We celebrated Saint Patrick's Day with not one, but two, Irish bars (take that, Dublin! IN YOUR FACE). The lovely
Double Stuffed Potato and
Micky Gin hosted us in the ultimate year of the Flannery's car park, and
Stain Pants and
Oiler My Penis Cock led us on a lovely trail to Fiddler's Irish pub and back.
We briefly welcomed the two virgins, who would multiply like mold on manjar in a petri dish in our absence, or, if you like butterfly analogies more than when I talk about moldy manjar then, that's just like, your opinion, man, BUT ALSO imagine the wet, soft pupa chrysalis cocoon thing of two gringos majestically somehow becoming like nine Chileans who hate timeliness.
Yes. Imagine that, Dear Reader.
So we circled up, a little disappointed with the virgin turnout but keeping a brave face nonetheless because we can always cry in private, that's where we cry. Then we did chalk talk, which there are no pictures of, which was okay because
Stain Pants and
Oiler My Cock couldn't draw pictures of boobs in flour on the floor of Flannery's anyway because doing so would be deeply rude, and, then, only then, we left to run.
And we ran to a BEER STOP!
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| Beer stops, and the hashers that love them. That's my next book. |
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| I can't believe I shaved my armpits for this picture. |
There, we enjoyed delicious beer on the patio and watched a sports game featuring a ball.
And then some of the runners ran back, some walked, and about half of you lazy fucks took the metro back, which is cool. I'm not judging.
Back in our musky little tent, new song sheets featuring some Chilean songs were distributed,
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| Maxipad with WINGS: Is that really how you spell vagina? Frozen Nuts: Dude. NO IDEA. Double Stuffed Potato: I cannot believe I'm overhearing this. |
beer was greened,
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| Vini V.D. Vici celebrates his inaugural piss pouring with his own private party crouch |
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| Stroke My Bono, JustVicky and JustMonica demonstrate different ways of using legs and mouths |
and the circle was called to order.
Octopussy introduced the
2014-2015 Mismanagement Committee and then queried our virgins and spies in pleasant demographics like names, nationalities, and whether they were of an underwear-abiding people or were nasty.
Sir Sump Pump acted as Pecker Inspector, growing more emboldened, and likely, erect, with each newcomer.
Okay, maybe the
erect comment was below the belt.
Ba-dum ching!
¿
Cachai?
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| JustFelipe takes the pecker inspection with a smile |
JustKara of Sierra Leone HHH taught us her native, and highly messed up hash hush: sumo crouch, anointed finger pointed upwards, flexed arm rocking back while biting out "Respect the GM" and air-fingering her anus. In the tortured, awkward space that followed, we thanked
Sir Sump Pump for being such a great GM, but not in that way. Never in that way.
We held an abbreviated circle due to the band warming up for the St. Patrick's Day Festivities, but made sure to provide beers of disapprobation to returned hashers who had missed the last hash. We chastised the more attractive folks more poignantly, as their beauty makes us miss them more.
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| Viagra Vixen, Scrum on MY FACE, and Lick 'n Learn wiggle all the wiggles |
Namings were postponed in order to keep the floor clean in a vaguely ironic way, and
Multiple Entry sang
I'm a little tea pot from memory. Ballsy.
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| Sleeping Beauty cannot BELIEVE how bad we are all at this. WTF is Scooby My Doo even doing? He's not even looking the right way. This is punishing, people. |
The circle was declared fucked, and we went out to the front patio to enjoy the
oferta Flannery's had provided, making some new friends,
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| Sir Sump Pump mobilizes the street dogs into action |
and loving on the ones we already have.
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| Glazed eyes, full hats, can't lose |
THANK YOU again to
Double Stuffed Potato and
Micky Gin for hosting us, and to
Stain Pants and
Oiler My for haring!
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