Hares: On In, Raghead
Location: Museum of the Regiments
Well once again the sun did not shine on the Rabbid Burns Day Run. You think the hares would do something about that.. Nevertheless it was a nice night to run.
With many Hashers fresh from the Ski Hash weekend. Although there is not a officially a Calgary Ski Hash, if there was we would have had our first naming "Big Black Helmut" you know who you are. And would someone tell ACD why we laugh at the word "Helmut". (I'm too shy).
Back at the Rubber Burns Run the pack is beginning to gather I had no sooner grabbed my pad and pen when Lakey begins to lecture me on how to scribe. Can we punish her for that?? Right after I lost Lakey in the crowd Left Bun starts at me with her directions, and I quote "you can't print that"!!! The restless pack had noticed that there was no piper. No sooner had we noticed this faux-pas when Left Bun & Right Bun got together and broke wind. It was a sound that brought a tear to this scribe's eye... ach!
After a quick circle up by Knobslinger, the Scottish lads handed out a nip of the cheap stuff. And it worked 'cause while I was nipping I completely missed the run instructions.
As we headed away from the museum of the regiments I saw a Raghead standing on a corner (under a lamp post). The slut was hustling his cheap stuff.......After another nip of the Scottish nectar I found myself at the back of the pack. But after a good strong walk I was soon at the front...Ya gotta love Hashing.
Up ahead you could see a Hasher, the desperate I Am had hung her red light out. Judging by the number of male hashers around her (an unusual sight) I assumed she was making a lot of money. While negotiating a price we were interrupted by Thong Que, who was fresh from a trip to Baltimore where she found herself. Thong Que complained to me about how poorly male hashers go down.
It was time to move on from those degenerates. Soon I found the saintly Shaq-Shoc who was looking for a Virgin. No, she is not that picky. When questioned she defined a mail virgin as anyone over 2 years or has gone 2 years without sex. Which would pretty much describe most male hashers.
A stool pigeon on the trail pointed out that Knobby was not just wearing another tasteless dress but actually one of Left Bun's sheets.
After cumming up and going down several times the tired hashers soon found themselves back at the Museum. It was a confused pack that returned with stories (or hallucinations) of Tubbles sprinting up a hill and overtaking P'tooie.
It was noted at the Museum that the Feathers have been locked away. By the way who has the Hash Pillow anyway??)
Soon we were downing Whalewhanker for his 350th Hash. (Congrats you lifeless wanker).
Then we named Mary "The Virgin", thanked and downed On In and Raghead for a job well done. We then named Jorge (pronounced whore-eh) "Hannibal (eat me) The Cannibal. I Like Beige and Dreary were downed for the hot tub frolic on the Ski trip. Stranger was downed for his swollen limb??
The Royal Sceptre, sometimes called Hash Shit was passed on from 007 to Tiny Bubbles who was caught Fropping. Tubbles was forced to kiss the steamy sweaty head of Pole Vault. Who it must be added managed to complete a run without hospitalization - 3 cheers.
The pack soon paused as the sound of the Hash Pipes (wind pipes) could be heard. Yes, the moment we had been waiting for was here - the haggis had arrived. Raghead said grace and On In spewed amazing poetry - I believe it was Irish.
After a few more nips of beer the following comments were heard over the sound of Haggis burps:
As the night drew to a close there was one last hallucination - Tubbles handcuffed to ACD.
It is time to go ...On On...