IH3 Trail #483

Run #: ?? (June 4, ’06)
Hare: Commander Burpenstain
Start: Plantations off Freese Rd.
In attendance: Spike, Hot Lips, Floss, LOA, Country Cock, Just Karen, Just Amanda
Scribe: Country Cock

Many apologies for taking so long to get this out. Seeing as it’s almost time for the next hash, I’d better stop killing kittens and get to it [Note for Just Amanda’s sake: actually, no kittens were killed during the writing of this rehash]. I’ll make up for tardiness with lengthiness (and thus give those who weren’t able to attend a virtual tour, as it were. Specifically, Toothy, we missed you and hope you’re doing well in the final leg of your pregnancy. The hare even had something special for you, as you’ll see, which, don’t worry, we didn’t go anywhere near!).

It was a crappy, rainy day, like most of the past few weeks, but not too terrible a turnout compared to the past few hashes. (For you virtual hashers, fill your tub with a layer of about six inches of mud and periodically run the shower–cold only–and whip yourself with tree branches while reading this.) I arrived punctually at 3:15 or so to find Spike and Hot Lips sleeping in their cars (yes, each in his own car), no doubt resting up for the cold, wet death march to come. This was, after all, a (fill in the title) Burpenstain hash. So I turned up the radio and settled back to watch the rain and mentally and physically prepare myself for the ordeal His Burpness was still out setting. Floss and LOA soon rolled up, followed shortly by the Burp Himself, who opened his trunk to reveal several cases of crap beer–warm, to boot–which, now having joined him in diminishing rains outside, we tapped into as further preparation. He even had a case or two of non-alcoholic beer, prompted by a rumor that Toothy might be joining us (he must have thought she’s a heck of a lush).

We stood around shooting the shit a while and just about when we’d decided it was sufficiently dead and we should perhaps start this hash thing, a neon yellow Neon pulled up alongside with Just Karen and Just Amanda. (JK got out and, announcing that it was or had recently been her birthday, put on a paper tiara, which she sported the entire hash.) Apparently, JK had been to one (or more?) recent hash and liked it enough to not only come back but drag her daughter into this mess, too. I can just imagine the scene at the breakfast table:
JK: Good morning!
JA: Eh.
JK: Hey, I’m doing this thing later and I’d like you to come along.
JA: Eh. [Scribe’s note: I don’t mean to disparage JA, but she’s a teenager…]
JK: I think you’d like it. Maybe we could skip church and all that God stuff and run around in the rain, through muddy fields and woods? [voice getting higher and trailing off at the end there] And even though I can’t let you drink, there’ll be lots of beer and, well, frankly, I’ve been a little worried about you. I just don’t think you’ve been cussing enough lately, and these folks … their language can get pretty effin’ colorful.
JA: Hmmm. Yeah, I guess. But only if you wear your tiara.

Which was great for us (not the tiara, lovely as it was, but the fact that JA came along), ’cause JA was not only a trooper through the extensive shiggy B ‘n’ S had us run through (sans beer, mind you!) but she was fun to make squirm. But more on that later.

Finally, at about 3:45, after some comparative reminiscences of their recent experiences in Australia from Floss, LOA, and Spike (the usual hash talk about beer, pubs, and sheep, with a slightly exotic flavor), the consensus was we should get on with it, so B ‘n’ S ran us through chalk talk and off we went. First, along plantation fields, with marks soon found (meanwhile JA and JK were off on the perimeter running their own trail, for which they would be summarily punished later), then along another plantation field, skirting a stream, and to a check. (Amazingly, marks were laid well enough that they weren’t washed away; maybe B ‘n’ S could give future hares some pointers.) After some mishaps, true trail was found along a path into the woods and off we were into what I consider the Monkey Run area. Off we went, then up and up and up we went, then, checks here and there, and down we went (you know the deal), until we reached a check near one of the bridges over Cascadilla Creek. This was soon solved across said creek, and led to Beer Check #1. We took the cooler to a more secluded spot by the creek and settled in to watch a group of kayakers go over the small dam there. Which, much to our chagrin, they did effortlessly. But they weren’t quite so good at catching the beer Floss tossed to one of them (which, it turned out, was one of the non-alcoholic ones, so no great loss).

More shit was shot, a tree that had fallen into the water was shifted a few feet (I never understood exactly why, and the only thing that could have made it entertaining–watching one of the kayakers slip off while trying to walk it–failed to happen), we drank our beers, and were soon off again. Trail led back over the creek via the other bridge (the bouncy wooden one) and along the creek for a bit. Somehow, we wound our way over to 366, which we crossed near the intersection with Forest Home, and then into the trailer park. Up the hill and to a check that had us stumped for a while and then trail led to the far reaches of the park and through a tiny break in the trees back onto trails within another area of the plantations. Along plantation fields again and to a check at Turkey Hill Rd.

It seemed like time to be heading back, so I checked down, caught a mark and then an arrow leading onto an old railroad bed and then … a false! Yeah, a false after an arrow. I know! Well, B ‘n’ S would drink for that later (he also couldn’t count marks before falses, setting four on several occasions. The shirt he wore that day reminded us he’s in theoretical and applied mechanics, which apparently doesn’t require math). Back up the hill and true trail was found across the road into a small development of huge, new, ugly houses. A left at the end and back onto, you guessed it, the railroad bed that was a false a minute ago. Along that for a bit, past what was purportedly Little Miss’s former house, along it for a bit more, and to another Beer Check.

Somehow we got on the topic of the Internet and all the fine things to be found there. Meaning, of course, porn. Which led to someone mentioning a site where you can watch a kitten being killed while you pleasure yourself (based on the, I believe, fundamentalist Christian attempt to dissuade self-pleasurement by trying to convince people that every time you do the deed alone, another kitten dies. Which, of course, led to someone setting up a site where kitten-hating self-pleasurers could satisfy two of life’s great pleasures at once.) This discussion went on for longer than warranted simply because it was so much fun watching JA writhe and squirm at the mention of either self-pleasuring oneself or killing kittens. Plus the cursing thing: any curse was met with protests and more squirming. We just couldn’t get enough of this!

But, actually, eventually we did. And off we went looking for trail again. It was soon found along the same railroad bed, which led, eventually, over 366 on that bridge that is so obviously an old railroad bridge but which very few of us had ever scoped out to see if there was a trail along it. There was indeed, and it soon led us to Monkey Run Rd. and a check. (Somewhere around here we lost Hot Lips, who had to get back home.) I seem to recall this was a backcheck (wish I’d written this closer to the actual event so I could actually remember…), but in either case, true trail was found on a trail starting from the left side of the parking lot that few of us knew existed. Into the woods we went. Checks here and there, more trail running, and eventually back out to the lower plantations, along those fields, and back to the start.

Circle time: We all agreed the trail sucked and was way too dry and sang a happy tune to B ‘n’ S while he drank for that. In no particular order, I recall other offenses included FRBs (Floss, Spike, and me), Bleab (Spike), Blab (JK and JA), B ‘n’ S for not being able to count and setting falses after arrows, Comes Lately (me), Bobbitt (JK and JA; even though they did run the whole trail, they cut off a small amount of the beginning … you see, this and other offenses I can’t recall were a product of us trying to come up with any excuse for a drink, even if it was someone else drinking. As Groucho Marx once said, ‘Here’s to your health, your beauty, your grace, and your generosity. Which gives you some idea of how desperate I am for a drink.’ Or something like that). And JK was given a side-side, tiara and all, for having clocked in another year. (JA is so lucky, or, perhaps, unlucky. How many of us have seen our mothers do a side-side? Just put some more singles in the jar for future therapy sessions for her, JK). More target practice on some shit and we soon departed.

Next hash: June 18, Staffy Puller and a mystery co-hare.