Kitty not to be seen - must still be frantically
setting trail. BEAB (Bloodie Earlie Arriving Bast'r'd) again was My Cock's a Fallen, the cocksy one might be in for a down-down if he keeps this up. No visitors, no virgins and the chilly evening airs descending from the hills of a Saanich park. Kitty not to be seen - must still be frantically
setting trail. BEAB (Bloodie Earlie Arriving Bast'r'd) again was My Cock's a Fallen, the cocksy one might be in for a down-down if he keeps this up.
The mob gathered at a civil half hour or so after published time, called to circle up by Jonners the RA but the intros were a bit puzzling as some hashers tried confusing the new not yet named crowd with switched up names. The hare, pretty much a BLAB at his own abode, when called into the circle to explain the day's events, scattered some flaky substance about to embellish even flakier stories of no hills, no shiggy, no snow. Well he was right once.
The trail, being marked in bird food (oatmeal) was a bit sketchy, but what do you expect from someone who spends much of a working day at 15 to
30,000 feet. Itchy made points with his enviro-conscious Flopps by picking up plastic along the trail and adding to the confusion of what the hash
is really all about for "just Paul". Is it the enviro angle? (Beaver was charged once for spilling used once beer too close to a creek) or is it all
about the beer? There's lots of that, then again there's all that sexual innuendo - still hard to tell for sure. However the hare was thorough - even
the walking trail was well marked and all arrived at a hill top view point at about the same time.
Then down again for a Beer Check near the bottom where Stoolie showed up almost last of the mob! and we were all entertained by a very healthy and virile Doberman who showed off with easy prancing up and down the fire road at the BC. Then got it up quite instantly in an attempt to service another similar dog. But alas, the confused but horny dog had tried to mount another male and the owner of that dog was not amused as he glared at the mob and we sucked our beer.
A short trot or walk back down the hill to Kitty Licker's back deck, the rabble gathered to be
entertained by Stoolie giving a fashion demonstration
of a strange tubular cloth garment which he claimed was head gear (who said head? I'll have some of that . . .) but looked like it might have been a
trophy woman's tube top from summer's adventure! A Danube River souvenir perhaps? . . .
After the hare was down-downed for an eatable trail marking system he quickly entered the house. While keeping an eye on us he warmed up his mother's chili and prepared multiple bags of bread.
The circle continued with Jack-off, back in town from the far reaches of Europa, charged with presentation of new shoes, while Cocksy & Puss'n Boots were down downed for getting lost - together. Then the RA, temporarily relieved of duties, was blessed with a VH3 cake to celebrate his first anniversary at the VH3. But the event of the night was Grog's naming (Grog it turns out is just a college nick name not a real hash name) - may he from this day forth be known as Frontal Lobotomy.
The remaining hashers were soon scooping chili and fine bread by a warm fire with fine beverages and with some of JC's favourite easy listening rock in the background.
On on!
Beaver
