What: A Very Anime Zombie Jesus April Fools Passover Hash
Who: Rim Job Ring Leader: The Greatest Ho On Earth, Love Canal, and Quarter Mile Queer
Bag Car: Dog Dick Afternoon
Pack: Sex: The Final Frontier, Swedish Eagle, Pop C*m Ear (and she vanished...?), Fellowship of the Cock Ring, Po Po Peep Show, Just Steph, Just Stefan and his Virgin Sue, Just Nicole, Just Katie, Orgasm Falmon, Just Brook, The Buttler Hit It, Yellow Dick Gnome, No Man on the Moon, Just Clarie Who Became Whore's Box, For F*ck's Sake Finish Already, (visitor) Love Canal, Bring Out Your Gimp, 5 Inch Penalty.
Scribe: Sex: The Final Frontier
Trail:
Prelube was Boston Eagle, a bar that was gay friendly, but not sign friendly, being indicated only by a large eagle on its front. I protested as a Jew on Passover, I refused to read Egyptian pictograms to find my bearings (though I would have wandered for 40 years in the South End desert had Quarter Mile Queer not shouted to me as I passed it).
Chalk talk was lead competently, as the problem RA was off haring, and Gnome induced us to introduce ourselves and what sins of ours Jesus died for. One virgin was among us, a boy named Sue.
Trail was sparsely laid, as hares were mighty Jewish on chalk, though we found our ways across the Mass Pike and down Stuart street. Pack was unfathomably Lemming-ish throughout the trail and wandered in whatever direction 3 people started going, regardless of whether any marks were spotted.
Gimp and I found an actual trail with marks, though Gimp missed an arrow pointing creatively in a construction zone because somehow a situation arose in which I was not loud enough. I enjoyed my little jaunt through the construction zone while pack lemming-ed the far side of the street with nary a mark on them. The end of my foray was met with a Tit Check, followed by a True Trail. Now, given that the True Trail was in clear sight from the TC, I questioned whether trail was unsolved and whether I was truly bound by said TC. I decided to be sporting and yelled to pack across the street that I had found a True Trail, but that I was waiting on "a check". Pack came and my good sportsmanship was rewarded with not one but two pairs of just lovely apparati.
From there, a BN was spotted. Seeing utterly no marks, we spotted a few creatively dressed people and proceeded to enjoy BC1 in the windiest possible corner of Elliot Norton Park.
Hares were gay, fucked up and sheepishly returned, then left again. Leaving BC1, we took a straight trajectory toward the Common, where a S-S split brought us along the denizens of the city basking in a lovely spring day.
At Arlington Street Church, a confusing mark was left that both showed True Trail, A Song Check, and an On arrow. A meeting of the minds ruled that this was meant as a Song Check with an arrow basically patronizing us to notice the church as a source of Song inspiration. Between the number of nice muggles outside on Easter and the church being the most toothless conceivable form of church (UU), we vetoed Jesus Can't Go Hashing in favor of Hashers, Meet the Hashers and proceeded down Newbury Street.
We found ourselves in Public Alley 436 drinking what must have been the Piss of Christ. Following a check and heavy lemmings, I foolishly headed down Newbury in the direction of our origin and lost all of pack. Despondent, lonely, and lost, I tried Public Alley 439 and emerged in the middle of pack, which had stayed on Newbury in the opposite direction I had scouted. Groundhog Day ensued and we hit one Shot Check per Public Alley for the next 2 Alleys, finally yielding the sweet payoff of Manischewitz.
We emerged from the Alley ways in front of the convention center, where an awful lot of people were dressed for the day's Trail. A brief romp through Kings and Dalton St, and we arrived at the Fens and Beer Check 2.
Sweagle was in a highly form fitting (some might say his form was dress fitting) dress and elected to climb up a large monument with statues and pose with them. A muggle looked on as his jaw acquired the mass of a small locomotive.
Hares were mercilessly teased over the long list of places named "Machine" that trail could end at. Hares gaid and instead took us round about to Buttsex Forrest, one of the kennel's favorite places to be broken up by the police.
Having castigated Hares for this location as well, and having made open declarations of being prepared for what we needed to do WHEN (not if) the constabulary would arrive, a short (and cold) circle was begun, to be completed at Machine. Notably, our mordant prophesies of Police doom proved to act as amulet and pack was left undisturbed for the duration of its stay.
Hares were told to use more flour and chalk and Gnome called in Just Claire for a naming. Many hashers had many revealing stories, but winning out was a story involving a casual romp at a wedding in a horse barn with a young man who couldn't spell his four-lettered name. We christened her Whore's Box and moved our frigid asses to Machine, where a more proper circle continued upstairs of a funeral wake. We swung low and the Hash Got a Piece.
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