A Drinking Club with a Running Problem
Ten hut! All present and accounted for sir! Sound off and be counted: Unidentified Feathered Orifice, Bedside Pole Dancer, Cocktail Frank, Lollypoop, Fetch, Party Doll, Master Baster, Spike, Pig Fucker, Extra Testicle, Harry Condom Junior, Floss, Porcelain Goddess, Jiffy Lube…..all here Check!!
Just after we crossed the bridge on Route 89 I signaled, and then executed a right turn into the north entrance of the park. Off in the distance I could see a small but jubilant crowd huddled in the lea of a white van with a curious structure on the roof. Once we stepped out of the car we knew why the group was huddled close in behind the van. Despite the warm sun on the lovely March day the air was sharp, like the dull edge of a pomegranate. The wind off Cayuga Lake compounded matters for sure. It was chilly standing there in the parking lot but I managed to stay warm by diverting blood from my hands and feet to my extra testicle, which was pumping like a second heart. This all because I caught a glimpse of PGs pronounced labia majora through her britches. A few others saw what I saw (one even got a camera image of it). One squealed, “camel toe!” but that did PG an injustice…….to me she was sporting nothing short of a moose knuckle!
Anyway, we waited a spell for folks who we assumed might show, however Hot Lips did not show. While we waited, some of us had a beverage while others of us tussled the hairs on a small dog’s head. After a quick scan of the near by parking lots for the directionally impaired and illiterate we made our way out.
No sooner had we got under way when Fetch was offered a special prize. A park ranger, serving and protecting, drove over to tell him that running on a certain stone wall was worth a $250.00 fine. The good news is that said ranger presented this fine to Fetch as an offer, like , “how would you like a $250.00 fine?” For some reason Fetch turned his offer down…. go figure? Oh if only more law enforcement officers made people offers like that….. “say how would you like this speeding ticket?”
I am no stranger to the Beaster Egg Hash so I knew it was inevitable that we would be climbing up some formidable hills, but I did not expect it to happen so soon. In no time we were ON! So on-on we were and on-up we went….and up….and up…and up. Just as Cocktail Frank and I cleared the tree-line we felt this eerie sense that we were alone. The air was getting thin so neither of us was lucid in our thinking, if only one of us had brought oxygen. This I do recall: there were two FRBs up ahead and no hairs to be seen below. Then my worst fears came true, from the clouds ahead back down the hill strode the FRBs waiving there arms, “avast….avast!” Yes, it happened once again, back check some number that wound us up nearly at the bottom of the mountain.
When we rejoined the tail-end of the group, they were already searching for treasures in an ancient cemetery. Our eyes frantically scoured the leaf covered ground for signs of beer and or egg. Some came up with hard-boiled eggs, some came up with candied sex organs, and still others came away with the crown jewel, a Rolling Rock pony. After a careful count of the booty in our hands matched the count of booty left on the ground by the hairs, we left the area in search of more Beaster Egg joy.
With the sugar coursing in our veins from chocolate breasts, penises, and vaginas we went on up the hill further in search of more wonderment and merry. With our noses pressed to the ground we took to trail like darts. Not long after we fanned out once again, like archaeologists we divided and quartered yet another patch of forest floor looking for hair droppings. This process repeated several times over, running followed by searching, followed by running and so on.
As the light of day waned and the weight of our treasure bags summoned lactic acid to build up in our arms we finally headed down the hill again. It must be noted that the day was quite beautiful. Had I been stuck in a cave…. dead… waiting to emerge after somebody rolled a big rock away I would have been sad to have missed such a day as this. But….this is the good news my friends…I was not dead in a cave…I was not in Iraq, I was not trying to sell a condo in Florida, I do not own Bear Stearns shares, and I was certainly not Elliot Spitzer trying to explain to Silda where that barnacle like thing on his pecker came from. The good news is that I was hashing! What a day to be hashing!
So down Rice Hill I went. So filled with joy was I, Pig Fucker, and Master Baster that we all three blew right through a treasure check. We three returned to the vehicles alone and when no one else showed we ran back to once again join the group. However, before we could find our friends it seems as though the park rangers got to them first. No tickets or fines levied but more fuel for all of us to wonder just how safe we really are in the hands of our law enforcement brothers?
To escape the searing cold we headed off to Floss’s home to convene the circle. The hairs drank for a shitty trail, Master Baster for a hash crash, and Harry Condom, ET, UFO, and Bedside Pole Dancer for comes lately. Master Baster was awarded the “who said head” award and Bedside Pole Dancer received a rather unusual apron, one equipped with a strap on penis. I cannot recall all of the awards and punishments that were doled out because the circle lasted for an eternity. In fact I would say that for I it was the longest circle ever. There was much singing and much laughing. The phrase, “when one hair drinks all hairs drink” was commonly heard bellowing over the crowd.
“Closing time….you don’t have to go home but you can’t stay here”……….not true! We closed the circle and did stay! The pizza arrived, we reduced our beer supply, and we enjoyed the company of many a fun individual.
Harry Condom and I left happy but without our mugs…lord knows what will become of them.