Hares: Dreary and Mum
Where: Fish Creek Park, at the end of Elbow Drive S
On-In: On The Rocks Pub and Grill
Big Rock: Have one in the woods!
Maybe Dreary's just getting weary in his old age, his elderly muscles and bones unable to withstand the rigors of setting a lengthy trail in Fish Creek Park.
Or after 453,986 runs, possibly he's just bored. Or perhaps after the previous week's Hash Ultramarathon Trail set by Lost in Space, Dreary just wanted to show mercy on the pack.
Whatever the reason, Dreary set a trail that only required 45 minutes to lay, and around half that to run. For example, Hardly and Twisty spent less time on trail than it took to drive from their fashionable home near Beddington Trail. Blue Balls could down a plate of wings and nachos faster. FIGJAM, well, you get the picture.
Hashers gathered on a cool June evening in the parking lot at the Elbow Drive to follow a trail set by Dreary and Mum through the jungles of Fish Creek Park.
It didn't take long for the trail to head across a swamp, although more industrious (re: chicken) hashers followed the pathway so they wouldn't get their sensitive, itty-bitty feet wet.
That would come later, courtesy of two crossings of Fish Creek, including one just before the beer re-group. Then it was back to the parking lot, and up the hill to On the Rocks, which was once a fairly regular hash hangout, or at least was when it was called the Bent Elbow.
Guest RA Hardly dispensed hash justice, such as it was, with a velvet glove, and beer that, um, left a little to be desired in the taste department. It could be called swill, or Bud Light, just as a for instance.
Hardly made the horrible decision to appoint Whale Wanker, who fancies himself as a cross between a poor-man's Pavarotti and Justin Bieber, as the only choir member. It was a mistake that would live in infamy, or at least till Hardly tried to undo it by firing Mr. Wanker halfway through his wretched solo set.
Hardly then picked King Shit, who tried to play the Tom Jones-Engelbert Humperdinck-Vegas lounge lizard role to the hilt. That, too, failed miserably.
It was hard to figure which was worse, the choir's singing attempts, or the beer. It was close. But there were still down-downs:
Of course not. Ms. Lick, still angry about Mucky stiffing her on joint RA duties, admitted that she killed Ms. Dip and planted her in Ms. Lick's potato patch.
The cold-blooded assassin drank a down-down for her evil deed, and quite
Duke of Hurl
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