Rehash

["Hindsight is 20/20" Theme:] YES, IT'S...CAMPING FOR THE GRAVITATIONALLY CHALLENGED!

Friday Afternoon
Good news: perfect weather forecast. Bad news: traffic ssssssuuuckkeedd on this Friday afternoon holiday weekend, plus, oh joy, we're camping on a HILL! This harriette [In a Heartbeat here, performing my Virgin Rehash duties] and co-worker HKA Bob arrived at Oak Creek Campground, Walton, Kentucky, at approximately 4:30 p.m., where we found Nipple Rash, Quarter Barrel, Hot Tub Slut, and Fucking Nothing dragging beer, food, and other camping necessities up the hill. We pitched in, then it was time to relax. Soon, Neon Knockers showed up - "Hey, can you guys help me unload my car?" Awwwww, we just hiked that damn hill 20 times, but okayfine. Now we were really drained, but ho, up walks Won't Come Out and Vommitt Dog - "Wanks! Get off yer asses and help us haul this firewood!"

After more work, in which Vommitt carried a piece of firewood that MUST've been cut from a Giant Sequoia ("Hey, why don't you bring up a BIGGER piece next time?!"), we'd had all we could take. Nipple decided to string up his hammock, which was lookin' mighty flimsy for such a ... muscular hasher (yeah, that's it). Your scribe remarked, "Uh, Nip... this is truly a disaster waiting to happ..." when OVER he flipped, crashing to the ground with quite the audible THUD [but he saved his beer!]. No wank could contain his or her uproarious laughter, and... so marked the first of MANY weekend gravitational blunders... as you'll soon read!

Now more hashers were on the scene ("Man, I've gotta set all this camping shit up? Gimme a beer!"), and everyone was busy chatting ass well ass deciding whether they would run the 7 p.m. Foreplay Hash trail or not. Won't Come Out attempted to construct the weekend's only "ghetto tent" - it was a sorry sight: wilted, broken and covered with duct tape, but he was fond of his crate. Anal Vice and Mystic Blow arrived, an accomplishment in itself considering that AV left his office in downtown Sin City at 3 p.m., drove aaaall the way up to Dayton in traffic to get Mystic (who was having car trouble), then aaaall the way through traffic to the campground! Get those two some drinks! Well, 7 p.m. Came and went, and we were in the process of much rejoicing and lollygagging. Finally, our Hash Mouth and one of our hares, Dah Gimp, yelled, "All right, shut the fuck up! Trail begins at 7:30 sharp!" So noted.

At the appointed time, we sauntered down the hill to await our fate. Chalk talk commenced, and the hares were away. Right before the pack gave chase, however, Ear of the Sperm and Wedgie zoomed into the campground, their vehicle almost hitting hashers whose reflexes had been dulled hours ago by lager. Welcum, y'uns!

SCH4 #160A: The Foreplay Hash
We didn't even sing Father Abraham; most hashers had been consuming various alcohols for at least an hour, plus it was, what, 85 degrees? But we pressed on on. We'd been warned that this trail would be Shigfest 2000, and within the first few minutes we realized the hares hadn't lied: Mystic got herself snagged in fresh barbed wire ("Oh shit, I'm hit"). Fucking Nothing accompanied her back to camp (she should have Never Left the Camp anyway, ass the saying goes) while the rest of us were hopelessly lost, trapped, trapped like rats! We eventually located trail, Heading into one hell of a dark, murky and wet tunnel with no end in sight. Upon viewing the tunnel, (Not So) Tight Box said, "Screw this!," and caught up with Mystic and FN. Neon tried mightily to keep her shoes dry, but soon abandoned hope when she saw Jump-n-Hump sink up to his knees in mud and water. Ass we discovered, metal piping awaited us mid-tunnel ("OW!"), and Jump left a good deal of shin skin on one of the pipes. Trail got worse before it got better; we waded through a bug-infested stream before hitting the stinging nettle and poison ivy patches. But then we were ON IN, singing to the hares, Gimp and Body Fluid Hazard, and drinking behind a building before deciding to skip apparent unsavory characters at Steve's Bar and instead bring pizza back to camp.

Friday Night
Turns out that half of us drove to camp and waited for the pizza while the other half DID venture into Steve's. Hungry hashers impatiently waited for the 'za near the tents (Stinkie Winkie: "What the HELL?!"), when it finally arrived over an hour later with the rest of the group. Pizza was quickly devoured and the alcohol consumption continued. The weekend's "wild crowd," comprised of Nipple Rash, Pussy Whipped, Dribbler, Wedgie, Ear, Rusty Prick, and Vommitt, began entertaining us by numerous means, including the ever-popular Dance of the Flaming Assholes and brief Naked Fire Jumping, ass well ass by singing numerous hash songs around the bonfire. Jump-n-Hump had somehow purchased a camping chair that was a perfect size for, oh... BARBIE, and he was experiencing extreme difficulty fitting into it. Back Door Dwarf, who was visiting from Alaska, proved to be an absolute genius with songs, giving an outstanding rendition of The British Sailor. And then what made its first of many weekend appearances? Yucca, yucca, yu-CCA! Shake that motherfucker! And there was much rejoicing. Your scribe, attempting to zone out by the fire with an injured Pork My Tits, shifted positions slightly and toppled straight over in her lawn chair, having consumed NO alcohol whatsoever [scary]. This action must have been catchy, as HKA Bob began the first of approximately 20 falls out of his seat during the course of the night ("Fucking CHAIRS!"). Body shots began, and Ear managed to completely shatter Nipple's camping lantern ("yeah, I didn't need that anyway..."). Magic markers appeared and hashers began drawing on one another... an action that resulted in the weekend WWF match between The Rock and Stone Cold Steve Austin... or was it PW and HKA Bob? I think yes. By 3:30 a.m. or so, most everyone had either passed out or willingly retired for pleasures of the flesh (Ear and Wedgie - we're envious of your sex lives!), but Rusty and Vommitt sat by the fire and bonded. Your scribe overheard something rather impressive: Vommitt was talking about how great he thinks his significant other, Ball Banger, is [she was vacationing in Africa and couldn't grace us with her presence]. He said, "You know, I've dated a lot of girls, but she's just cool as shit." Awwwww. And the sun was On Up.

Saturday Morning
Hot Tub Slut woke waaaay too early and began rooting around by the fire for breakfast. And when one hasher's up, aaaaall hashers are up! Smegma's puppies assisted in the rise-n-shine by barking ass well ass running away temporarily, and Smeg scoured the campground looking for them. Then, by 10 a.m., what made its second weekend appearance? Yucca, yucca, yu-CCA! Shake that motherfucker! You wanks are crazy [but that's beside the point]. We ate, drank, and conversed with those who had just arrived at the campground: Best Blow, Eats It Raw, Sixty Nina, When Hairy Met Chunky, Pubic Offender and friend Cynthia, Big Blackmail and Spreads Like Peanut Butter, Scum-Sucking Fecal Feliac, Sticky Pussy and Fish-n-Sniff, Olive Oyl Me Up and her man, two virgin guys named Jeff and Nick, Damaged Goods and her friend Bethany, until it was time for...

SCH4 #160B: The Big Boner Hash
We carpooled from the campground to Big Bone Lick State Park, where, at noon, it was all of 90 degrees in the shade [Shade? What am I saying? There was no shade]. New wanks were there to greet us: $3 a Minute, Famunda, Head Count, Chatterbox, Spank My Faggy Ass, Fourgasm, Butthole Surfer, Butt Digger and Something Dirty. We hopped in vehicles and drove to a remote area of the park for the start. Our hares, BFH, Gimp and Pecker Checker, smiled sinisterly as Chalk Talk began. We learned that trail had been pre-laid and that the hares would be sweeping so as not to lose any of us. Following Father Abraham, the pack was off. Shig, shig, more shig, what is THAT? A four-foot hare arrow made out of animal BONES? Kewl! Shig, shig, barbed wire ("Mystic alert!"), what is THAT? It's the biggest damn hill we've EVER seen! Giiimmmpp, YOU'RE responsible for this! Beeeerrr Neeear. By this time, the Smegma dogs had, between them, procured what seemed like 50 ticks each - yuck! Your scribe tackled the hill with Back Door Dwarf, who, when asked if he had a significant other, replied, "Fuck no! I've got too much hashing to do!" She then caught up with Chunky, who was hauling ass through trail [while carrying some huuuge mushroom - "Oh, yeah! You just cook this up and it tastes like chicken!"], ass he had to return to Sin City temporarily for a business appointment (is that allowable?). We blew through the second BN, and this is when Chunky paused briefly to remove 11 - yes, 11 - ticks from his lower body. Shig, shig, more shig, ON IN!, where BFH and Sticky were waiting for us with food and drinks. The drunken circle commenced, then, off to the vehicles, for the start of...

SCH4 #160C: The Big Bone Lick Hash
Okay, we were tired. This is just waaay too much exertion for a Saturdee afternoon, but hey, it's fun! So we prepared ourselves for the next hash. We felt better when Gimp said, "The trail is only about two miles." We can handle that. Gamemeisters Hot Tub Slut and Fish-n-Sniff distributed wrist bands for the games we were to play on trail, and we convened into three groups. Before the pack was off, Big Blackmail decided to pick up Head Count - literally - and toss her over his shoulder, again and again and again... "Wow, this is fun! There's no way she weighs over a buck-o-five!" By this time, it was even warmer and sunnier - if that's possible - and we saw that a wedding was about to begin nearby [we pity the bride and groom, with us around!]. And the pack was off. Shig, Shig, more shig, okay, game time! Each group lined up single file, hasher/harriette, and was given a large bra, a large jock strap, and a bag of balloons. Each person had to don the articles, blow up a balloon, secure said balloon on his/her person, run out and back, and then break the balloon on the next contestant without using hands. You can imagine how MESSED UP this game quickly became [and the problems began when PW decided to participate in the public-park game sans clothing], with the smiley group cheating its ass off to become the winner. Trail continued on... and on... and on... until someone said, "Hey! This is no TWO-MILE trail!" and there was much grumbling. There was a SC - souvenir check - but many blew past it in the hopes of ON IN, which was soon found after we had to lower ourselves down a 20-foot ledge using a rope. We bought official Big Bone Hash T-shirts (kudos to Best Blow, Butt Digger, BFH and Gimp), we circled, we drank, we skipped another game that was supposed to take place, we said, fuck, it's six o'clock; time for dinner at the campground!

Saturday Night The evening meal, for those of us who ate (some missed dinner entirely, ass they had retreated to their tents for a little nap), was fabulous. Incredibly tasty, and Neon and FN are to be commended for working successfully with the caterer. The hash returned to the bonfire to laze about and to fill HKA Bob's love, Ashley (who had just appeared with pups Nakita and Daisy), in about the previous evening and the day's trails. Hot Tub distributed prizes to selected hashers. Ass expected, the circle was reopened, and (Not So) Tight Box was officially renamed Tight Box per her request. NHN Glen, with black lab in tow, was affectionately named Rat Piss. Won't Come Out was also officially named Little Dickhead since apparently that's what everyone thought his name was anyway [though his name changed again later in the evening?!]. And, after several hash experiences with Sin City, Dayton and Porkalottapuss, the Hare Known as Bob shall forever more be referred to in the hash world as Flaccid, since he consumed such mass quantities of alcohol Friday that he did not rise from the depths of his tent until we were departing for Saturday's NOON trail. PW and Dribbler appeared in satin leopard skin and frilly red lingerie, respectively, and entertained the hash, apparently orally stimulating one another for a few brief moments (can't use the word "brief" as a pun, since underneath they were either wearing spandex thongs or nothing at all). PW also decided to light numerous firecrackers, which began near his tent and ended when he threw a handful into the bonfire where we were all sitting ("WHAT?! I can't HEAR you!"). PMT was less than amused by this act, since her cast prevented her from seeking shelter if need be. Chunky had returned from his successful meeting, with a large hammock and some sort of aboriginal Diggie-Do horn, which sounded primal. Nipple and friends competed in a condom-blowing contest. And then it was time for...

The Midnight Naked Hash
Hares Nipple and Ear were away, while approximately 15 hashers shed clothing and gathered nekkid around the bonfire for all to see - woo hoo! And the pack, which was trying to be discreet since there were children running around this public campground, was off. It was all fun and games until a drunken Dribbler tripped on God knows what [possibly nothing at all] and broke off half of his front tooth and shattered the tooth next to it to the point where part of his gum was hanging over the area in bloody ribbons. Can you say, oops? Sure, knew ya could, and when Mystic heard about the injury, she said, "Damn Dribbler, every time I injure myself, HE always shows me up!" The pack was ON IN, and gathered in its own small circle for down-downs. Congrats to a drunken [yucca, yucca, yu-CCA!] Fish-n-Sniff for partaking in her first Midnight Naked (well, mostly) Hash! And also, PMT, what a sport: even though she couldn't run, she got nekkid and hung out with us *chuckle* til the pack was off, the rejoined us for down-downs! Then Nipple and friends partook in the Dice Game (kudos to Ashley, btw, for going along with the game though it was the first time she'd seen it played! Impressive! She's a hasher through and through...). Finally the hash retired earlier than the night before, dreaming of past, present and future trails and wacky experiences.

Sunday Morning
A consistent little bugger, Hot Tub Slut again woke at 6:30 a.m. and began preparing food. Smegma was actually ON OUT right around this time; why? Seems that his puppies' tick prevention was working SO WELL that during the course of the night, the ticks that had attached themselves to the pups earlier said, fuck this, and crawled on over to Smeg! Yuck. Groggy hashers rose from their tents like zombies, in the hopes of coffee and life-affirming sustenance. We sat around the fire, talking and reading The Kentucky Enquirer, when Mystic observed, "Damn, this group is pretty boring without alcohol!" We lazed around until it was time for...

SCH4 #160D: The "I'll Call You" Hash
Ass usual, we were running late, so the 10 a.m. hash was pushed back until 11. Not many takers on this hyper, primarily due to hangovers and heat, but we pressed on on... and it turned out to be a great trail! Only 17 minutes! Pecker Checker was picked to hare, and BFH caught him but soon ran out of flour. Down down down down... and then back to camp. We congratulated PC, Gimp and BFH on their damn fine job of laying trail throughout the weekend. Thanks, wanks!

Back to camp, where hashers were packing up and heading On Out. At 3 p.m., the only remaining hashers were PW and Dribbler, who, still drunk off their asses [surprise surprise], decided to paint themselves with temper paint and jump in the pool to scare the kiddies. Have another!

Thanks to all who helped make the weekend a success from many standpoints.

On on... Heartbeat