Hash Six-69:From Pleasure Point to pleasureless and pointless

Welcome Wankers!

To the six-hundred and sixth-ninth installation of the Surf City Hash Trash.

The main thrust of this Trash will be an emphasis on the word “Trash” as in Trashy Trail or Trailer Trash Hares. See a discernible pattern emerging here? Yes, it’s Trash and in all variations thereof.

I would assign a number to the errors perpetrated by our lackluster hare-pair, that being Shallow Hole and Princess Di(arrhea) but there’s a limit to everything, even man’s numbering system.

We’ll begin this foray into frivolity at Point A, the Castaways. We’ll refer to our hares as “Outcasts” while we’re at the Castaways, mainly because they should be “cast out” with the rest of the Trash. While the accoutrements of this ancient watering hole have been improved over the years, Puff’s first visit to the den of iniquity was the summer of ’75, I cannot boast the same of the clientele. A number of the denizens here within physically resemble people I saw here in the mid to late 70’s. They obviously being the result of extramarital events most likely precipitated by excessive consumption of alcoholic beverages. Excuse me while I digress but that’s the only good thing about Deep Stroke: We do not have to worry about her spawning no matter how polluted she gets.

The pool table within the claustrophobic confines of this concrete coffin may well be the center of social life. I overheard a guy say, If I win this game, I can go for a week without working! That would be a good thing though because considering how much his hands were shaking, the only job he could get would be as a paint mixing machine or a margarita maker. And THIS is the place our outcasts/hares deemed a good place to bring us. I feel certain there’s an undercover cop car in the parking lot that takes pictures of everyone that enters this dark den knowing sooner or later all patrons will be guilty of some kind of crime.

Instructions of Trail lasted longer than most Banana Basher trails have. These two chicks clucked endlessly, singing the praises of a trail that did not of yet even exist. We were told there would be an opportunity to “Stop & Shop” on trail, the merchandise already having been purchased by the hares. Stay tuned for what THIS proved to be. I watched with fascination, and with more than a little revulsion, as two nice young ladies were transformed into hell-shrieking harriettes. Worse yet, they now envision themselves as accomplished hares. Sadly, the real victims here are their followers-US!!! My Little Bony was seen nodding off at the bar, Wicked Retahted returned to his table and Cuff My Muff threatened them with bodily injury if they didn’t leave so finally they acquiesced and headed on-out. Normal life resumed at the Castaways.

After the passage of the time necessary to recuperate from the cryptic Instructions of Trail, GM TIMMY! signaled the school to swim into the parking lot for circleup. (Now the cops can get REALLY good pictures of us) Here is the list of this week’s merry members of this madness: Thmp-Thmp, Cuff My Muff, Wicked Retahted, Hugh Heifer, Rowdy, TIMMY!, Accuprick, Dog Breath, Cumcerto, Deep Stroke, My Little Bony, Broke Bench Mountain; Justs: Jeanne, Sarah; Virgins: Jake, Ray, Brian and your Acting Scribe, Puff the Magic Drag Queen. Somewhere along trail, most likely after the difficult part was over, Six of Nine showed up. We were also joined by four four-legged hounds.

Okay, the stage is set for another tragic play in the life of the Surf City Hash House Harriers. I will not complicate this Trash with any facts thereby allowing me to extract almost any end result I desire. It is with this motive in mind I will now recount the events that comprise Trail Six-69. What follows is a true accounting even if it’s not the events that actually occurred.

On-out was the typical lackadaisical affair that pleases Surf City. We hoofed it through the parking lot towards 38th Avenue but turned sharply on-right out to Portola. At Portola, we were directed to on-left. Once 38th was reached, we were told to inhibit the flow of evening traffic for 3 or 4 minutes while the herd slowly migrated across the street and turned on-left. A block later, we saw a written communique from the hares: Stop & Shop!        So the pack entered a long-standing, if not well-respected, Santa Cruz institution………

          Inside, the covey was offered a box of prepaid merchandise. Most of this stuff looked as if the hares found it on a nearby beach washed onshore from the Japanese earthquake and resulting tsunami in 2011. Some of the harriettes appreciated the penis-shaped whistles though I took note of the fact Deep Stroke was seen stepping on them and busting their balls. Within minutes though the proprietor recognized us as hashers and said, I’ve had a run-in with you jokers before; please get-the-hell outta here, you’re bad for business! And out the door we went.

On-right back on Portola and we began a long jaunt crossing 41st Avenue and making an on-right onto Adrienne Way, on-left onto Court Drive followed by a quick on-left onto Opal Cliff Drive. Soon we passed the entrance to no-longer-secret Privates beach. As I passed by with Broke Bench Mountain and his always-starving dog, Porter, Broke Bench began recounting his younger days, probably well before he was of legal drinking age. He had a friend that lived on Opal Cliff and they would secure alcohol and inner tubes and float off Privates eyeballing chicks, probably masturbating, and drinking; not to mention inviting attacks from any passing Great Whites. As Just Jeanne began to catch up with us, I took off as I did not wish Jeanne to think I am (or ever was) anything like Broke Bench.

Eventually trail junctioned back with Portola, which is now so far-the-hell from Santa Cruz it has changed names to Cliff Drive.  Trail proceeded on-down Cliff which would soon dump us into the realm of the cops in Capitola, colloquially renamed Cop-itola by the hash. But wait, here’s a tragic development. Flour was found on-right on-down a long, steep staircase leading to the edge of Monterey Bay. Dragging our sorry soles (souls?) on-left we passed under the Capitola Wharf and found…

Bum Wine Check!

I know, I know. This was advertised as sort of a Piss ‘n Booths Memorial Revival Hash but this may have been carrying things too far. An occurrence at Frenchy’s led to PnB’s renaming but I think that was as far as these hares needed to carry this theme. Next they’ll having us hashing for friggin’ miles on the damn railroad tracks!!

Our business here concluded, we moved further along the beach, hopped a wall onto private property and began a brief visit to the first condominiums in California, Venetian. Now however, they’ve been bought by some large corporation and and now known as the Capitola Venetian Hotel. Emerging back onto Cliff Drive, a hare arrow pointed the pod directly across the street but told us nothing after that. Accuprick and Puff, hoping to turn in the direction of home, headed on-left and on-up Wharf Road. They soon sounded on-one. After that though, they were done for; on-on was soon heard across Soquel Creek and on-left proceeding up the locals-only path beside the creek towards the trail trestle. Accuprick and Puff turned back. As Puff neared the underside of the trestle, he heard the on-on far above him, hashers were crossing back over the river using the trestle. Accuprick was lucky, upon seeing this he took the steps on-up from Wharf Road to meet them. Puff had to hoof it yet again across the bridge and use the same steps as Accuprick did.

Once convened on the Santa Cruz side of Soquel Creek, trail made the short but steep on-up onto the locals-only path on the railroad side of the homes fronting on Prospect Avenue. Incidentally, Just Jenna said this trail poses some excellent Peeping Tom opportunities. Once out to Prospect, a hare arrow directed the drove directly across and onto Opal Street. At the intersection with 47th Avenue, I had a bizarre encounter with our newest kennel mate, Rowdy. You may know she was named at one hash, calls another her Mother hash and yet another has she been hashing with recently. Anyway, the the intersection mentioned above was a marked check. When I arrived, Rowdy asked, What’s that? I replied it was a marked check. She said, Oh. While hash marks vary somewhat hash-to-hash, one would believe a check is a check is a check! She then said, At my hash, two lines across trail was a marked check.  I was going to ask her how the hell that worked but then, considering how weird she is, I thought better of it and just moved on with my life.

At 45th, a hare arrow turned the troops on-left and a block later dumped the congregation into the dark depths of Jade Street Park. Trail became problematic for the next 200 yards. Flour was found on the lawn, chalk was haphazardly strewn onto ball courts, walkways, fences and trees. Eventually we found ourselves face-to-face with…….       Yep, the friggin’ railroad tracks. Just as I feared. An on-right onto the tracks move us all the way to 41st Avenue, or, technically, just a few feet shy of 41st. An on-left into an office/apartment complex at first appeared to be a circle jerk but turned out to be the location of Deep Stroke’s current flop as well as Liquor Check. Yep, the very back of this complex is where Deep Stroke is parking her rambling wreck and it saw double duty as Liquor Check this night as well. When Deep Stroke asked me if I’d like sex on the beach, my first inclination was to tell her sex ANYWHERE at my age is desirable, though practically impossible, but then, considering who was asking me, I fear what that means with someone like her so I declined her offer. She then held up a plastic jug, how classy, that looked like it originally held raw goat’s milk or possibly industrial strength rat poison and said, THIS kind of sex on the beach, Puff. I reluctantly took a hit and again, then moved on with my life.

After Liquor Check, Rowdy, Deep Stroke, Just Jenna and Puff moved out, crossed the tracks and found trail on-left onto Melton Street followed by an on-left onto 38th Avenue. Oh, boy! We’re finally headed in the direction of home! The spots for Beer Check are thinning out considerably, I began to fear the hare-pair had something evil in mind. My suspicions were soon confirmed as we took an on-right in the dark and smelly alley behind the strip mall containing, among other useless places, the Castaways. Sure enough, at the end farthermost from 38th, in an area as much someone’s front yard as an alley, Beer Check was finally encountered. This was a thankfully brief affair as we had a substantial amount of ground to cover to convene Religion at Wicked Retahted’s abode many blocks away on 30th Avenue.

The above tasks completed, Accuprick called to order the six-hundred and 69th meeting of the Surf City Hash House Harriers. Here’s a list of the criminal activities that transpired this week.

My Little Bony was (foolishly) appointed Beer Fairy. As is Bony’s wont, he did more drinkin’ that pourin’!

Cuff My Muff, Virgin Jake, Wicked Retahted and Six of Nine were punished for missing Beer Check.

Six of Nine spent more time at the altar for driving all the way here rather than attending the Gypsies H3 hash up in the City.

TIMMY! and Just Sarah were busted for using each other’s mortal names on trail.

Deep Stroke led the litter in a hash song she’s wanted to do every since first invading Surf City: Long black sausage. None of which shall I spit back up for you here. Ask her, she probably like to do it again for you. (to you?)

There were numerous other crimes, real or imagined, that garnered attention from the RA but I lost interest after Deep Stroke’s rude ditty about a poor little cat. Religion ran so long that both on-on-on pizza locations were closed but I heard a rumor Cuff My Muff sweet-talked a teenage boy into giving her some. Pizza I meant, what was the first thing that came into YOUR little half-mind?!?

And this brings to a close yet another sad chapter in Surf City’s less-than-illustrious history. There will be no books ever written about us other than a few brief references in the police log, no national (or even local) holidays. Even the charities to which we donate each year would prefer not to acknowledge they accept money from us.

Control of your computer will now be returned to you.

By Special Appointment of His Royal Majesty “G”, this Hash Trash has been compiled and printed by permission of no on other that the author at Santa Cruz, Ca., or elsewhere if need be, on this, the twenty-first day on January in the year of our Hash Two-thousand thirteen.


Puff the Magic Drag Queen

Surf City H3

Acting Scribe


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