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It was that time of the year when the hashing world descends upon the quaint city of Corry for that gastronomic spectacular known as “Chili-O-Rama”. Braving our anal St. Patrick’s Day blizzard, Tits 4 Tots and I drove south to meet the hash for a day of beer, friendship, acid reflux and more beer. We were running late due the fact that Tits 4 Tots couldn’t make up her mind which thong she wanted wear. After much debate she decided on bright green in recognition of the Irish holiday. So away we went, due south to the metropolis of Corry. In due course we arrived at the Alibi and slip slided into the bar. Just preceding us into the bar was Big Gulp and Breed-A-Bull. Both were sporting glowing tans from their recent Caribbean vacation. I couldn’t help but notice that Big Gulp was sporting a sling on his left arm due to rotor cuff surgery. Fortunately his right arm was intact and didn’t impede his beer drinking abilities. I also couldn’t help notice Breed’s cute little Irish green skirt and leggings. As a matter of fact Kelly Green seemed to the color of the day. Even if most of the “wearing of the green” was done in a most tacky way. There were beads and bow ties, boas and bras, shirts and hats and all manner of attire in anticipation of the upcumming St. Patrick’s Day.
Inside gathered Snail on a Rail, virgin Doug, YTBN Scott, Crazy Pong Bitch, YTBN John, recently returned More Fun Alone, Soggy Box, Pinch A Loaf, YTBN John, Shit Faced Shuttle, Gayhab, Inspector Scrubmunchim, virgin Bo, FSH, Buffy the Cock Sucker, virgin Tony & Ménage A Blow. But nowhere were the hares to be found. Seems that they had to take advantage of the temporary lull in the snowstorm to relay the marks on trail. Hmm not good sign.
While we waited everyone admired longingly the 8 crock-pots of chili bubbling away on the near by counter. Yes, it was the Anal Chili-O-Rama. As time passed we did what all-good hashers do and drank the beer. All the beer. Snail became worried about the overdue hares and the fact that if we remained much longer we wood “consume” all the hash cash. In the nick of time the hares returned and out the door we went.
While the pack gathered around A.Y.T. gave a chalk talk to the virgins. Tender Vittles doing an interpataion of A.Y.T.’s chalk talk followed this. And up the hill we went. With Pinch in the lead we had only gone a few hundred yards till we tumbled across the first of many checks. After some casting about with finding marks, the hare’s drove by and either gave us the finger or pointed us in the right direction; it was a matter of interpitaion. In any case we were back on trail. Scurrying around the streets of Corry sorting out the marks, we came across the end of the roadwork and plunged into the woods. On ribbon. Wading through the snow we quickly became single file, stepping from one footstep in the snow to another. In due course we came back out to the road. Pinch and the other FRB’s turned left and headed up hill. Buffy, Blow and I were engaged in some intellectual conversations and simply followed the pack up hill. Half way up the hares once again drove up to us, again giving us the finger and pointing back the way we came. What the hell?! Like lemmings we had followed the damn FRB’s right past a two-foot arrow in the snow and instead went right up hill. Doing a 180, we spotted YTB Scott and virgin Doug emerges from the woods. They were smart enough to immediately see the large red arrow in the snow and head off in the proper direction. Sure enough there was A.Y.T.’s truck 200 yard up the road, loaded with beer! Sensing the thundering herd rolling down the hill at them Scott and Doug broke out into a dead r*n, trying to beat us to the beer. Overachieving bastards! And so we had out first FRB’s of the day. There awaited us a bounty of green licorice, green chocolates, Bailey’s Irish Cream and beer. We eat and we drank and we told stories of hashes past. Presently someone asked whose driveway we were parked in. Seems E.M.T. had unwittingly granted us the use of her place. The hares meanwhile were concerned that not all the hapless hashers had emerged from the woods. Seems Inspector’s buddy; the Bo the Beer Guy hadn’t made it to this point of the trail. Just then out of the swirling snow the Beer Guy appeared wet, cold and thirsty. Just as he reached the beer truck, T.V. sent us out on the trail again through E.M.T.’s backyard. After a short slide downhill we again found T.V’s truck parked in a driveway. Bo had hopped into T.V.s truck for the short trip around the block. He was now an auto hasher in addition to being a DFL. After this short break we reassumed out grand tour of Corry. On trail we found our selves heading down hill. Suddenly I felt a presence behind me, a BIG presence. Seems Bo the Beer Guy had found out that gravity was indeed his friend and was rolling downhill like a runaway semi. The pack parted and Bo blew through with a wide-eyed look of fear. As he continued to gain speed he dipped over a small rise in the road and to our horror we heard the sick thump of flesh smacking sheet metal…followed by a car alarm wailing. Yes Bo had rear-ended a park car. Fortunately for him the next beer stop was right next-door and he limped over to quench his thirst. He was now a DFL’s, an Auto hasher, and a FRB. Fucking overachiever!
Inside gathered Snail on a Rail, virgin Doug, YTBN Scott, Crazy Pong Bitch, YTBN John, recently returned More Fun Alone, Soggy Box, Pinch A Loaf, YTBN John, Shit Faced Shuttle, Gayhab, Inspector Scrubmunchim, virgin Bo, FSH, Buffy the Cock Sucker, virgin Tony & Ménage A Blow. But nowhere were the hares to be found. Seems that they had to take advantage of the temporary lull in the snowstorm to relay the marks on trail. Hmm not good sign.
While we waited everyone admired longingly the 8 crock-pots of chili bubbling away on the near by counter. Yes, it was the Anal Chili-O-Rama. As time passed we did what all-good hashers do and drank the beer. All the beer. Snail became worried about the overdue hares and the fact that if we remained much longer we wood “consume” all the hash cash. In the nick of time the hares returned and out the door we went.
While the pack gathered around A.Y.T. gave a chalk talk to the virgins. Tender Vittles doing an interpataion of A.Y.T.’s chalk talk followed this. And up the hill we went. With Pinch in the lead we had only gone a few hundred yards till we tumbled across the first of many checks. After some casting about with finding marks, the hare’s drove by and either gave us the finger or pointed us in the right direction; it was a matter of interpitaion. In any case we were back on trail. Scurrying around the streets of Corry sorting out the marks, we came across the end of the roadwork and plunged into the woods. On ribbon. Wading through the snow we quickly became single file, stepping from one footstep in the snow to another. In due course we came back out to the road. Pinch and the other FRB’s turned left and headed up hill. Buffy, Blow and I were engaged in some intellectual conversations and simply followed the pack up hill. Half way up the hares once again drove up to us, again giving us the finger and pointing back the way we came. What the hell?! Like lemmings we had followed the damn FRB’s right past a two-foot arrow in the snow and instead went right up hill. Doing a 180, we spotted YTB Scott and virgin Doug emerges from the woods. They were smart enough to immediately see the large red arrow in the snow and head off in the proper direction. Sure enough there was A.Y.T.’s truck 200 yard up the road, loaded with beer! Sensing the thundering herd rolling down the hill at them Scott and Doug broke out into a dead r*n, trying to beat us to the beer. Overachieving bastards! And so we had out first FRB’s of the day. There awaited us a bounty of green licorice, green chocolates, Bailey’s Irish Cream and beer. We eat and we drank and we told stories of hashes past. Presently someone asked whose driveway we were parked in. Seems E.M.T. had unwittingly granted us the use of her place. The hares meanwhile were concerned that not all the hapless hashers had emerged from the woods. Seems Inspector’s buddy; the Bo the Beer Guy hadn’t made it to this point of the trail. Just then out of the swirling snow the Beer Guy appeared wet, cold and thirsty. Just as he reached the beer truck, T.V. sent us out on the trail again through E.M.T.’s backyard. After a short slide downhill we again found T.V’s truck parked in a driveway. Bo had hopped into T.V.s truck for the short trip around the block. He was now an auto hasher in addition to being a DFL. After this short break we reassumed out grand tour of Corry. On trail we found our selves heading down hill. Suddenly I felt a presence behind me, a BIG presence. Seems Bo the Beer Guy had found out that gravity was indeed his friend and was rolling downhill like a runaway semi. The pack parted and Bo blew through with a wide-eyed look of fear. As he continued to gain speed he dipped over a small rise in the road and to our horror we heard the sick thump of flesh smacking sheet metal…followed by a car alarm wailing. Yes Bo had rear-ended a park car. Fortunately for him the next beer stop was right next-door and he limped over to quench his thirst. He was now a DFL’s, an Auto hasher, and a FRB. Fucking overachiever!
March 12th 2005 Chili-O-Rama Hash
Soon the pack had assembled and was busy consuming the liquid refreshments offered. I casually asked our hares whose driveway we now inhabited. Snail interrupted and raising her finger to her lips in the “shush” motion whispered into my ear that we were at Recuntzel’s abode. Seems she was having some domestic issues and wasn’t hashing today. I suggested that we “break-in” and drag the petite vixen outside for a down down but Snail again intervened. She suggested that instead of me meeting up with the business end of a 12-gauge shotgun that A.Y.T. (Recuntzel’s dad) wood invite her out. Presently Recuntzel joined us for a beer and a shot of Baileys and all was good. After much consumption of beer (our hares had supplied 8 cases of hops), we were off to the on-in. We never did find out who’s car Bo had rear ended.
Back to the Alibi we went. After a quick change into our lounging clothes, or in Tits 4 Tots case – her pajama’s, Down Downs started. Pinchy awarded amber crowns to all the deserving FRB’s and DFL’s, which there were many. Backsliders and Pimps were recognized also. All these were glossed over by the aroma of chili bubbling away right next to our RA. Not being able to stall the inevitable any longer the chili judging began. All the hashers grabbed bowls and dug in. Some took small helpings of each, cleansing their palates in between with a beer. Others dove in shovelling down spoonfuls of spicy sauce and beans. A hush fell over the bar as the hashers reached maximum chili overload. Pinch then began the judging. Using a scientific double blind voting method he slowly eliminated one entry after another. It was a difficult and painful process as there really is no such thing as “bad chili”. Just as there is no such thing as a bad blow job, there is no such thing a bad bowl of chili. Soon we were down to two crock-pots of chili. The tension mounted as the loyal's of each pot championed their favourite entry. After several votes and recounts the winner was chosen. Yes, the winner was Ménage A Blow, the expert of all things gaseous and creator of this year’s best chili.
The party started to wane and by now the St.Pats blizzard was picking back up in intensity. Tits 4 Tots and I said our goodbyes and slipped out of Corry for the trek back to Eerie. The trip home was uneventful with the exception of having to drive into the blizzard with the windows rolled down. Next year we’ll have to remember to take along the Beano.
That’s the way I remember it. And because no one else will right up these damn things, it will remain the way it was.
I am Swings Both Ways
Back to the Alibi we went. After a quick change into our lounging clothes, or in Tits 4 Tots case – her pajama’s, Down Downs started. Pinchy awarded amber crowns to all the deserving FRB’s and DFL’s, which there were many. Backsliders and Pimps were recognized also. All these were glossed over by the aroma of chili bubbling away right next to our RA. Not being able to stall the inevitable any longer the chili judging began. All the hashers grabbed bowls and dug in. Some took small helpings of each, cleansing their palates in between with a beer. Others dove in shovelling down spoonfuls of spicy sauce and beans. A hush fell over the bar as the hashers reached maximum chili overload. Pinch then began the judging. Using a scientific double blind voting method he slowly eliminated one entry after another. It was a difficult and painful process as there really is no such thing as “bad chili”. Just as there is no such thing as a bad blow job, there is no such thing a bad bowl of chili. Soon we were down to two crock-pots of chili. The tension mounted as the loyal's of each pot championed their favourite entry. After several votes and recounts the winner was chosen. Yes, the winner was Ménage A Blow, the expert of all things gaseous and creator of this year’s best chili.
The party started to wane and by now the St.Pats blizzard was picking back up in intensity. Tits 4 Tots and I said our goodbyes and slipped out of Corry for the trek back to Eerie. The trip home was uneventful with the exception of having to drive into the blizzard with the windows rolled down. Next year we’ll have to remember to take along the Beano.
That’s the way I remember it. And because no one else will right up these damn things, it will remain the way it was.
I am Swings Both Ways