trash

The Mark of the Beast Hash The evening began somewhere around 7:15 or so. Many hashers gathered at the Philosopher's Stone on E. 7th Street and sat directly in front of a very symbolically loaded mural depicting strange acts of hedonism and debauchery. And there was much consuming of alcohol (PBRs were a mere $1.75) and eating of the flesh of small animals to celebrate the evening's "once in a hundred years" date (o6.o6.o6). Live-ehem-.um-dead music was played as a means to torture the hashers and many other lost souls (unfortunately dressed in khaki's and Old Navy-ware-yuck) that had come to the establishment. Small pointed objects and ball-peen hammers were distributed to those that would rather subject themselves to self-induced permanent hearing loss than suffer the retched scatting of a 70-year old cover song artist. After an hour of stretching the sole, numerically-challenged waiter on a Catherine's Wheel, we moved on.

At 8:15 the group of "almost sober" hashers wandered two doors down to an almost illegally gathering of preps, frat boys, and mid-twenty golden boy-banker-types that worshipped the very socially acceptable definition of god-y'know, the one that requires heavy financing through republican oppression of small brown people around the world. Yes, we went to Jackalope's (Dos Equis were a mere $2.50). Here the hashers met up with many late-cummers and engorged the jukebox with hundreds of dollars to play nothing more than "Devil music." Songs ranged from "Shout at the Devil", "Highway to Hell", "Running with the Devil", and "Hotter than Hell." We posed next to a very large wooden rabbit and under a license plate that read "HELONWLZ". And there was much rejoicing. After 45 minutes of randomly running into the men's bathroom and screaming "What's all this then?" we moved on.

Our third location was a few blocks away at "Hawthorne Pizza." To our amazing surprise, Stella beer was sold at a remarkably unheard ofŠ$2.00 a pint. After we collected our jaws and eyeballs from the floor, there was mass consumption of the tasty alcoholic beverage. Unfortunately, we were unable to recruit any new-cummers to our celebration at this point. The beer was great, but the crowd and music were-dead-HA! So, we moved on.

The fourth bar was planned to be "Mo-Fo's." Sadly, these pin-headed, vacuous, malodorous, shallow, mongoloid, excuses for an abortion-clinic-bombing were unable to open their tiny, hallow, dump of a bar up for twenty-ish people who wanted to drink. Even after repeatedly banging on their street front door and window. So, we moved on to better things-"Carpe Diem." This restaurant is run by the most upstanding, tasteful, and fun lesbians in town, folks-let there be no debate (unless you're a master-debater). Yours truly has even attempted at least two manage-a-trois with employees here-so it's got to be good. At the bar, many hashers were ready for something other than-gasp-beer. So Irish Car Bombs were ordered. Sadly, they were out of Guiness and Jameson's. BUT!...through the improvisation of the wonderful bartender and yours truly, there was a new con(cock)tion created that would curl the toes of Mel Gibson. And-there was much rejoicing. After 25 minutes, and a debate against astro-turf, we moved on.

Two doors down, we arrived at "The Loft." This bar is high on the posh list, folks-with a beautiful view of downtown Charlotte from their outdoor balcony, as well as huge transformer that hangs from a telephone pole only inches from being in reach of a small child. It's great. Local celeb', Ryan Miller was on hand to take requests as our guest DJ. Much Skinny Puppy, NIN, and Ministry was played to appeal to our crew. By this time, several members of the local fire-twirling crew from Charlotte had joined our punchy pod of anguished alcoholics. A plan was devised to actually twirl fire on the outer deck. After a definite resounding NO from the proprietor, we went outside and blocked all the doors out and did it anyway. After being thrown out, we went to the empty graveyard-like parking lot next door to continue the fire-twirling-.HA!

Since there was no beer in the parking lot, we moved on after only three minor burns and crimping of hair. Our sixth and final destination was a deep, dark hole-in-the-wall of an establishment known as "SK Net Café." Upon entering into the abyss, every hasher, burner and goth received his/her very own magic-markered, personalized, "Mark-of-the-Beast" on their hand to designate that they were an upstanding, paying client. Yours truly was gifted with a proverbial "666" in black with red outline. Unfortunately, after the mass consumption of alcohol at this point-I don't remember any more than standing in the middle of Elizabeth Avenue, stopping the taxi to go home. Hey, they don't call me "Lightweight Larry" for nothin'.

I'm sure that after my departure, there was still much rejoicing and consumption of alcoholic beverages-hell, maybe even some more fire twirling and molesting of young boys. Be sure to watch "To Catch a Predator" this week to see if we're on. For those of you that had poor excuses for not going out, to hell with you-you missed THE BEST HASH/PUB CRAWL EVER!!!

Stigmatically bleeding from a strange orifice, Lightweight Larry with a Flintstone Flop a.k.a. Lobster X

In attendance: Lightweight Larry, The Inseminator, Pukeachu, Shit Stick, All Tongues on Deck, Vitamin D Cup, Hollow Beaver, Lost Cunt Tree

Urban shiggy galore – and who know there were that many railroad tracks in Charlotte? Bucket Slut even played chicken with a train! (Hey, it’s better than playing doctor with one.)

The pack took off before the hare got back from setting the trail – No chalk talk, no introductions. We figured we would all get lost on trail, since Slappy was already drunk when he left to set trail. Luckily, after trespassing numerous times, we made it back to the beer (and a hare that looked amazingly like one of the Stooges).

Lightweight Larry did a down down for FRB, Vitamin D Cup was FBI, and DFL was Lost Cunt Tree. Lost Cunt Tree also did a down down for backsliding – apparently, he does not know how to use the phone or internet, and was under the mistaken assumption that the Red Dress was on Sunday last week. At least, that’s his story. Word on the street says he was arrested in Havana while trying to have sex with an underage male prostitute.

Quote of the day? “Fat gives,” said All Tongues, while squeezing through a tight fence opening.

A beautiful day it was, when last we had a hash. Sunshine bright, temperature nearly perfect, and the trail….Oh, the trail. Never a better trail was set in the history of the Charlotte Hash House Harriers. The story starts at dawn, birds chirping, sky brightening, slowly waking our lovely harriette from her slumber. She rose, stretching languidly, and reached down to pet her pussy. CAT, PEOPLE. HER CAT. AS IN FELINE. Ahem…where was I? Oh, yes. Vitamin rose and began her day, humming softly, completely unlike Lightweight Larry's loud "lalala" when he can't remember the words to a song. She began readying her supplies – flour, beer, chips. She took a moment to align the television at the beer stop so that the Panthers fans could see the game, and even programmed the TiVo to record the game, so they could rewind it and watch it from the beginning, if they so desired. That Vitamin D Cup – quite the gal. Vitamin D Cup was quite surprised at the turnout at the day's hash, considering the Panthers game was on at the same time. In attendance was Poke It Til It's Wet, Hand Job, Pixel Dick, Choice of a New Penetration, All Tongues on Deck, Male Order, Goes Down Hard, Shut Your Cock Tunnel, Just Robin, Just Jim, Just Terry, Just Ar, and, of course running late, Lightweight Larry and The Inseminator. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, we had THREE virgins on trail that lovely day, and we took care to induct them into the group. The trail, of course, was lovely. Perfectly marked, perfect length, perfect, perfect, perfect. Although the pack skipped part of the trail within 50 feet of the start, missing a check, Vitamin D Cup, smart little hare, and live haring the tail end of the trail, made them go through it on their way back in. Circle was lovely, and perfect, with plenty of beer, and song, and entertainment. The Inseminator was FBI, we found out during a white panty check that Choice of a New Penetration wears boxer briefs, and of course, there are STILL very few people who know the Whistle Song. Vitamin D Cup did a spectacular job, and all was forgiven from the last trail she set (which would have been perfect, if not for all the whiners). (Above is what you get when you elect the hare to write the trash. And it was perfect, damn it, perfect and beautiful and lovely.)

The 3rd Annual Goth Hash

October 8, 2005: 7:30 pm - until

Hares: Goth Dammit, Lightweight (Just) Larry aka Lobster

Victims in order of appearance: All Tongues on Deck, Vitamin D Cup, The Inseminator, Just Dave, Spitzer Swallows, Just Linda, Bucket Slut, Shitty, Scabby, Section 8, Ditty, Surf-n-turf.

It was a dark and gloomy night. Goth Dammit and myself had staked out an inconspicuous location near the infamous Elmwood Graveyard in downtown Charlotte to start trail. A chill filled the air as fellow hashers began to arrive; and, of course, we were running late. However, as each participant arrived, they were greeted with a chilly handshake, a gothic goblet and either PBR or blood red wine. As we waited for the late cummers, a rogue band of fellow Goths join in our pre-celebration of PBR, and there was much angst. BOOOOO! Once the late cummers arrived, we formed the traditional funeral procession of 13 plus one and walked to a fairly open space in the graveyard. Since the Goth Hash is always backwards, we circled up and did many down-downs. Back-sliders and out-of-towners were the first victims. No virgins had been sacrificed, so we moved on to greater things. Several victims had to do down-downs for their wear. Flip-flops are a fashionable faux pas at the Goth Hash!!! Once everyone had done a down-down, Goth Dammit led the group in traditional gothic dance moves such as "Kick the Smurf" and "Land the Plane." Several victims then gave very insightful hash names to each dance move, such as "Grab the Beer, Drink the Beer and Crush the Beer"…and there was much angst. BOOOOO! Little had we known that the dancing of the dead would excite several hundred fire ants that then began to attack our victims!!! So circle closed, and the trail began.

Our first Beer Near was located at the corner of Cedar and 5th Streets at the Cedar Street Pub. There we consumed many alcoholic beverages and there was much angst. Discussions revolved around next years NC/SC in Charlotte in 2006, and much undermining and sabotaging was planned. From here we took West Virginia Cab Rides to the corner of S. Tryon and Bland Streets, where we entered the Gin Mill. We frightened most of the patrons into shock, while Tallboy PBR specials were consumed and a Jimmy Buffet cover band yowled in the background. Here we began to lose members of our group. But we persevered and finished our beverages. Once everyone was done, we meandered into Amos' SouthEnd to experience Purgatory 22. Once we entered the club, there were many screams of shock and horror as 6'-4" DJ Spider in a nun's habit spun evil music for our enjoyment. We wandered throughout the club to see very large buttocks spanked until red, the piercing of nipples and the suspension of several people from rope. We danced and drank many alcoholic beverages until the show began. At this point I refuse to diverge any detail about the show for you wankers that missed it; especially because I became nauseous from all the excitement and had to leave. HA! However, everyone that remained continued to have a miserable time, and there was much angst. BOOOOO!

-Lobster X

So I didn't make it out to Burning Man this year. I decided, instead, to hang out with a few of my ³hashing² buddies in good ol¹ boring Charlotte. I, along with my brutha-frum-anutha-mutha, Ken ³Goth Dammit² Lloyd decided to host the inaugural ³Little Black Dress Pub Crawl² last Saturday (August 27,2005) and we had a blast. Imagine 13 women and men in little, slinky black dresses traveling from pub to pub along the Trolley line in downtown Charlotte. And even though it wasn¹t exactly Burning Man, it was in vein of the whole mindset. I wore my Elton John rhinestone sunglasses, a glitter flame highlighted dress, silver boots, and a matching studded black leather pocketbook. The evening was a little humid, but we were all fabulous and had a mission of drinking on our minds. In fact, it went something a little like this...

We met up at SouthEnd Brewery where we consumed a beer (hooray) and caught the Trolley to Bland Street. We then had a shot of ouzo at Greek Isles and went to the Gin Mill for tall-boy PBR¹s (and there was much rejoicing). Afterwards we caught the next trolley to the Westin Hotel where we sipped on cosmopolitans. We then walked over to Aquavina to down a light beer and chill. Our next goal was to walk along S. Tryon Street and let the lookie-lous get a gander at our lovely couture. Many horns and whistles blew as we worked our way to good ol¹ Ri Ra¹s. Here we consumed many Guinii (plural for Guiness), and posed with a bachelorette party from Gastonia (and there was much rejoicing). Here is where my memory fades. Somehow we time traveled to Connely¹s on Fifth and invaded their outdoor patio, with much chagrin from their dopey bouncer on a barstool. HA! There were many drinks consumed of various sizes and potency. We then migrated to our final destination for the evening, The Graduate Downtown. Here we ordered many buckets of PBR (yeah), and celebrated by having many Œdown-downs¹ (the traditional ceremony of making everyone drink while standing in a circle and accusing them of wrongdoing or silliness on trail). At the end of the night, I had nipple rub and was drunk (yeah). And all were happy.

So, next year, if you can¹t make Burning Man, we could use a few local freaks to walk with us on the First Annual Little Black Dress Pub Crawl.