 |
| In the name of the Mosi: Money Launderer and Sugar Babe |
Date: Saturday, 21 April, 2012.
Hares: Floppy, Purple Bush and Titus.
Location: Quasimodo Du Preez's Farm.
Hash Number: 1664.
Attendance: Who knows, around 40 maybe? Hares: Floppy, Purple Bush and Titus.
Location: Quasimodo Du Preez's Farm.
Hash Number: 1664.
Hash Trash was back for this one. After two weeks sans vehicle, we limped our way to a new venue at the very, very end of State Lodge Road. And with a dying battery and umpteen warning lights flashing in the hairdresser-mobile, we gathered for the off in some virgin bush.
Purple Bush and Floppy led the walkers, while Titus supposedly led the runners. And off we went, a smaller crowd than normal. In no time, thanks to expert guidance from Titus, we were lost and off the trail.
 |
| 800 runs: Boy Blue. |
Having picked up the trail again down at the lakeside, we made our way into some rougher stuff, with plenty of barbed-wire surprises along the way. Runners tumbled and legs were ripped to shreds, before we limped into the first of one hash holds to gather our breath and staunch the worst of the flesh wounds. The slightly lesser lacerated walkers were waiting for us with bemused looks upon their faces, and we parted ways for the last push.
Leaving the bush, we doubled back on to the road (with the Mosi in sight – how cruel) for the final push, although some cheating souls were seen to be shamelessly shortcutting back towards the car. Burn them.
The sky was clear and the Mosi cold when we brave band of brothers (and sisters) finally circled up. Hamster and Condom Man led the proceedings and hashers welcomed Canadian Rita in a rather bizarre ceremony involving the Hash Master taking the carpet to the boot of her car.
Leaving the bush, we doubled back on to the road (with the Mosi in sight – how cruel) for the final push, although some cheating souls were seen to be shamelessly shortcutting back towards the car. Burn them.
The sky was clear and the Mosi cold when we brave band of brothers (and sisters) finally circled up. Hamster and Condom Man led the proceedings and hashers welcomed Canadian Rita in a rather bizarre ceremony involving the Hash Master taking the carpet to the boot of her car.
 |
| Fanta down-down: Elvis and oxygen thief. |
 |
| NO BALLS: Floppy. |
Fruitcake, legs ripped to shreds and bruised from a comical tumble, rated the run with a rather low-scoring 10/10 and returners Cool Dude and Titbits were toasted for their dedication in turning up again
It was son on to business as a whole gaggle of hashers were called in and penalised for their dodgy attire. The shot twins were lambasted for matching glittery girly T-shirts, while Raspberry and Fruitcake were called in for shameless advertising of Colalife. Boy Blue didn’t escape either. His crime, you ask? Looking slightly redder than usual. Next up was Elvis and Princess Fiona, whose endeavours to make the hash a family thing were jeered at by the rest. Down-downs ensued.
Hallelujah – a naming then “came on” and the lucky hasher was Aussie the dog (yes, you are reading right, we actually named an Alsatian). Owing to his lack of ging-gang-goolies, the hero of the red dress run was named forevermore as “Floppy”. Indeed, our own Floppy looked slightly miffed when a Fanta down-down was administered. He enjoys a beer as much as the next hasher, even if he has no balls!
Next up were Alan and Janet. Alan, whose shady illegal cash empire stretches as far as washing powder, Boom, was quite-rightly christened Money Launderer, while his moll, Janet, guilty through association, was dubbed Sugar Babe.
It was son on to business as a whole gaggle of hashers were called in and penalised for their dodgy attire. The shot twins were lambasted for matching glittery girly T-shirts, while Raspberry and Fruitcake were called in for shameless advertising of Colalife. Boy Blue didn’t escape either. His crime, you ask? Looking slightly redder than usual. Next up was Elvis and Princess Fiona, whose endeavours to make the hash a family thing were jeered at by the rest. Down-downs ensued.
Hallelujah – a naming then “came on” and the lucky hasher was Aussie the dog (yes, you are reading right, we actually named an Alsatian). Owing to his lack of ging-gang-goolies, the hero of the red dress run was named forevermore as “Floppy”. Indeed, our own Floppy looked slightly miffed when a Fanta down-down was administered. He enjoys a beer as much as the next hasher, even if he has no balls!
Next up were Alan and Janet. Alan, whose shady illegal cash empire stretches as far as washing powder, Boom, was quite-rightly christened Money Launderer, while his moll, Janet, guilty through association, was dubbed Sugar Babe.
And there was time for some more punishment as Titus, Bin Dealin, Bo and G2S were hauled in for their cuts and scratches. Finally, in an effort to try and make the hash more ‘sophisticated’, Child Abuse was dragged in for quaffing on Zambian wine supplied by our very own Boy Blue who, having seeing a gap in the market now that tujilijili (honestly, how many dotted letters in a row?!) has been banned, is intent on flooding the bottle shops of Lusaka with cat piss in a carton.
In fact, Boy Blue took the opportunity to tell us more of its finer qualities (it’s cheap and probably won’t send you too blind) whilst receiving his 800-run milestone! Shameless – to think we dragged the Colalife twins in for a very similar crime of self promotion - corruption in the extreme.
Which brings us nicely to Hash Sh*t. G2S narrowly avoided the sh*t-shirt as Hamster blew the proceedings wide open. A Hash Sh*t in a previous week, our RA pointed the finger of corruption firmly at Condom Man.
Now let me cast your fuzzy, beer-haggered minds back to the Wheel Chair Hash auction. Lot 2,543,432: One year’s immunity from Hash Sh*t, bought by Hamster. Yet, months later, our tyrannical leader blatantly awarded Hash Sh*t to our very own Hamster.
Which brings us nicely to Hash Sh*t. G2S narrowly avoided the sh*t-shirt as Hamster blew the proceedings wide open. A Hash Sh*t in a previous week, our RA pointed the finger of corruption firmly at Condom Man.
Now let me cast your fuzzy, beer-haggered minds back to the Wheel Chair Hash auction. Lot 2,543,432: One year’s immunity from Hash Sh*t, bought by Hamster. Yet, months later, our tyrannical leader blatantly awarded Hash Sh*t to our very own Hamster.
“Abuse of power!” shrieked the masses. Off came the shirt, down went the Mosi. On-on.
