Trail kicked off promptly-ish at 1830, with Rusty as the hare and Cunt and myself as the brave ( unsuspecting) visitors. We got the lightning-speed tutorial on hash marks and inter-fuktions---basically, "follow the arrows, expect chaos, drink whatever shows up."<br/>
Wine check? Nope--whiskey. Because apparently, we're honoring the Irish or just skipping foreplay and going straight to regret.<br/><br/>
We dashed off through scenic Ryan Park, circling a lake with views so lovely the locals re-experienced nature--some for the first time since their last hangover. Along the way, a younger of the group still seasoned hasher reminisced about his first trail 21 years ago. Whether he was recruited by an Aloha hasher or stranded with a dead car and rescued by degenerates remains unclear. What is clear: somewhere in the story, someone peed in a bottle, someone else drank it, and someone probably puked. Hash magic.<br/><br/>
At the whiskey stop, we paused for drinks, a view, and an impromptu hash quartet that may or may not have been trying to court the visitors--or just needed a reason to harmonize about genitals.
Then came the beer check, AKA "Where the hell is the beer?" The hare told us it was 120 feet from the check. Feet? Meters? Nautical miles? We scoured the woods and stream while the mosquitoes filed restraining orders against us. The beer was eventually found, the DFL trickled in, and the hash songs kept flowing--unfamiliar to us visitors, but catchy enough we'll probably hum them at our next doctor's office visit.<br/><br/>
Somewhere on trail, a side quest emerged: the Flying Squirrel Incident. Or was it? Stories flew faster than the squirrel itself--if it existed. Was it a marsupial miracle or a booze-fueled hallucination? Doesn't matter. As tradition dictates:<br/>
10% truth, 90% lies, f*ck it--we believe you.<br/><br/>
Trail wrapped with a looping finish and an impressive -69.9 score, which is either terrible or genius. Backsliders were interrogated, visitors got riddled, and the whole experience started feeling like that scene from Ocean's 12 where Matt Damon's character blurts out "Your niece is a whore." No nieces were harmed in the making of this trail. Probably.<br/><br/>
And let's not forget the DFL, whose unzipped fly stole the spotlight. Hashers admired it like a sunset or a fine whiskey--awkwardly, and with commentary.<br/><br/>
Circle ended quickly--like your dad.<br/>
On~On <br/>Cum So Hard Me Die and Cunt-ographer