A Drinking Club with a Running Problem
Sir Tote My Pole of Boddington-Upon-Leicestershire arose from his slumber one Tuesday, the wintry chill reflecting the pallor of a visage reflective of the previous night’s debauching, in which many beers were draughted after a particularly revelsome hash. Whereupon he realized he was not in his own bed, but on the floor of his trusty companion Sir Kleinman of Mottram-in-Longendale, he resolv’d to seek retribution for the EGREGIOUS hangover now set upon him. Taking hold of Sir Kleinman’s arm, he shook it until he extracted a promise to hare the next hash. The commotion woke Sir Coco of the Chilly Bollocks, who threw an empty growler at them in his grogginess. The two immediately set upon him, insisting that such an affront could only be made right by joining them on a righteous quest.
And so it was, two weeks later, that our noble hares Just Dante and Cold Cocked (thus hereafter for the sake of brevity), assisted by the green-gilled Tote My Pole stood athwart the bridge of 6 Mile Creek, waiting to see who on Earth would deign to show themselves. As the minutes trickled by, Spike, Hot Lips, Just Jen, Just Greg, Obsessive Copulation Disorder, Assquatchtus Erectus, Just Betsey, Always a Bridesmaid and your truly joined their motley crew. After some semi-public pre-lubing, including an inexplicable tall-boy of Miller Lite, off we went. We were warned: false trails may be rewarded with bonus beer, to reward the VIRTUOUS and TRAIL-FOLLOWING!
Trail fanned out along each edge of the compass rose, and the streets did echo with the sounds of the pack’s calling. False trails were picked up on Columbia and both sides of Giles, and soon down the slippery stairs they went, frolicking amongst the wintry chill. Soon, the Kleinmanatic hare noted that the pack had found the first of several bonus beers, under the bridge by the turbid creek. After further exploration, a VILLAINOUS back check was noted by Spike, and back up the trail they went. Mysteriously, a true trail arrow pointed down Giles Street, and the DASTARDLY pavement-pounding began, much to the chagrin of the pack. Just Greg gave a whoop and a holler as he took the lead, flitting around the potholes with the agility of a woodsprite in his shorts. A suspicious-looking arrow pointed down the hill, and though the pack was suspicious, one by one we made our way down, Betsey nearly falling while skidding down the scree.
But wait! What is this deception? Down this hill and amongst these brambles… no BEER? The pack cursed the name of Sir Coco of the Frozen Nethers, and back up the hill they went, Sir Pole scampering up the hill with the dynamism of a deer. Over the Giles Street bridge they coursed, surging into Six Mile Creek preserve only to find a suspicious looking carriage: Sir Pole’s car! With coolers! Alas, it was a short-lived celebration, as no BN could be found. On-into the woods they went, where the trail suddenly swung upward, forcing the pack through shiggy and up a steep, muddy embankment, and back down. “WASTRELS! HOOLIGANS!” cursed Just Jen as the pack doubled their laundry load in thirty seconds.
Stopping for a short bonus beer and a round of JESUS SAVES! by the titular rock near the preserve, the pack followed the trail arrows… back OUT of the loop and into the parking lot… where what to our wondering eyes did appear but a BN in the asphalt! What joy! Hooray! A BEER NEAR for all! Duly refreshed, we continued out and down Giles, only to notice the faintest of markings pointing up the slope. Aha! Past the settling ponds we went, and up the slopes towards the Rec Way trail. Some confusion ensued, as markings were oddly fuzzy. It took the work of Assquatchtus Erectus Prodigimus to solve the series of CONFOUNDING checks before we were off down the Rec Way, over the hill, and on to the old Morse Chain factory, where the pack proceeded to become lost. Some of them short-cut entirely and were lost, while others spent a good eight minutes NOT DRINKING BEER and sniffing around. Eventually true trail took us through the service alley and down the back side, where the power substation runs through. Sir CoCo of the Icy Gonads was very helpful, almost too helpful for a hare, though the harriers finally discovered OCD pointing towards ON-IN at Just Jen’s Fortress of Awesomeness.
Down-downs were duly meted out to the usual suspects for their dizzying array of punishments. Some notables include Just Jen for hosting, Tote My Pole for enabling the hares (and being late to circle), Just Elaine for bobbitting entirely, Bridesmaid’s award for outstanding valor in the face of injury, Obsessive Copulation Disorder and Cold Cocked for copulating obsessively, and Just Dante for preventing completion of the deed by hurling a stuffed turtle into CoCo’s face. Naming opportunities such as “Turtlegasm” were discussed, and duly shelved after some contemplation.
And yea, the hash did go a piece, and get a piece, and all was laid to BURNINATION.