Kahuna hash 327 July 16, 2012




O Sets Trail of the Year

Or

Maybe He's Really Losing It



"This is an absolute debacle. The last time it was this bad was last week in North Portland," Pabst Smear. "Come on, Brady and Nathan, yell on-on when you see flour-little white dots, well, there are supposed to be little white dots..." Gymnasty. "I don't know what you're talking about...this was an absolute GENUIS of a trail," O.

We should have known that many missteps would await us when O started talking about BEER FALSE TRAILS. Being the orator that he is, O convinced the pack that it is perfectly acceptable hashing to run a trail to a beer check only to find that it is a false trail and we must retrace our steps all the way back to the start, which we did, with very little whining (at this point). Hey, we had beer.

The second time we found a beer false trail check, after walking through grass higher than Mystery Meat's head (head who said head, I'll take none of that) and dodging golf balls from the driving range, we began to question the sanity of our hare. Does he really know what he's doing? Should Milk Bone have assisted the old fart and thus avoided this debacle? Who knew.

After the second beer false trail check, we were totally confused, running around the Home Depot parking lot for the third time. Someone shouted "on-on" and we crossed Washington Street to find a lovely little pond with a big huge CHECK next to it. We ran right; we ran left; we ran in circles; we crossed the street, ran up the hills, jogged along railroad tracks, back and forth among the street construction guys. No further trail. None Nada. HE REALLY SCREWED THIS ONE UP, we thought to ourselves. Then we began saying it out loud. We planned many down downs for this hare.

Although we hated the thought of defeat, we meagerly trudged back to our parked cars when Mud Butt was heard on his cell phone, "yeah, we tried that....over by the pond...what? the water sanitation plant? oh, ok..." He started running a way we had tried earlier, and we followed in our half-mind way. Amazing. A mark appeared, a half mile from the last check or arrow or dollop, but it was there, and we followed over the freeway, through the fields, to a perfectly lovely on-home on the side of some gravel road, with PBRs and Dos Equis aplenty.

Virgin Liz was honored, visitors from Vegas and Montana were properly maligned and harassed. O denied any mistakes and vehemently defended his trail. The night could be summed up by this:

"Why spend money for beer at a bar when there's beer here in the cooler and good company to keep?"

And there was good company and shitty beer for all.