The Redneck Hash
Hares: Dual Air Bags and Quick Drawers
Do to an unforseen mechanical disadvantage Camel Jumper and I were unable to make it to Saturday's Redneck Hash. Thanks to Cunning Runt (Goddess of Scribedome) 8 Yellow Snow (a pretty funny guy) and Steamer (oh great and grand God of Scribedom) we are with trash this week.
Scoop
It was quite a hike to the hash; luckily, I had gotten all of my shots. I will try to remember some of the trail.
The first check drew the pack down a grassy embankment towards the woods. Cork Screwed and myself went left - just to be different. As we ran along seeing one and then the second hash blob, I said to CS, “you know we’re going to get screwed going this way.” Believe it or not, we found a true trail arrow. Yeeha! we was on true trail, y’all. (That’s redneck speak) Unfortunately, at the next check Cork Screwed went right and I went straight. Yea, you guessed it; true trail went left.
About the only thing I can remember of the rest of the trail was SHIGGY! I did get to see ol’ French Toasted fall on his ass. It seems his motor skills aren’t refined enough to handle mud and a small slope. He decided to walk gingerly, holding onto trees after that one.
Byte was pretending to be a broken record; “we have to cross back over Rt. 3.” He said this at EVERY check. Of course, true trail always lead the other way. And the “other way” seemed to always be found by Burnt Sox - lucky, bent-toed bastard. He lead us through the construction quagmire from hell. It was like an obstacle course! Slosh through the mud, jump the ravine, balance on the cinder blocks, avoid the large, protruding, sharp objects. (No boys, I didn’t say head.) Finally we found dry land.
Back on solid ground, we ran through a yard and past a rabid dalmation. Now, we were back to civilization (or at least the closest approximation in that neck of the woods.) Much to Byte’s pleasure, it was at this point that we were sent scurrying back across - yes, you guessed it - Rt 3! Byte, trailed closely by my sorry ol’ butt past Tore Ass and headed up the train tracks toward Missing Link.
Once off the tracks, it was a relatively short jaunt to the palatial estate of Monsignore Quick Drawers, where he and the white trash harlot, the Mistress Dual Air Bags treated us to fantastic beer and Oreos. All in all, one hell of a hash - even though it was way the hell down in south-bum-fuck-Virginiy!
Cunning Runt
8 Yellow Snow's Version
I left Richmond, Vagina at 7:45am under cloudy skies and after an all night rain expecting a very muddy trail. It turned out later I was not to be disappointed. As I got onto Interstate 95 from 288, I noticed the Freeway sign appropriately signifying 69 miles to the Fredericksburg exit (this was a very good sign!). As I travelled up I95, I noticed a sign pointing to an “Asphalt Plant.” It reminded me of a tumble I took during a hash on the streets of Long Beach.
I made it to the start shortly after 9:30am, joining Stained Sheets and a couple of other hashers who were already whining about the distance from Mt. Vernon. I then pulled a 12 pack from the trunk of my Neon rental and asked if anyone drank beer. Except for myself having a 2-beer pre-lube, the rest of the 12-pack went untouched. I started asking myself if this was really a hash? Blank Check arrived wearing an Ohio State sweatshirt ready for the big football game to be played later in the day. Of course his Scarlet and Gray Ohio State necktie was a premonition as to what they would do against Michigan later that afternoon — CHOKE! I was met by a very gracious host and birthday boy, Burnt Sox, who had no trouble finding me amongst the other hashers. He’s either very asstute or he was able to identify me with my LBH3 shirt and Long Beach sweat pants.
Byte Lightning led us in a rousing version of Father Abraham and the pack of about 40 was off into the Virginia countryside. It turned out to be a beautiful day with the sun shining and made the trail a thing of beauty, although not very difficult with most checks being able to be broken by site since flour was within seeing distance of most checks. I did get a bit nervous as we were running along a riverbank and a backwoodsman was leaning against his pickup truck with a shotgun in the crook of his arm. He asked where we were going. We told him we were following this trail to Aintree. He said, “Aintree! This trail don’t go to Aintree! I believe you all are lost.” When he got a gleam in his eye and started talking about squealing pigs that looked like Ned Beatty, we all high-tailed it our of there!
Through mud and muck and great shiggy we continued through the fallen leaves and wooded area to the ON IN where the beer and chili awaited us. While waiting for Down Downs to begin, Burnt Sox asked me how I got the name 8 Yellow Snow. He found my story boring, so he said, “This is how you really got your name: You were out skiing one day, you had to take a piss. You went off trail, pissed in the snow, then did a face-plant into the fresh Yellow Snow.” Yeah, that’s it; that’s what really happened.
Steamer then called the circle to order by calling out, “I want Peace and Quiet!” Byte Lightning said, “I’ll be Quiet.” Mud Buns said, “I’ll be Piece!” And as Burnt Sox promised, there were a varied number of songs in the circle as compared to his trip to Long Beach last month. There was no ON ON ON announced, so after Down Downs everyone scattered in various directions to go watch football games, I guess (unless they had an ON ON ON and I wasn’t invited. But I’m not insecure or paranoid!). I headed back down I95.
I was made to feel welcome and look forward to returning. Maybe by then MVH3 will be more of a beer-drinking hash. All in all, it was a very shitty hash. Thanks to all!
ON ON
8 Yellow Snow