Hash Trash for #230 – now DOUBLE your pleasure!

Turns out Just Rachel AND myself both wrote hash trashes for last night’s trail. Great minds drink– I mean, think alike! Just Rachel was evidently far more sober than I was when writing mine. Read ’em and weep!


Happy New Year! You have a clean slate to sully up for 2012, so gear up hashers, since we have a full year of tampons-up-the-butt ahead of us.

First off, Jizz Rag is a terrible pace booty. White Girl Wasted fell on her booty 3 minutes into this trail.

Everything Butt Sex and Jefferson Starfish laid some terrible trail all along the Bayou last night. I hit not one, but two YBFs, and had to use technology to find out we were at least 1.5 miles from the first BN anyway. At the Mortuary!? I’ve never been so DFL in my life. We did enjoy watching a guy run sideways on a treadmill, who stopped as soon as we ran by and he realized he looked like a fool in the gym.

Half of the runners gave up on the second half of the trail when we ran into the walkers, and then we desecrated a couple of graves. Ass Burgler was accused of trail-pissing. Someone took a piss in circle. Voodoo Hash might have some bad juju coming its way, especially with Just Nkule taking photo-ops on fresh grave plots.

Circle produced one of the most interesting virgin sacrifices I’ve ever seen: Knave provided some lovely wine-soaked tampons for the poor bastard to suck on. He was nearly named Just Dirty Cotton Mouth after he threw it on the ground. Hashers not trashers, people. Tidy Bowl Man also presented us with Just Sean’s Lucidore mask and a 34A bra that apparently did not fit on Mexican Gum Job’s lovely rack. If you missed the flash, there’s plenty of free porn on the internet, but nothing beats beating it to a live show. Accusations were otherwise uneventful; we need to start acting up a bit more on trail to make circle interesting for the darn cold weather. Gum Job also got her 10 run candle this week, and Cock a Booty Boo also presented a few gris gris. We then got a guest performance from Spread ‘Em of monkey madness proportions.

On-After was generally quite tame, though I left early so who knows. A Lil Prick was all about buying Tin Roof’s Voodoo Beer, there was a live band in the back, and I realized that I wear bigger shoes than Tidy. Also, Bayou Beer Garden serves a damn good burger.

The end, until next time!
Just Rachel


To celebrate the ringing in of 2012, Everything Butt Sex and Jefferson Starfish led us on a glorious re-hash (pun intended) of quite a few of 2011’s most memorable trails. We started off by the St. Louis Cemetery, and from there began a long series of deja vu moments for me. The first was crossing that damn bridge over Bayou St. John, I had flashbacks of the 200th trail. There were 3 marks after a YBF, which reminded me of the last White Girl Wasted / Reverse Cowboy trail. When we passed the bike shop, for a second I thought we were running that same Bumbletard 7-mile death march. Of course there was a good bit of gravel, which never fails to remind me of the trail Slam Bam Thank You Lamb/No Cunt Troll hared, where I broke in my brand new Vibram Five Fingers by running down train tracks for 2 fucking miles. There was another area we ran through that I know we had a beer stop at once before, I think last February, but too much alcohol has killed the brain cells that once held those memories. Too bad we didn’t end up lost by the river in waist-high “bog”, ’cause it would have nicely rounded out the evening.

We had virgins as FRB’s, so a lot of checks were kicked wrong or not kicked at all. I think these guys must have been given chalk talk by I.M.E. One time I shouted “RU?” and one of them, I swear to god, yelled “Yahtzee!”

After crossing Canal St. for the 669th time, we finally reached the beer stop. As we stood around and the minutes passed, a few of us noted that about 2/3 of the pack was missing. Slowly, they trickled in. A few people cited lack of flour. Which I knew was a false accusation, because the blobs I saw were like white elephant turds, practically incandescent in the street lamps. (Some of y’all need to TAKE NOTE and learn how to throw down flour, it ain’t like dusting a cupcake… but I digress.) Butt Sex reveals that they did not fully scout trail, and ended up running into a fence. “Didn’t you see the true trail arrow? it was on a wooden pallet so I could turn it in the direction that trail was actually going.” Yeah… nope. Eventually the stragglers showed up, and we could continue on.

Second half of trail was short. As usual, the FRB’s find true trail and neglect to kick the checks/whichy’s or blow whistles or really make any fucking sounds whatsoever. After running through Greenwood Cemetery (a severe lack of zombies on this Tour-de-Every Goddamn Cemetery in Mid-city) we ended up at on-in by yet another motherfucking cemetery, near Delgado. Halfway through circle, Chum Dumpster arrives in a car, looking rather triumphant for being DFL. Turns out this overachieving bastard ran all the way to City Park and stumbled upon Spread ‘Em, who was car-hashing. They had to navigate to the end following the sounds of our songs echoing through the neighborhood.

P.S. Knave, for God only knows what reason (and I’m sure God Herself doesn’t even want to know) brought tampons soaked in alcohol. One of the virgins– whose name escapes me but I’m bad with names ANYWAY– walked into circle and immediately dropped his pants (I guess he heard there was gonna be Butt Sex on this trail) then did a down-down by sucking the alcohol out of said tampon. When called back into circle, he voluntarily did it AGAIN. Y’all keep the name ‘Cottonmouth’ in your memory holes and let it marinate, a’ight?

Random accusations included pissing on trail (as Knave took a piss with his back to the circle) and a bra that was passed around like Cinderella’s glass slipper, but alas, it did not fit Mexican Gum Job’s boobies. Maybe her prince will cum next week! Of course it’s not a Voodoo unless the cops show up; in this case, a security guard from Delgado who was pretty amicable and actually let us get through all 500 verses of “Up Jumped the Monkey” (thanks, Spread ‘Em!) and “Swing Low” before we disbanded.

My new year’s resolution was to detox before Mardi Gras, but that still didn’t stop me from doing some cham-pan-ya down-downs, and writing a shitty hash trash when I got home.

on-on wankers,
Swamp Gravy

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