"The Cat-Friendly Trail"
AKA Pussies Welcome AKA Never Trust the Hares (unless you're a mountain lion)
Northwest corner of Blue Diamond Hwy and Rainbow Blvd.
Hares: Have Shit/Will Travel and Headbanger

So there we were: in another litter strewn vacant lot on the outskirts of Las Vegas, the city of meadows. Wondering why the fuck aren�t we across the street in that warm saloon instead of here with the weather beaten porn advertisements and burnt out vehicles. Who cares? The February sun was shining on us like the glint off a frosty PBR can and at nearly 70 degrees there wasn�t a goose bump in sight. To boot, there was a cooler with Sierra Nevada AND PBR and two capable hares: Have Shit/Will Travel and Head Banger. The usual suspects, a few back sliders, a few almost (and brand new) hounds (Hasher Spider (not a hash name) and Hasher Brett) and visitors (B-Flat (Phoenix, AZ) and Bone A Lisa (Atlanta, GA)) gathered in the box ready to take their punishment, knowing damn well that whatever HS/WT says is either completely wrong or absolutely correct; the question is: which is which? Is it really cat friendly or for pussies or neither or both?

Brought to order by Golden Eagle�s school bell, the pack gathered in the box for the Blessing of the Hares. Copus no catch us, cactus no prick us, to the short cut that pays off; and the hares were off. And just like that, the hares seemed to disappear into thin air.

With a mostly veteran pack, GE had a small but attentive audience for chalk talk but everyone participated in hash calisthenics (a word, by the way, that has way too many complex syllables for the hash). With "a Hoo and Hee," the pack was off across the traffic of Blue Diamond Hwy., the deadliest road in Clark County. Brilliantly, the hares set their first beer check a mere 100 yards (that�s nearly 100 meters for you foreign wanks) from the box, making it impossible for even our special hasher Special Ed to get lost. Yes, the Blue Diamond Saloon was neither forgotten nor neglected, as it was both the first beer check and the perfect opportunity for the two speedy, ahem, hares to distract the pack whilst they undoubtedly sped away in a car. This hash reporter, being crippled, slowly negotiated the killer traffic in a game of Russian Frogger only to arrive just in time to NOT get a beer. (Good thing I had a reserve PBR in my secret stash.). To my knowledge, that�s the shortest distance ever to a beer check.

And then, out the west door we were directed by the bar tender Debbie (I think) to true trail. At the first check around the corner, the FRBs and lemming pack went east. But, the pack immediately was confounded by the check set along a fence. With only 180 degrees (or more) to search, who woulda thunk that the pack would be confused so easrly in the run? I believe it was the quick thinking and light footed Hunka Hunka Burning Shit that broke the check by backtracking true trail through a hole in the fence. Good job hares, you kept the pack together for at least the first 200 yards of trail. Honor!

At this point, this scribe was slowly left in the dust of the great Mojave Desert like a healthy snack at a Super Bowl party. First it was the FRBs that passed me, then the joggers, then the walkers, then Nero. But, not before I engaged several hounds in friendly hash banter. First, I began to feel uncharacteristically tired and winded and I didn�t know why, until I realized that whoever was behind me was panting like porn star, and it made me feel winded. Ah, Red Light Conductor. "Hey man, all that heavy breathing is making me tired," I said. "Yeah, I know, it�s just that I haven�t been able to hash because of that 4-letter word." "You can�t hash because you fuck?" I asked. "No, man, the curse word with a "w" in it." Confused, I asked "You�re outta shape because you wank? (I knew this couldn�t be true or else I�d resemble Jabba the Hutt.) "No, dude, it�s got an R in it." Oh, right, that 4-letter word. Now my brain is completed taxed from a game of hash scrabble.

Next, WD-40, a recently returned backslider, caught up to me. After the formalities, we got down to business: �Damn those hares, I know we�re gonna go to the top of that hill,� she said. �Yeah, but they said it was cat friendly, whatever that means,� I said. At this point, Mudrock and Gives Good Head caught up and joined in the conversation. Maybe the �cat friendly� comment is a reference to the 2 pussy hares? WD: �You can�t have two pussies, Koresh.� �Damn, you mean my sexual fantasies will never happen?� Due to the nefarious nature of this conversation many of the details are lost in the depths of my perverted mind, but a comment about Siamese twins joined at the vagina prompted Mudrock to yell �Twin Twats� as he galloped across the desert following Gives Good Head with dirty thoughts in his mind.

Then it was the walkers: Nero, Motor Mouth, virgin friend of MM, and Koresh. This was when MM revealed how amazed and confused she was when she got to the box. She explained to Nero that she didn�t at all recognize Hunka due to the fact that the last time she saw him he was, according to her, someone who she always confused with Nero. This confirms several things: MM has not run in quite some time, HHBS has lost some weight, and MM�s IQ is inversely proportional to the rate at which she speaks. She wondered if perhaps he had his stomach stapled or perhaps a gastric bypass surgery. She finally decided that he must�ve done it to no longer crush Golden Eagle during love making. (I swear this was a real conversation and I�m not making any of it up. Ask Nero.) Nero, on the other hand, maintains that by being the size that he is will prevent him from ever going hungry in the event of being caught in a blizzard. That makes a lot of sense coming from someone who live in the frickin� desert!

The main pack, led by Hunka Hunka and Victor Victoria followed true trail, sure enough, up the big hill and along the winding ridge, while the scribe and walkers followed hare lies and short cut up the pavement. (Forgive me, G, for I have sinned). Being a half mind and a glutton for pain, I splintered from the walkers (actually, because of Motor Mouth, my ears were starting to hurt more than my Achilles) and began to long-cut the short cut. I found trail and began following it backwards, following the no-nos to the base of the hill, where I was passed by the hares in a car yelling to me that I was going backwards. [I never did call those auto-wanking hares into circle.] Not sure what I was doing, I looked up and saw the pack at the top and they were all drinking sacred nectar and I knew why I was here. Achilles be damned, I was determined as a sperm to reach that golden spot and up the steep and treacherous hill I went to the second beer check. For the second time, the hares outdid themselves with a spectacular beer check that over looked the entire city with a great view of the strip.

The trail down was good and when I almost took out BVDiva, Martha Fuckin� Stewart didn�t seem to mind. It seems that as long as Martha is going down, BVDiva is happy. Even if Brown Floater is involved (Ewww!). Unfortunately, trail began to rapidly deteriorate at this point and the pack was taken across flat desert and a long straight road, past the start and towards an industrial area near the railroad tracks. As we neared civilization and the hares flour became more and more sparse, we wondered where will this end? Fortunately, HS/WT used his Harley Davidson connections to end us at the LV equivalent of OC Choppers and we ended in a Harley shop, complete with a junk yard dog and a hash trash can so large that several of us had to do down-downs because we were too stoopid to see it. (If you have to ask, you don�t know). With both Crappaccino and Headbanger bringing snacks, we ate like kings and drank like fishes before the ceremonies began.

A fine circle was run by Golden Eagle and Crappacino. And although this half-mind can�t recall anything especially scribe worthy at circle, it was discovered, for reasons still unknown, that RA Crappacino will not drink out of our Sacred Vessel. We WILL get to the bottom of this. Is it herpes? Does the stainless steel interact with his dental work? Or is it that friends of murderers don�t play that? (If you have to ask, you don�t watch local news.)

The on-after was at the first beer check, The Blue Diamond Saloon, where our waiter was Andre The Giant�s young cousin. The BDS will always hold a special place in this hashers heart as it was where I was almost forced into a fight with A Stitch In Time Saved Mine (mortal name: John Wayne Bobbit, yes, the real deal, D-list celebrity and former Vegas hasher). Had it actually come to fisticuffs, you know I woulda kicked him where it hurts.

I would advertise that the Super Bowl party is at Premature E-whackulation�s house, but by the time you read this, the Steelers have already won. Instead, I�ll advertise for Loo Tenant and Multiple Horsgasms (neither of which were on trail) that next week is the Leather and Lace run. Be there or be somewhere else.

On-On,
Koresh