Hares: Mum, My Little Pony
Where: Lighthouse Pub, 1140 - 137 Street SE (in Deer Run)
People: 53
Oh, the horrors: Too far south, too warm, not enough snow, no rain, too much beer, no lack of lewd/suggestive behavior. Yes, I could understand why some fine feathered northerners could have mistaken this southern locale for Florida, it as probably Dreary's thong/Leprechaun outfit that gave it away. Shudder.
Anyway, the ineptly clumsy/falling down drunk Skeubicair did his best to find someone who was actually listening during the circleup fiasco. Failing that, he introduced the dynamic duo, the pair o' hares, the ladies wit' chalk who determined harehood was next to doghood, er godhood.
MyLittlePony and Mum used up said chalk with the best of 'em, and even found copious severely shiggylike substance throughout the run, hats off!, take a bow. Spewbich was so awed by the whole process that he feigned injury for the majority of the run. It actually looked like a feeble attempt to gain sympathy from the crowd, or was that the right word?
Lots of wailing and cat-calling later, the Lighthouse beckoned, and we all plunged beneath the heartless waves of inebriation with nary a whimper. (?)
Soon beer flowed like………beer, and everyone became happier, and a lot better looking, and smarter, somewhat sexier, and broke. Much like Monday evening Hashers do do.
ACD and ND decided that sex in far off places is better, so they're fucking off. I'll always remember with fondness the sight of ACD bent over the pool table while ND whacked her.
Eventually, Neon Stripppper and the Knob were dancing about and giving away beer to the enthralled masses of enrapt watchers. Can't remember who, can't remember why, but soon the choir found a song in their throats for all the sundry misdemeanors and sexual stuff that the amassed Irish pretenders lied about.
It was so exciting that we left, and so missed the really interesting bits. Sorry about that.
On-On!
Pole Vault
PS: Surely to god someone can do a better job of this drivel than I can. See me for details as to how you can realize your greatest aspirations and WRITE your own damn HASHSHEET.
Every Monday, between burps, someone will read this rot and smirk at your total lack of grammatical prowess, ludicrous syntactical fuckups, and generally badly remembered rubbish. You could end up working for the Sun/Herald rag producers in only 5 weeks, 4 if you're really bad.