Hares: Rip Van Wanker and Coral Sex
Box: somewhere in Agat, turn at the broken white car, pass some boonie dogs and wary residents, up a hill, and you're there
On-home: in Agat where the old VFW burnt down
Trail summary: we are having a summer of lost trails my fellow hashers (noted, there have been a few notable exceptions). Another Saturday in the long days of summer , another short, shitty, boring trail. The hares tried to make it longer by doing 3 successive stupid loops into a river and then back onto a jeep trail. Some of us didn't even take any of them. At most people took the first one and then just flew the jeep trail. I casual hashed with our distinguished supreme leader, who declared that wherever he was, he was at the front of the pack. Anyone "ahead" of him, to use the term of the invalids, was actually just that far behind.
With trail ending so early, the hounds had no choice but to sit around, ward off mosquitoes, and wonder where the fucking snacks were. I thought that maybe the hares were trying to strictly adhere to the budget PC set down, but actually Greasy Poon had increased their snack budget. Apparently the hares blew most of it on those Hawaiian potato chips because that was pretty much all there was. Which, don't get me wrong, they're good and all, but let's make that money stretch a bit further fellas. Once religion did start, things got going. Trail Snatcher brought these two couchsurfers from Macau, who spoke little English but were hilarious. CornMan acted as translator by basically being in a constant state of Charades. One guy, who did too much #SarahHuberFitness, just whined the whole trail about how much his ass hurt and how much Lactic Acid he had. Listen buddy, if I know one thing about the hash, it's keep your ass ailments to yourself. He didn't, and he's now Lactic AssPlay.
We also said goodbye (sort of) to FUPA at the 1784. He says he doesn't know if he'll be back, but this man loves Guam and will rip off his own dick and grill it as a brat if he thought it would get him back to Guam. But, since FUPA's dick is still presumably attached, we said our so-longs to the man who was The Bitch. No one in the history of my tenure of this publication has so successfully created a niche for himself that no one else could fill. Not so long ago FUPA was just another rando military hasher. Until he decided one day to make himself the irreplaceable bitch of the Tyrant. He started, without any prompting, bringing Tube Top Tyrant her own cooler of special beers. He would meticulously pay attention to her drinking, and as soon as she finished her last swallow of one, he already was pressing the next one in her hand. This service eventually extended to RA Pussy Control, then Tyrant PC, then even me as the RA, and finally now to our current Tyrant and RA. His commitment to being someone's bitch earned him a pink sash that is truly his most prized possession. FUPA never gave up his role of The Bitch (he sort of tried to train Goni), but he also became the hash's informal chef. We are now so spoiled on his on-home cuisine, his Game of Thrones brunches, and his post-event run breakfasts. I now have no idea what I'm going to eat on Saturdays with him gone. He will be universally missed, and here's hoping he's back in time for the holidays--my Thanksgiving dinner is not going to cook itself.
On-on to the 1785!
"What happens on the hash, stays on the hash...except when it's written in the hash trash."