Tuesday, January 8, 2019

New Year, New You Trail

New Year, New You Trail - Jan 6, 2019
Hares: Shart of Darkness (alone)
Bag car: Massage a Trois
Pack: Tinderdick, Virgin Cara, Virgin Jack, Shits 'N Ladders, Sex: The Final Frontier, Knuckles Deep, Cock Lobster, Quarter Mile Queer, Clit Notes, Bottom Wrangler, Honorable Vaginal Discharge, Easy as 123, Just Matt, Deflatedate, Orgasm Falmon, Wax Off, Yellow DIck Gnome, Dribble, Just Sarah, Swedish Eagle, Cuntcussion, Dry Hoes, No Man, Just Lindsey.

Thinking I was FRB, I was walking to the Sill for prelube, when I came upon Tinderdick ahead of me. We arrived at the bar, finding a half dozen hashers already premature at 2:30. We milled around musing that SIlouette was one of few dives the Hash had touched that hadn't closed yet. Quarter Mile brought the 2 virgins for the sacrifice as promised. Cuntcussion complained that she had to shower that morning to get wine out of her hair.* Bag Car arrived as late as pack was early and Quarter Mile barely got a Chalk Talk out between troll hecklings.

I headed totally the wrong way and pack solved trail through the CVS parking lot and past Penniman playground (Light Side/Dark Side BC2) and over the Mass Pike via Everett St Bridge.

On the other side, Shits quickly spotted On-On, only to turn out False. We joined the rest of pack through the student slums of Lower Allston before arriving at the Collins Square Shot Check, also stolen from the Light Side/Dark Side trail 3 weeks earlier. I ran down Franklin St, figuring that the hare was just going to steal our route to Harvard Stadium so that the November Project people could do some more stairs. Such disappointment when marks abruptly ended, though lead around a fun little loop of a housing nook featuring mammaries. BC1 was the most Allston hasher place in existence - between a podcast production studio and a towtruck lot. PBR was featured, but so was Rebel IPA. Surely, this trail was too fancy for the likes of us .

Leg 2: New Year - New Police

As pack headed out, we happened upon Soldiers Field Road, a perfectly safe minor road for a pack of running drunkards to stumble across. Appropriately, we stayed on our side looking for marks. We fumbled around before someone yelled On-On from the other side and off we went to the river, coming across a (barely) undercover police car staking us out. We ran back to bagcar for BC2 for more assortments of nice beer and cider. Still too fancy,

Leg3: Never Trust a Shart After Mile 3.

Shart assured us that between the 3.5 miles we had and ON-IN, we would be sure to hit ballbuster length. A False led a few people into the little circle island thing, which, when revealed to be False, left the poor victims to fail to find a way out, having to backtrack.

A stupid-stupider split left your trust scribe conflicted, but he elected to be stupid and follow trail across the Eliot St bridge into Cambridge. After running through a hospital parking lot, we mused if trail would end at Paddy's, though a knowledgeable few claimed that Shart somehow lived around here.

After a few more scoutings, we found that Shart had become suddenly wealthy, opulent and retired-age old in the time since we had last seen her and she lead us into a domicile, sure to be home to a Supporting-level member of NPR, far too fancy for the likes of any hasher, asking us to remove shoes before being lead into the resplendent basement nicer than any of our parents', replete with a bathroom, exercise equipment, a sauna, and white carpet we were sure to not leave any visible stains on. It turned out to be Shart's housesitting charge.

Virgins were demented by Gnome, who forgetting that Jack was Jack, asked him if he had an uncle Jack and what he would do to help his Uncle Jack. We didn't find them acceptable but took them anyway. Accusations flew, including showering because of wine in the hair. Upcoming events such as Marathon were announced. We swung low and assured the Virgins-Cum-Justs that we would always have good beer on trail and we also always end in the cozy warmth of private Cambridge chateaus of some Harvard professor. At some point in time, remaining hashers did crow pose and I don't remember why. Sporadically, Shart's boyfriend came to check on us, never staying more than the minimum 10 seconds to confirm that we were alive.


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