IH3 Trail #680: The Totally True Tail of Two Flourless Chocolate Trails

Posted on March 2, 2013 by Gispert

On a gorgeous blustery day in February, indeed practically on the very birthday of foundling hare Itty Bitty Cocker Titty, seven intrepid bright-eyed bushy-tailed souls came out to follow a trail in the woods by Cold Cocked’s ever-evolving domicile upon Hunt Hill. Though chalk talk was unremarkable, Cummando Cobbler did the nigh-unthinkable, displaying slightly more than the customary half-mind: the omnipresent huaraches were switched out for bombproof-looking XC boots.

Unsurprisingly, trail was hard to find, but they managed. After setting off and being “hinted” down the road, Kickstand found a trace of either a bit of roadkill or barely-pink flour, hard to tell… but there it was: a HT. HASH TARGET — wherein the pack was instructed to arc a stick as close to the bullseye in the snow. MB and Kickstand came closest, so the prizes (a can of Genny Bock each!) were shared among the thirsty souls so they could get a move on.On-into the woods we proceeded, occasionally finding a bit of what could be flour, or possibly the WHITE HAND OF DEATH CULT markings.

Skirting above the wide Ellis Hollow along a 4×4 trail, where after a few minutes and a couple falses we found: HT! Hash Toss! The mission: chuck the log!

Cummando Cobbler acquitted himself nobly with a well-practised fling of the 30lb. V-shaped log, with Flesh Flaps putting in a good showing in the Harriette ranks. Bock for the victors, and we were off!

…Down a beautiful bluff skirted with shiggy, cedar and hemlock trees, on our butts for most of 650 feet, into the basin of Ellis Hollow. And found an R10. Straight back up. No surprises.

Direct pictures of the evidence of such treachery were too much for the pack to handle.While taking a few minutes to catch our breath, we checked each other for ticks and assessed battle damage, soon to find that Cobbler had given himself his own trail prize to take home —>

After all had assembled, we stumbled around to find: HP! HASH PYRAMID!

Bock beer was once again proffered to those who grew a mighty thirst that demanded quenching, and so the pack was as grateful to the hares as it was peevish.

Having not yet been exhausted of hills, the harriers continued up a little rise–marked with purple alien powder–through a delightful frozen bog, pockmarked with brush tufts like bosu balls, slushy sinkholes and surprise wet breaks in the ice, thanking Cocker Titty for his choice of terrain every step of the way. After skirting some old treefalls, we appeared upon a BN! Marked in red! 15 steps from the first Hash Game! Huzzah, beer!

And it was tasty.

We were enjoying the wind so much, beautiful as it was, but the exposure made us cold. CoCo hinted that we should warm ourselves up with some HASH LOVE, and to keep an eye out for it on the next section. A buried inside-out squirrel turned out to be a hash mark (we think), the pack plunged through knee-deep snowdrifts, past some horses who wanted to go hashing, across the road, and into “The Land of 1000 Streams, hearkening back to that magical time this summer when it was warm, green, and CoCo used more than a half-bag of flour and bits of Crystal Light.

Down an embarkment, across a stream, up the wash and…

HASH LOVE, baby. Cummando grabbed Flesh Flaps. They loved. She asked tenderly: “Who should be the responsible one tonight?” His reply, “I’m not doing too bad,” was met by a sweet “I’ll be good. You have fun.” The pack went AWWWWW and shared a group hug. And a group beer.

Up the trail we followed — it being surprisingly easy to spot markings now — crossing six streams, numerous trees, and an R12 (bastards), we soon happened upon a familiar crossing and

… YES! The fridge! BN!

An old GE fridge from the good old days remains in the woods somewhere on Hunt Hill, and it is here we gather for a BN and to tell lies.

It is also here we gather and do science, like to see whether or not a tongue will stick to the steel. It does.

After our experiments had concluded, there was yet more trail to be had, and the harriers would not be persuaded to Bobbit the rest of trail. Following deer trails to a nearby house, we knew it wouldn’t be far… and of course we were pleasantly surprised by a good path into a quick ON IN!

Props here to the hares for going to the trouble of laying a fire, Dan’l Boone-style, lest the pack ravage CoCo’s hut.

And so we gathered and we warmed and we told lies and we sang hymns to Gispert, Pastor Baster calling up on Him to bless us with his Heavenly Light upon the Hash.
CAN I HEAR AN ON ON?
(ON ON!)
We sang for Cocker Titty and to CoCo for a truly cocked-up, flourless hash.
(ON ON!)
We sang for Cocker Titty for his birthday.
(SIDE SIDE!)
We sang for Kickstand for being r*cist that morning.
(ON ON!)
We sang for Flesh Flaps for her sweet offer to Cummando.
(OH MY!)
We sang for Ookie Cookie, his carpooling, and his dry lips!
(ON ON!)
We sang for Cocker Titty and CoCo for an egregious R up the bluff.
(FUCK YOU!)
We sang for Cocker Titty for being the second-most inappropriately-dressed.
A prize was awarded: a pair of used Body Glove jockey shorts, and for leaving his clothing everywhere, after every hash.
(ON ON!)

We sang for Cummando Cobbler.
We sang to him for wearing decent footwear.
(FOR ONCE!)
We sang to him for being the most inappropriately-garbed for the situation.
(ON ON!)
We sang to him for his outstanding shiggy-burn.
(FUCK YEAH!)
A prize was awarded: a very fine pair of quality menswear, suitable for sensitive areas, long journeys, and dunga-prevention.

dong — Imagine this, but with more lint, ink, and who-knows-what-else.

And we sang a new song, to a hasher so single-half-mindedly dogged in his hashing, so impervious to the elements, having transcended pants for all time, and thus so deserving of membership in the Ranks of the Cocks… Ladles and jellyspoons,
!!
CAN I GET AN ON ON FOR
!!
CUMMANDO COCK CGOBBLER*
!!
(ON ON!)
!!
In recognition for his new name, and his membership high in the ranks of the Cocks, to Cummando Cock CGobbler was
A prize awarded: A beautifully-crafted, well-worn 8-inch flesh-colored rubber dong, complete with mushroom tip, suction-cup base, and a rather exquisite pair of balls.

Take this sigil with you whenever you hash, Cummando Cock CGobbler, and let people know you by the wiggle of your waggle.

Time to register for Stinko.
See you this Sunday at Spike’s place, and look out for the Twin Peaks/Amateur Hour/Steak & Blowjob Day next hash on 3/17!

With love to Gispert and all,

~Pastor Baster

PS: I guess we’ll have to find out where Kickstand found that… Cock.

Category: ReHash