Unwittingly the hares had led the pack to VF’s annual bra and panty tent sale. With a selection of the finest dime-store lingerie, and with available sizes that rivaled the 30’ x 60’ tent under which they were housed, VF was really throwing out all the stops to entertain the pack. While I was casually browsing through a collection of T-back floral lycra panties, a cry of “ON-ON” went-up and at last true-trail had been found. Although reluctant to walk away from a bargain, and still looking to accessorize for the upcoming DC Red Dress hash, I made my way out of the tent after getting a frisky (yet wholly enjoyable!) rub-down from one of the VF security guards. His name was Terrence, and he promised to call me later, but only if I promised to wear something in a pink chiffon.
No sooner than I was back on trail, what to my wondering eyes should appear, but Bad Semen’s Daughter! All thoughts of Terrence the security guard shunted aside, I started pitching a panty tent of my own. Oh she’s bad… yeah, she’s a bad bad bad naughty nasty girl… and …. Oh fuck it, I’m old and I don’t have a chance.
I caught up with the pack just in time for us all to get totally dazed and confused by yet another check mark. Fer chrissake, where the fuck is the flour? And whose bright idea was it to lay a trail that was actually challenging to follow??? Swamp and I hung-back hoping beyond hope that one of the new-boots would find trail and lead us to the beer – yeah, fat chance of that, right? While Swamp took a guided tour of some warehouses, I beat up some old lady and took her cane. (The old bitch had it coming) .
Finally, that old bastard Everyday Asshole found true trail and soon we were off – dodging freight trains and cursing the damn heat. As we neared the Schuylkill, one of our new boots began flagging – and before you knew it, the dude was tits-up. We cleaned his pockets of money, keys, and any other valuables, and then laid him quietly to rest, figuring that someone would find him and know what to do. I tell you – we’ve lost new boots before, but I can’t remember ever leaving one dead on trail. The worst part about losing this guy was that try as we might, we couldn’t find a way to blame it on Guke.
Across the railroad bridge and into the nicest section of Reading known to man, we stopped to light a fire at the American Cable & Chain factory, found a bunch of hypodermic needles that looked “barely used” and ambled off. We ran through the crack-infested streets of Reading (I’m not talking about the poor roads here kids – try to keep up with me, mmmkay?) and back down to the river. Dodging manic fishermen, we snuck up on these two gay guys (who could have been brothers for all we know) who were lounging on a picnic table along the river.
Breaking from his stool-pushing revelry, the younger looking of the two propositioned me with a sultry “Want a beer?”, and I belatedly realized that it was Bad and Darth staging an unplanned beer check. Wow – these guys are truly my heroes. After sucking back a few cold ones, discussing the state of the economy, the constitutionality of school vouchers, as well as the newest English translation of Thomas Mann’s “Magic Mountain” we were off in search of trail yet again.
Eagle-eyed SwampThing noticed some funny white powder sitting atop rocks which jutted out of the drought-plagued river. A collective “Awww fuck, I’m not going into that goddamn cesspool” arose from the pack, the newboots vowing never to ever utter the word “hashing” again. First across the river was our newest cameraman Tom – who ably documented the crossing. Halfway across the river, the current picked up a bit and our newest bimbo Stacey was almost washed away. She quickly regained her footing, but not after she had thoroughly baptized herself in the river PRAISE THE LORD!!. I noticed that I was pitching that tent again, thinking about a 3-way with Stacey and Bad’s Daughter. Oh yeah, that’s right I STILL don’t have a fucking chance. Oh well.
The hares watched longingly from the other side of the river as Stacey shook off the algae, scum, and fecal matter and joined us on the far bank. A collective mooning of the hares soon followed and the pack was off in search of flour. As we skirted the trash-infested bank of the river, Tom decided it would be fun to scare the shit out of Stacey (likely in hopes that she would scream bloody murder, shed all her clothes, and demand to have sex with each one of us) by pointing to a piece of rubber hose and yelling “SNAKE!!!”. Oh, the hilarity which ensued – I’m practically peeing myself as I write this. No – wait, that isn’t pee – I’m just picturing Bad’s Daughter and Stacey emerging from the river….remembering the days when I was single….and when I’d… Oh. Sorry ‘bout that, let me get back to the narrative.
Up the hill to Kaley’s Korner where the hares had reserved a private room for us. We all adorned our smoking jackets, grabbed glasses of 18-year old single malt scotch, and tuned the television to Wall Street Week – very classy joint. Who am I kidding, we hung around drinking beer, doing down-downs, making accusations, and eating some nasty nasty food, and generally stinking up the place until Horn O’ Plenty arrived. We all hid from Horn until she decided we weren’t there and left in tears. Okay, we didn’t really hide from her, but she did leave in tears. Alright, maybe she didn’t leave in tears, but she did leave…. I think… Along about this time, lightning struck when New Boot Tom & New Boot Stacey paid dues and became members. Speakin’ of members – I had to piss again.
Oh well – Shitty hash. Shitty trail. Shitty Apres.
ON-ON
Decoy
