Kahuna Hash July 23,2012


East Meets West

An Exotic Run in the International City of Beaverton

Granny Panties reappeared from whatever he has been doing the last few years to hare a lively jaunt through the neighborhoods of Beaverton. We realized later that he was reliving his house-hunting experience through the hash, and we were hashing through all the neighborhoods he had tried to get into; we beer checked at his new house with his hot girlfriend.

Lots of dogs on trail. Mr. Cream Jeans' Penny got into it with a fluffy cute thing owned by newly named Tits Up. Burning Feeling had her two. Cums Prepared ran with one of his stately poodles, hither and yon, looking for trash cans for poop disposal.

In the circle, Fisher of Men, a new transplant from Georgia (not the Atlanta Georgia but the real Russia Georgia, you dimwits), was welcomed and cheerfully embraced by Burning Feeling who is also Russian or maybe Iranian or maybe Armenian. Pabst Smear shared his extensive knowledge of foreign affairs by bumbling through Euro-Asian geography and we sang "pissonya" as her down-down song.

Having been underwhelmed by our chips and beer last week, no-longer-virgin Liz brought deli sandwiches for all. With Granny Panties fried chicken, we feasted like Hawaiians.

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.

Kahuna 326 Tina Turnover Perspective
Third in the Decum Trilogy
Hare Cherry Picker
Wherein The Kahuna Gets In A Pickle


Earlier today, something like the following conversation took place between me and Hot Buns (via text message):

“Are you going to the Kahuna tonight?”

“I don’t know, are you?”

“Maybe, I was trying to decide.”

“If I go, will you go?”

“Does a bear shit in the woods?”

And I don’t know whether bears shit in the woods, but I do know that they will go for a tasty looking fruit basket, or Scrotum Rotor, when they happen to mistake him for a fruit basket, an easy mistake to make really, I’ve done it many times myself, so you can hardly blame the bear. At any rate, I arrived at the now very familiar intersection of Dekum and about five other streets to a very warm reception which, I soon learned, had nothing to do with my sparkling personality and everything to do with my reproductive organs because – excepting the hare – I was the only one there with a uterus. Those can really come in handy when lost on trail . . . or not, as the case may be.

Off we went, following the flour like a good little pack: on one, on two, hmmm, a bright pink chalk X, guess that is probably a check, on one, on two . . . . RU? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . hmmm, back to the check. Nothing down this street, nothing down that one. Try again? Nope, nothing. So there we were, two blocks from the start and as clusterfucked as a Wal Mart on Black Friday. Somehow we made it to another check (I’m still not sure how that happened) and it seemed that we might make a trail of this yet. It was still a bit touch and go – was that a false or an arrow? – when all of a sudden, the pack stopped ahead of me and got very quiet. A hare had been spotted. Chubby Chaser stealthily darted over and caught her, whereupon I imagine that he propositioned her for kinky sex, and, upon being emphatically declined, rebounded and at least managed to make her feel so guilty about her trail that she volunteered to lead us to the beer check. We readily assented, only to discover that she couldn’t actually remember where her trail had gone. So there we were, following the hare, lost on her own trail. Now really. Since following the hare didn’t seem to be helping much and since I had the slight advantage of being on two wheels, I ended up ahead of the pack and somewhere around Concordia, just when I feared I might be lost again, I looked to my left and lo-and-behold there was a bright green BC. Jackpot. Several minutes of beer-sitting later, I heard some noise off to the left and looked over to find Cherry Picker and a few of the wankers doing cartwheels on the lawn. “Uh, hey guys,” I yelled, “BEER, over here!”

The way back was a fair bit quicker, Cherry Picker was practically giddy at finding her own trail – “where did I lay a . . . oh, there, on two! See that guys? That’s on two!” With relatively little trouble (and a disappointing lack of scrap metal sightings for Cream Jeans) we made our way back to Cherry Picker’s delightful bungalow where she placated what remained of the group (I guess we lost a few people on trail) with more beer and popscicles and a sprinkler to run through – because who doesn’t like to get wet and suck on a tasty column of sweet frozen goodness? Chubby, in an expansionist move, assumed RA duties and led us through a Kahuna-ish religion. The highlight of the latter – it’s not hard to be the highlight of a Kahuna religion, but this was truly a gem - was when our hare presented our plucky visitor from Florida with her prize find from a free box passed while scouting trail (wait, she scouted this trail?!): Tickle His Pickle: Your Hands-On Guide to Penis Pleasing (ladies, there are two used copies available at the main Powells location on Burnside, act fast). And with that, we swung low, went in peace, and got a piece . . . or maybe a pickle.