It took a while, but I finally stopped slapping my alarm clock around at about 5 AM. I was aiming for 4:30. Ish. Maybe heavy drinking til 1 wasn’t the best idea.
So with nothing prepared, I jumped into my clothes, just like in the cartoons, right into my pants and shoes, and literally ran out the door. I think it was all one continuous motion.
It was dark and a brisk 20°F. Thankfully I was armed with Drunxsutawney Bill and HE was armed with 750 ml of Jim Beam. Getting cold was not part of my plans.
When I rolled into the parking lot of the fish hatchery off Cedar Crest Road at 5:45 I knew I was safe as start was listed at 5:30 (If they wanted us there at 5:30 they should have posted 5AM start time).
I got out of the car, bitching about this horrible planet, then opened a beer and promptly forgot about it.
It took all of four words out of Rubber Ripper before I became aware of the fact that some of these fools hadn’t even gone to bed and plowed straight through the night drinking.
Speaking of overachievers, a few type-A runners passed by us with headlamps. We tried to recruit them to our cause but all we achieved was delaying their workout. I hope their first mile split sucks!
Perhaps it was the 17 or so half-minds drinking coffee with booze out of a trunk while passing around a stuffed groundhog concealing a bottle of liquor in a dark parking lot. Or maybe it was Rubber Ripper trying to talk to them. Hmmm… Yeah, I’ll go with that.
So we circled up. Quick-n-Little commandeered RA duties as Hash Hogs is a tradition he makes a point to maintain. It is his decree that this was one of the “holy trinity.” One of the three hashes of the year that you had to do in order to “punch your LVH3 card.” Until then, pound sand. I smell a patch in there somewhere.
From what I was able to gather, this tradition was begun by Ate-a-Puss. Who, at the time, heard about the mysterious Grundsow Lodge and their strange custom of dressing up in top hat and tails and floating a groundhog on a plank on the creek. All to somehow predict the weather. After drunkenly witnessing this highly scientific method, Ate-a-Puss knew then that the hash just HAD to adopt this. Thus Hash Hogs Day was born.
A stuffed rabbit was used in place of the groundhog, hooked up to a pair of jumper cables for the swim. When I inquired about the significance of the jumper cables, the response was the always technical, “It’s what we had handy.”
As fate would have it, the returning Ate-a-Puss drew the short straw to hare. His head start gave us some more time to pass the marmot around and stuff a can of beer in our pockets.
Some more type-A people ran by and before I knew it our FRBs were gone. The rest of us were not so inclined and formed a chain of small groups to cross the frozen wastes. What did we even talk about? I can’t recall. The coffee had not yet kicked in. But the booze was doing just fine.
Around a house and up a hill. Then down the hill. Around the fish hatchery to grandmas house we go. Wait… wrong story. I was somehow drawn to the water, jealous of the Great Blue Heron who stood at the edge of the pools, literally a smorgasbord before him. I was determined not to go swimming today though.
This road led to some sort of cul de sac. There was a deer inside the building (I’m pretty sure it was not some sort of flashback), and a sign for fish food for sale. Sadly, It was not open.
It was here that we discovered there was no hash marks. And there hadn’t been for a while. Why the fuck had we come down this hill? Goddamn lemmings…
Back up the hill!
How we missed that big arrow made of flour in the road can only be summed up one way: “WE’RE RETARDED!”
This took us uphill through the trees and snow. Shiggy level: eh… maybe a mild two.
I had no idea what kind of buildings these were. Could be offices, could be apartments. We were following flour on the snow and ice along the dark road that connected the parking lots. Yes, that’s right. Looking for flour on snow and ice. In the dark.
We made our way like this until we intersected with Cedar Crest Road. A few half-minds ahead led us across the highway. Foolishly I was dressed all in black again. Only to find no sign of trail. It became a live version of human Frogger to get back across. I don’t think we lost anyone.
The shoulder was nearly nonexistent under the berm of dirty ice encrusted snow. I kinda wanted to get off the highway. It still was not light out. So I stomped over to a parking lot that was plowed and ran parallel with the general direction pack had decided to wander. And by sheer luck, there was flour. On-On!
Then back into the snow. Glory Hole collapsed on us here. We would have left him for the birds but it turns out he just needed a little rest. Kids these days don’t know how to party.
The rest of us ran, slid but mostly rolled down the hill to Fish Hatchery Road. From here it was basically a death march. In more ways than one. Dawn was creeping up on us. And so were motorists.
Back at the parking lot we gathered every straggler, charged our vessels and made our way across the street to the creek. There was a little debate and confusion as to where exactly we would do this Hash Hogs and circle business. Quick was having none of it and pointed the way. We stomped through shin deep snow down to the Jordan Creek.
Shocker had prepared a poem for the occasion. Though it turns out it was quite illegible and her attempts to read it incomprehensible. Probably due to the fact that she had written it drunk on the ride there. She swore it made sense at the time.
It was now time for the hare to be attached to the jumper cables. Shocker cast out like she had cerebral palsy. Poor guy landed in a puddle. But she was able to sally forth and her second attempt sent the little guy into open waters. The will to live seemed to leave the little fella and Dunkin hinds caught it all on digital camera.
Shocker then reeled him in and it was decreed: “SIX MORE WEEKS OF SHIGGY!”
Closing circle commenced. I stomped down the snow around me so I could stand without more of it going into my shoes. Oddly, Cumtucky Slurpee was the only other person who thought this was a good idea.
We did the usuals with little of note to mention. Followed by an even speedier version of Swing Low than at our last trail. Quadrupal speed! Led by RA Ya Lion Cunt.
It was then that Glory Hole realized he had lost the hash flash camera. And was forced to backtrack trail for fear of losing all those nudie pics. It was recovered. in the snow. Where he had decided to lay down earlier. Slacker.
See, It was critical that we kill all this time because The Brass Rail on Lehigh Street did not open until 7. Where we went for breakfast and lots of bloody marys and screwdrivers (or as our waitress called them, “a single or a double screw.” Always take a double screw when offered.)
Liquor Box established a no nostril or butt policy at our table. How this worked it’s way into conversation is lost to memory. It prompted Rubber Ripper to develop an equal opportunity orifice clause for all future contracts.
And then everyone went home to pass the fuck out.
I’m still wondering if I ever got out of bed in the first place.