2 or 3am) about a dozen hashers were invited into the unicorn cave, raged around a passed out wiki and arranged all the beds in a row. Everyone else seemed to love it, so I’m sure it was a great time.

On – May the Vikings Ride again on waves of Beer – On

-Wikipedophilia

(with assistance from)

Dry Hose

Goes Down on Bouys

Dind do Bong.

ANNOUNCEMENTS:

(I’m sure there are more, but here some some oppurtunities to come rage with Boston):

2015:

July 10,11,12: Invihash – Burlington H3 Campout in Northern VT. Like Ireland, more bugs, less more, more rage.

http://burlingtonhash.com/wordpress/invihash/information/

2016:

April 15-18 – Boston Hash House Harriers Marathon Weekend – Think that raging with 5 cats from Boston is fun? IMAGINE OVER 150!

May 6-8 – NURD – Northeast Unoffical Red Dress Run – Campout weekend in upstate New York, Red Dress Run around some local city, then rageface at a girl scout camp.