Well boys and girls, yet another week has gone by without any sign of hash trash. Your beloved and belated trash writer has struck again. So for those of you who were sitting safely at home on Thursday, slurping cola and lounging in your hover chair, hoping to vicariously experience the hash through the warm glow of your intertubes, the joke’s on you! But just in case you were wondering, YES, there was a hash last week; YES, there is still a world outside your chair; and NO, the apocalypse is not upon us (yet). Go outside and catch some vitamin D, will you?! Moving on…
Like I said, another week, another hash, and another naming. “Wait, what? Did he say naming?” Yes indeed, wankers and wankees, last week’s hash became an epic baptismal hash-naming spree! We interrogated 5 of our most recurring new lunatics, and named THREE of them!! Wow! But in the tradition of a good prime time network news show, I’m not going to give you the full story (and I’m not going to tell you their new identities) until the end of this post. Because first, you’ve gotta come back with me. Back where? Back to 1985.
This week’s hash was totally tubular, I mean like super rad and bodacious, man. That’s because this week’s theme turned the clocks back to nineteen-eighty-something, and forced us to shift our ponytails, pull up our neon tights and leg warmers, and strut our stuff as, like, the most gnarly-looking pack o’ hounds the world has ever seen. I have never seen so many jean skirts and neon scrunchies in my (admittedly short) life! Our two hares were appropriately decked out in “period attire,” and many of the harriers and harriettes were similarly donning their most bitchin’ clothing. I may have to go out on a limb and say that Show Me Your Posse took the cake with her jean shorts, a.k.a. jorts. Just the same, everyone’s costumes were fantastic. There were so many sunglasses being worn at night, passersby must have thought we were from L.A. Though I am a bit miffed that no one even got to eat the hares’ shorts!
The struture of the 80s trail was fairly standard, although these two harriettes did take advantage of their collossal 20-minute head-start and gave us a trail that was abundant with falses! While the format of the trail was familiar, the hash marks were specially-formulated with eighties goodness: the checks were in the shape of Pac-Man, the falses took the form of his formidible ghost foes, and I guess the hashmarks were supposed to be those little pills he eats. Ingenious! But where’s the Bonus Cherries?? Oh well…
Trail was fairly short this time around, in order to make time for naming interrogations: it was a mere three miles–for most of us, anyway. But some of us must have decided that just wasn’t enough. Yes, Lack-a-Virgin once again went in completely the opposite direction, and led Just Olin on some epic lackscapade that took them traipsing all over Old Metairie. Good grief. Come outta the closet already.
Well, that was fun, wasn’t it? Don’t you wish you were there? Yeah you do, especially because you missed out on the namings! So here it is, you lazy backsliders, as summarized in an earlier post:
Just Bea, our radical rollergirl representative, apparently gets a little ‘grabby’ when she has a few drinks in her. Therefore she will forever be known as:
Just Brian, our pool-building maven, was tricked by fellow hashers into making his car (and everything in a 5-block radius) smell like rotten fish boil leftovers. Therefore he will forever be known as:
Last but not least, Just Olin, avid runner and avid hasher (though that sounds like an oxymoron), has the unfortunate task of taking air samples around the city to ensure the dank mustiness of post-Katrina New Orleans is safe for human intake. Therefore he will forever be known as:
All in all, it was a very productive circle, after which we rewarded ourselves with some good ol’ fashioned pub grub (a.k.a. HASH) at Winston’s. Some food, some drink, and a rousing rendition of “Jesus can’t go hashing…”, and we were ON-OUT!