25th Analversary Hash Trash 4.29.12
Hares: Cum on My Back-teria, Diaper Rash, Coxcycle, Slurpee Seconds, Scottish Fingercuffs, 2 Vicadin and a Bottle of Wine
Hashers: oh god here we go…. Ring Around the Russel, Used Virgin, Minute Man, Private Showing, Trim My Bush, After School Special, Analytical, Suzie ChapsDicks, I’m Not a Cock, Rambush: First Blood, Six o’Cock, The Rapist, Pubio, Phantom of the Aerola, Show ‘n Tell, Cakehole, Ben Wa Ball-less, Touch Myself In General, Semper Pi, Ride the Pony, Big Fat Fuck, Donkey, Winter Merkin, Chicken Dick, Jingle Pants, Altered Boy, Full Mental Jacket, Hi Ho Hi Ho, Rubber Gloves, Broken Boner, Ford Flaphead, Heavy Load, Trannyhead, No Pussy for Him, Udderly Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuucked, Sex and Ate, Decorated Asshole, Dudley J. NoSwell, Vagiant, Fish Bait, Sleeps in His Sister’s Bed, Ice Bitch, Damaged Goods, Olive Dick, Lube My Beads, Just Mallory, Just Nicki, Just Chris, Just Sarah, the Aussie with bowling shoes (replace with real name), a Virgin and a wank or two more.
We raised our kilts and our flamboyantly colored vessels in honor of our 25 years of debauchery, beer, shiggy, and many foot miles. The start was located near the very first Detroit hash in 1987 (Winter Merkin wasn’t quite 2 years old then, you old fucks). Hashers were so excited for the day that many showed up early, and many more showed up late. The hashers received their commemorative t-shirts and mugs for the event, and Coxcycle was giving his commemorative blow-jobs (aka “the Cock-suckle”) in honor of the day. Chicken Dick strutted around the crowd in his mullet wig and jean vest/short ensemble like an unwanted extra from “Roadhouse”, and a large bunch of overachieving wankers came to circle with that sore “Diaper Rash” gait from racing in the Running Fit Trail races earlier that weekend.
The trail was a pleasant run: 3 miles or so with visible markings, no “Falses” or “Back-Checks”, groomed pathways and dry as dry could be, and then monkeys flew out of our buttholes on a rainbow . FUCK. THAT. If that first sentence were true, I wouldn’t still be applying Gold Bond to my itching knees and calves or trying to wash out the orange tinge in my socks that the Rouge River left behind. Holy fucking Shiggy. Everyone, at one time or another, had been molested by the low-hanging branches, the stinging nettles, the creeping vines, or the ever-lurking Jingle Pants. The hashers were getting fucked on this trail; they were getting fucked for hours, “uprooting trees and shrubs and flowers”. With the burn of the “Mystery Drank” still coating their throats, the hashers waded through high waters, slipped through bogs of eternal stench, straddled large logs (other than Sex and Ate’s), and sacrificed their skin and blood to the Hash gods.
By the time the first beer check was in sight, the FRB’s were so eager to get their muddy paws on some pudding shots they dove right into the deep murky waters of the river and swam their way to glory. Nevermind the warning calls from the hares to “NOT CROSS THE RIVER”, the tetanus, hep-c, cholera and parasites floating in the tepid waters, those hashers were thirsty for some ramekins filled with boozy, creamy love. The second beer check was equally appreciated after a long haul. At some point COMB fell victim to a stranger’s indecent exposure of stranger-danger wang (no joke), and some hashers lost and found trail after being misguided by locals yelling at each other in the middle of the woods (at that time Cakehole said, “We’re safer in numbers”).
The close of the hash came with much to be celebrated at circle. Many hashers received their 50/100/200 runs patches, and others celebrated personal achievements and other analversaries. We watched many a kilt go up, many a song sung, and many a beer drank. Since there were abajillion hashers present, accusations were thrown around as freely and as loosely as Show ‘n Tell and BFF’s weekend game of “pitcher and catcher”. Olive Dick and Sleeps had to both drink due to the shift of weight they exchanged recently. At least 5 had to suffer the safety-down-downs for acts of chivalry on trail as well. The evening was merry, and below are pictures to prove that MOA2H3 still knows how to run a hash after 25 years.