Run No: 438 - 20 OCT 07 - Visiting Taichung Hash - Coloane Village

Hash no. 438

 
The Taichung Hash Comes to Macau

EDITOR’S APOLOGY

The editor and staff of The Hash Trash of Macau wish to offer a public apology for failing to libel Ms. Pubic Plucker in last week’s issue, which we understand resulted in trauma, loss of self-esteem, a fear of down-downs, and an insatiable craving for sex, culminating in her having to take a protracted day off work on Friday. We can assure our readers that we had no intention of causing such distress and that we will do everything we can to make amends. From now onwards we will ensure that Ms. Plucker’s name is associated with every scrap of scandal and innuendo which reaches our office. As a token of our sincerity, when Hash Cash gets back from his current holiday, whatever is left over in the kitty will be set aside for the GM’s weekend entertainment, and anything that remains after that will be available for full and unreserved compensation. We will, of course, ensure that the next time Ms Plucker falls off her chair it will be reported in full detail.
 

We now turn to the events of Hash no. 438, which Ms Plucker graced with her presence. She was sober when she arrived and remained fully clothed throughout, as did Sheik Me Me, who looked quite dashing in coordinated T shirt and knee bandages.

 

After some welcoming pre-run intercourse with the Taichung pilgrims, Ms Plucker and the rest of the pack made their way through the rear entry of Coloane Village and penetrated the cemetery via a secret orifice which only the residents are familiar with, and they tend to keep fairly quiet about these things except when there’s a full moon. It looked like a dead end, but Mr Turd, the co-hare, had found a way through and before they knew it the pack was slithering down the road out of the other end of the graveyard before making the long crawl up Dead Man’s Alley.

 

At the top of the lane the walkers selected the scenic stroll through Little Beirut, Macau’s Beverley Hills, whilst the runners were offered a mad scramble over the rocks to Cheok Van Beach, which, being mad, they duly accepted. Sometime later an emotional reunification took place at the top of Cheok Van Steps. On this occasion Ms Plucker was not witnessed having oral sex in the bus shelter despite her apparently insatiable needs.

 

The scramble behind the bus shelter presented the pack with a challenge: push on up the hill, or say to hell with it and head straight for the beer? The more intelligent hashers followed their instincts and were not seen again until the circle. We understand that Ms Plucker joined the other group and made her way up the hill. Halfway up the flour took a sharp turn to the right and charted a course straight through trees, brambles, spiders’ webs and various unknown life forms, but the curses and groans up ahead assured our reporter that this was the correct trail.

 

Suddenly the moaning ahead turned into shrieks of delight. Our reporter assumed that either Ms Plucker had worked her way to the front and had found some relief, or that the hares had managed to arrange a beer stop in the middle of an impenetrable thicket. On inching nearer it turned out that they had in fact caught up with Mr. Turd, who had elected to set a live trail, and was unfortunately still alive. The poor soul had somehow lost the path, impaled himself on the brambles, and was now caught like a rabbit in the headlights awaiting rescue. We have been assured that his sad disorientation had nothing whatever to do with the 62 pints of Guinness he had consumed the night before.

 

Meanwhile the walkers were ambling along the path a mere 3 metres away. A general regroup was called in order to allow Mr Turd time to gather his wits and build up a head start. He informed the assembled ranks that a beer stop was only minutes away and that the runners’ bits had already been laid, which excited everybody, especially Ms Plucker, who hadn’t caught the full sentence. With this information in mind, and after an appropriate wait of about 30 seconds the walkers set off again, and the runners a minute later, with Cunter Ass Thompson looking most becoming in the Space Cadet helmet he had found along the way.

 

Now the pack had the bit between their teeth. A thirsty hasher is a willing hasher and everyone zipped around the Coloane mini-loop to Six Ways in record time. No beer. The walkers set off on a frantic ramble around the rear end of the Big Hill in search of the fabled beer stop, whilst the runners hauled themselves up the stairs to the Domestic Helper statue. On being confronted by no beer, the front runners then resorted to racing to be first to the beer, which may have been a tactic on the part of the hares, as the beer stop turned out to be some 10 kilometres away, or so it seemed to our reporter. By the time he got there he was on the verge of publishing an article about misleading advertising on the part of the hares as revenge for the grovelling apology he had been forced to write by his editor, who strenuously denies that he is one of Ms. Plucker’s clients.

 

They all finally stumbled upon the beer stop, dutifully ladied by Scooter Babe, and after downing a can or two they burped and farted their way down the hill, past the abandoned shells of boatyards along the Skeleton Coast, and back into Coloane. The intelligent ones who had short-cut from the Cheok Van bus shelter were sitting calmly around enjoying their seventh beer.

 

As the circle got under way Mr. Turd wore the worried expression of one who is about to be beheaded, and displayed his lacerated legs to the few who showed the slightest bit of sympathy. Sheik Me Me complained of falling off a cliff and being knocked unconscious for hours, to explain why he got in a few minutes after the front runners. Albert and Cora delighted the home fans by winning the e-bay challenge and downing - what was it - 15 beers to win a MOP 5 towel. This and various other acts of self-abuse carried us through the circle and the on-on at Nga Tim’s. At this point we have to apologise again for Hash Flash’s failure to obtain footage of Ms Plucker performing on the table, or even of her falling off her chair.

 

Things became a little hazy after this. The assembled masses reconvened at the Irish Bar to revel in England’s attempt to retain the World Cup, and we have vague memories of the evening ending around 5am with everyone too drunk to remember the match they had stayed up all night to watch.

 

Enough of this drivel: I must get some work done before I get fired.

 
On On
 

Nancy Boy

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