Category: Write-Ups (page 2 of 4)

ZH3 Hash #1113 National Chicken Wing Appreciation Day Hash

Name: Hash #1113 National Chicken Wing Appreciation Day Hash
Location: Started at Kreuzplatz, ended in a dubious, dark wood
Hares: Christian Harlot and Grab My Sack
RA: Asphalt Liquor
Attendance: ~20
Scribe: Just Nina

Expecting idyllic spring weather, Christian Harlot wished to honour this momentous day by providing the Hash with chicken wings grilled out in the wilds. Her Co-Hare, Grab My Sack, led the runners up a steep trail to a secret mystery location whilst the secret chicken team ferried supplies up the mountain, foraged for booze in the wilderness of Denner, and prepared to light the fire.

It was cold. Very cold.

It started to snow.

The runners arrived at the end of the trail before the fire was lit, and there were a few desperate attempts to light strips of cardboard with magical invocations before the wood arrived. Everyone huddled around pitifully until the flames rose high.

It continued to snow. The alcohol, being stored in an icy trough of water, was also very cold. Despite the RA’s best efforts to detach people from the new and beautiful and warm and golden and shiny and WONDERFUL fire, the Circle was formed around it, as it proved both physiologically and psychologically impossible for people to move more than a foot away from it. It was warm. Not like the snow.

At one point during the numerous down downs, the chicken song was sung. This seemed appropriate. Shamefully, several of the hashers on one side of the circle refused to participate in this culturally significant ritual and managed to look vaguely uncomfortable and embarrassed.

By this point, snow had blanketed everything around us, including benches, bags, and any hashers foolish enough to have wandered off. In the meantime, chicken wings had been expertly tended to by Smoking Cock, and only occasionally fallen into the fire. Once ready, they were devoured voraciously. With a variety of sauces. This may have been very messy, and there was a period of silence broken only by moans, grunts and slobbering noises. Then the second round. Then the third. Then the… I lost count, there was a vast quantity of delicious wings.

Eventually the beer was drunk, the wings were gone, and the increasing risk of hypothermia drove even the most dedicated hashers home.

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ZH3 Hash #1107: The French Revolution of 1848 – Write-up

Name: ZH3 Hash #1107: The French Revolution of 1848
Location: Restaurant Swaad
Hares: Smoking Cock
RA: Weapon of Ass Destruction
Attendance: 19 hashers + 1 Canine
Scribe: D.E.Floured

As I came round I could see stars behind the silhouettes of treetops. It was night. Where was I?

Close to my right a voice. “Can you move your toes?”

The voice said it was Just Ottmar. A figure helped me to my feet and told me we had to keep moving — despite the sheet ice — otherwise eagles would trail us. Or the eagles would catch the rabbits. What rabbits? Which eagles? Nothing seemed to make sense. I was cold. My head hurt. I didn’t know where I was. The man insisted we run.

I stumbled on the uneven and slippery path as he ran effortlessly. He kept mentioning flowers. I couldn’t see any. He seemed worried about not losing a flower in his hair. I could make out lines, what looked like insignia on his bodysuit. Military? It was dark, my head hurt, my spine hurt, I was in an unfamiliar forest without flowers and an imposing soldier was worried about his hair. I decided to keep quiet and obey. I don’t know how long we ran. Later, at the tree-line I saw the movement of lights, then figures. Ottmar called a signal as we approached. We were nearing a city.

It seemed to be a paramilitary commando. Outlines of a score of people, interspersed in pairs or trios at irregular intervals along a road, some holding muted flashlights. Parachutists perhaps. Parachuted into the forest, where they must have stowed their equipment. Only one was carrying a rucksack. The rest, wrapped head-to-toe in material so one could only see eyes, were unarmed. They had a dog with them, and hadn’t been looking for us, so I think they were hunting the rabbits. Or one rabbit’s flowers.

I was jostled into the middle of the group. Behind me someone spoke ominously about widows, a naked and wasted body, and chalk outlines. A silhouette shouted menacingly that there were “no criminals in Tsvitzerlan.” They were vigilantes!

A gang of vigilantes, hunting in the peri-urban region of whatever settlement lay ahead of us, hunting and murdering the families of the seditious and the insouciant. My life was obviously endangered every second I spent among this militia. Despite my disorientation I had to escape. I tried to run. Vision blurry and feet unsteady I attempted to flee down the paths branching from their route. Yet whenever I started in one direction, the pack would double-back or change course. I tried a few times, they persisted; and insisted “Be near, be near!” I cannot remember how long this continued, nor do I understand why they did not kill me on the spot. Only that we ran until weariness overcame my entire body.

Next in my recollections is the gang standing in a clearing. They were angry. They were discussing supplies, they were meant to restock with super-dense, nutritious energy and multivitamin rations. This was the rendezvous where an agent had been supposed meet them. In their hunger and thirst they cursed the name of ‘mimi’ their treacherous ally. The only hint of provender was shitty beer. And yet — on this coldest of nights — the beer was warm, so ‘meme’ must have been here recently. Growing evermore vociferous the vigilantes repeated the syllables: mee-mee, měi-měi, měi-méi.

In a flash of lucidity amid the cacophony and the throbbing at the base of my skull I realised they were shouting mèi mei (妹妹) and that their collaborator was surely the younger sister of a vigilante.

At that moment I felt dizzy and cold. I lay down. I may have slept.

At some point in the night there was food — baguettes and a variety of rather nice cheeses — combined with the macabre celebration of the capture of their prey, Carlos and LAM. I don’t know where they found the food, yet this night’s hunt had evidently yielded a protesting hispaniard and a subdued visitor by way of Hanoi.

A ringleader made a mocking lunge-pose and drank some kind of hallucinatory from a special glass, while the vigilantes chanted. They forced Carlos to do the same, while shouting oaths and curses. Then LAM was made to follow suit. Subsequently each of the vigilantes took the mixture to their lips in turn. Through the crowd of bodies it seemed as if with every sip the draght changed color: at times the glass was yellowish, then appeared to be blue, then redder. Until I was made to drink. The lukewarm fuzzy foam stuck to my palate and I swallowed the bitter substance with difficulty. My head spun. The cold wind seemed to cut deeper. I became dizzy. I lay down.

The next thing I know, I woke up in here.

As dictated by D. E. Floured, from the Triemlispital on February 22nd, 2018.


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ZH3 Hash #1100: The not quite special numbered hash – Write-up

Name: ZH3 Hash #1100 The not quite special numbered hash
Location: Triemli / Meskerem
Hares: Meme, Just Sean
RA: Thirsty Thursday
Attendance: ~20 hashers
Scribe: BerZürerk

Little did the Hash House Harriers know, this hash would turn out to be so hare razing.

The clouds parted on the morn of the 3rd day of February, and unique band from far and wide gathered. After some hijinks in the car park and narrowly avoiding the parking cars MeMe and Just Sean stepped in as the regular Hares had been out having too much fun.

After instructions were given the troupe departed in search of their precious … beer.

Some hashers were caught pretending to be FRB when they decided to avoid fish hooks. Yes Dog Woody this means you here 🙂

Others valiantly made it along trail pushing prams over carefully placed tree obstacles – great idea Hares

Some assumed wrongly the goal to get to the top of Uetliberg or die trying. Instead the Hares had another idea- although they may have just forgotten the route halfway. See chatting hare below

Unfortunately the sledding run was closed so we had to pretend to be Mountain bikes on the way down.

Those who made it past the gruelling uphill climbs (we didn’t quite make the top of Uetliberg) managed to join and assemble again for a merry circle. Songs were sung down downs were drunk. Some special down downs were also given and beer chin drippling was observed.

After the circle the good upstanding hashers were treated to On-Inn: Restaurant Meskerem (Ethiopian) food and a long party at the Last pub still standing in Wiedikon. We have to get the hatted new friends to sing at our next circle. The entertainments here included endless quantities (and tittys) of mead and Chili Wine.

On out

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ZH3 Hash #1097 The Blah Hash – Write-up

Name: ZH3 Hash #1097 The Blah Hash
Location: Hare’s Hutch
Hares: Stick A Dick In It and Late Cummer
RA: Asphalt Liquor
Attendance: ~25 hashers, 2 virgins, 1 visitor
Scribe: Fishy Hooker

Q: What did you think of the trail?

A: There were two check points.

Q: How was the circle?

Lively circle animated by AL in the cold and after a good r*n.

DD for:

  • The hare for abusing flour, being hungover is not an excuse
  • The virgins who eventually got the point that we are not a r*nning club
  • The visitor who sang a lengthy anthem from his kennel pretty similar to ours
  • The two lovers, Just Sean and Naked & Wasted, who demonstrated their ability to squat
  • The bitches because it was the right time

Some wine of doubtful quality was poured down and hats were allowed in the circle (!).

The on-inn was of high level with great food and spirits.

Editor’s Note – Think you can do better? Volunteer to do the next write-up. Please send more check-points, hangover remedies, and the wrong time for bitches to

ZH3 Hash #1094: Freyza Bolokov – write-up

Name: ZH3 Hash #1094: Freyza Bolokov
Location: Hare’s Hutch (Saddam) Schaffhauserstrasse 80
Hares: Saddam, Squatty Potty
RA: Weapon of Ass Destruction
Attendance: ~25 hashers, 2.5 virgins
Scribe: Naked & Wasted

A terrible storm descended on Zürich. Rain lashed down, commuters froze, and trees uprooted themselves. Little did the Hash House Harriers know, this disturbance was conjured up by the dark wizard Saddam, setting the stage for an epic quest.

The clouds parted on the morn of the 6th day of February, and a sundry band from far and wide gathered. Their goal: to enter the mystic woods of Zürichberg, cursed by the wizard Saddam, and return, alive. The band gathered for council in a timely manner, except LIDU, who rocked up late having consumed too much Butterbeer on the prior eve. Unwittingly, two virgins from mythical lands stumbled into fray: Just Mitul from the Big Smoke, and Just Gary from Old Hampshire. Just Nina, having only ever partaken in post-quest celebrations and not a quest itself, was also considered chaste. Saddam explained mysterious glyphs that had appeared, and were to appear, in the woods and swamps. The merry troupe departed in search of their precious … beer.

However, merriment soon faded as the easy paved exit from the shire gave way to the wizard’s dastardly tricks. A long check-back at the top of a stairway afforded no smiles (except Saddam’s); neither did the second nor the third. The adventurers battled through the destruction; mud, splintered logs, and felled trees barred the path. The fellowship demonstrated determination: bold alternative routes were explored (Dog Woody heroically scrambled up off-piste after Shamcock). Fallen warriors rose back to their feet, and lost soldiers rediscovered their path. The stress of the trail caused the hashers to turn on each other (for which Slippery’s abuse of the seniors earned him a DD). Nevertheless, the gang’s steady progress could not be abated. The aquatic duo, Fishy H and Fish F, with no hooks to catch them, led the pack from the front, closely followed by Just Tobias. Everyone (probably, nobody was counting) returned to find their precious.

At the post-adventure council gathering, misdemeanours were identified by the elders and punished (rewarded) by ale (cheap lager). Primary culprits earned deadbugs: Dog Woody had hoppy medicine tenderly administered by Virgin Hunter, and How Do You Define Veird was doused much less tenderly by Squatty Potty. To lift spirits, the council sang hymns: the Chicken Song raised the proverbial roof, but Weapons of Ass Destruction’s improvised “Forestiality is best boys, … stick your log in a log” fell a little (lot) flat.

Formalities completed, the company retired to the dark wizard’s hutch. He and sorceress Squatty Potty had brewed three cauldrons of spicy potion. The hashers tucked in readily. Well fed and off their guard, Saddam attempted to poison the remaining survivors with homemade red elixir. Failing that, he attempted again with stronger transparent elixir. It worked.

Hangover aside, many thanks to Saddam, Squatty, and the other organizers for a great hash, circle, curry, and on after!

Editor’s Note – Think you can do better? Volunteer to do the next write-up. Please send “stupid fat hobbits”, “Ash nazg thrakatulûk agh burzum-ishi krimpatul”, and a barrel of Longbottom leaf  to

ZH3 Hash #1093: The Hangover Continues Hash – Write-up

Name: ZH3 Hash #1093: The Hangover Continues Hash
Location: The Alehouse – Palmhof, Universitätstrasse 23, 8001 Zürich
Hares: Slippery Digit and MeMe
RA: Weapon of Ass Destruction
Attendance: 15 hashers, 2 just drinkers
Scribe: Kneels Sporadically

It was a dark and stormy night.  Five-and-ten reckless souls braved the torrential elements in a bid to find that most vaunted and sought-after prize of all: the golden elixir of life.

Was masochism, optimism, or alcoholism the impetus? Would they live to tell their tale?  Sit back, grab yourself a tipple, and I will reveal the true exploits of the “Hangover Continues Hash”.

Climbidia and I took a bus into the Hinterberg. On foot we zigzagged down empty lanes and abandoned (at night) buildings, as we hunched defenseless against the violent gusts of wind that pelted us with the Almighty’s post-New Year’s Eve piss. Grateful, we ducked inside the warm and welcoming Alehouse. In the private backroom, Slippery Digit collected Hash Cash like a whore (no touching until you’ve paid up), while the RA did a furious Dance of the Crochet Hook. A bedraggled Sticky Fingers, recently blown in and resembling a drowned rat, dared to suggest eschewing the run in favor of harboring cozily inside sampling the mouthwatering grub, ales on tap and board games on offer. Oh, she of soft will, and meager faith in her other half’s skills! For when we went outside, lo and behold, stillness reigned. The tide had turned.

The Quest
Our leaders, Slippery Digit and MeMe, sent us scurrying, right from the outset, in every possible direction, to track the hare’s spirituous scent. Before long a course was established and we forged ahead. The white blotches of finely ground and molted meal of wheat had not been washed away, had not converted to paste; indeed, they were visible and regular. The post-tempestuous weather and steps and Steigs soon had us shedding our layers like lepers casting off their fingers and toes.

Our luck and the weather held as we pressed deeper into the area known as the Land of Knowledge with the twin peaks of ETH and UZH and its neighboring Land of Sickness and Pain, commonly referred to as Unispital. On more than one occasion, we caught our breaths and feasted on the glittering views of the city below, the twinkling lights heralding civilization.

Although of average length and endeavor, paved and un-depraved, the path to the barrel of liquid gold at the end of the rainbow was neither direct nor without its perils: At one point, as the crew began to grow clamorous and thirsty, we chanced upon markings that resembled the X that marks the spot. But alas, it looked too erect to be, curves were clearly missing; for it read KS, not BS, to the disappointment of everyone save Slippery Digit, Shamcock and Loves It Down Under. The former rejoiced that we had stumbled upon a Kant Stop despite the lack of any Cunts to the naked eye; to prove his point, he shone his light on the sign above to reveal the word “Kantstrasse”.  Shamcock and LIDU insisted it stood for Kissing Stop, and proceeded to demonstrate; the lack of other Kissing Stops had never stopped them before. We paid them no heed and kept our eyes on the treasure.

Not long after, we arrived at a clearing upon which stood half a dozen giant, cubical metal structures. They looked innocent enough, though perplexing. But soon, their evil intentions were clear: As if drawn by an invisible force, Climbidia was sucked inside one of these cage-like beasts. In an epic tug of war, our leader, Slippery Digit yanked and pulled to release Climbidia from the beast’s belly while risking life and limb not to get dragged into the structure himself. Slippery Digit prevailed and with heroic effort pulled Climbidia out to safety.

Paradise Found
It was all that we could ask for: A clean(ish), well-lighted place; a safe oasis, where this band of weary misfits could shelter from the cold, hostile world outside.  Zweifel potato chips were like manna from the gods. The frothy golden liquid flowed cold and strong; we had found the key to continuing our hangovers. We had entered Circle Paradise; we would not leave for a while.

After our initial hunger and thirst were slaked, the RA declared that the moment of reckoning was upon us. It was like an opening of floodgates as accusations of every stripe and shape flew: ass-slapping, mistaken identities, racial discrimination, sexual harassment; the usual allegations and then some.

The rebounds, too, abounded; nearly every time Shamcock opened his mouth, mayhap? Everything was a drinking offense and every offense was drunken to. From the very late arrival of Butt Bugger to the always timely arrival of Miss Michigan. From the smile that was plastered on our virgin Bram from Amsterdam’s face to the three Justs for being just Justs. From Dog Woody, WAD and Saddam’s knees (bare) to LIDU’s great tits (not bare). Punishment was meted out by the skillful or simply lazy and slovenly Beer Wench, aka Sticky Fingers, who managed to dispense the contents of a dozen cans of beer, some apple wine and hot sweet cider to 16 circlers while sitting in a puddle of beer.
Most disconcerting of all, Climbidia, despite brand-new contacts, mistook a wringed-out lime for a Shamcocked condom; in Climbidia’s defense, Weapons related that lemons were used as contraceptives in ancient times. The evening further devolved when Just Sean, by dint of bad positioning, became used as target practice (or perhaps a mis-used lime? or an abused kiwi?) by catching Shamcock and several other tossers’ froth on his good person and great hair.

Back at port, flush with victory, we partook of the well-earned comforts there for our pleasure. Those who enjoyed camaraderie had plenty of jolly sailors to share boasts and a drink with. Those who enjoyed cards were drawn into a game of swashbuckling fun. Those who wanted to satisfy their hunger were able to choose from ramen, chicken wings, fish burgers and the like. Those who wanted to sample the taverns’ goods could choose from multiple beers on tap, from sour Michigans to chocolatey stouts. Those who desired another type of goods had to, well, take matters into their own hand. To wit: Climbidia’s slippery digits slipping into Slippery Digit’s shorts and making contact with actual flesh and … no, let’s not go (down) there …

One thing was clear: We had completed our quest and the hangover would continue. And we would be back for more, come hell or high water.

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ZH3 Hash #1089 – #1092

Four hashes occurred occurred at various times and various places, but any records languish on the ash heap of history.

ZH3 Hash #1089: X-MAS MARKET HASH – 17 December 2017

ZH3 Hash #1090: Longest Night – 21 December 2017

ZH3 Hash #1091: The Holiday Hookup – 28 December 2017

ZH3 Hash #1092: The New Year’s Eve Hash – 31 December 2017

ZH3 Hash #1088: The Hot Free Hash – Write-up

Name: ZH3 Hash #1088: The Hot Free Hash
Location: Pizzeria Don Emilio,  Dübendorfstrasse 24, Zürich
Hares: How Do You Define Veird and Dick Back of Notre Dame
RA: Weapon of Ass Destruction
Attendance: 20 hashers, 2 clean guests, and 2 dogcicles
Scribe: Ice Footsie

The naming of the hash, Hot Free,  was an elegant display of irony as the hares had to lay trail twice, the second time live because the first had disappeared under a layer of sleet. Thanks to technology and Shamcock (even though it was not made for trail …), chalk talk was carried out remotely from the depths of the forest and we set off up the hill (does any hash in Switzerland start otherwise?).

This write-up will be a challenge in view of the fact that my total contact time with any of the pack amounted to less than 5 minutes – with the pack trekking up into the darkness, I realized that I had forgotten my torch and went back to the venue to collect it, because it looked DARK up there. Following up the hill, I found a bunch of hashers crossing my path and followed them, although no-one had seen flour for a while, and the rest of the pack could be heard in the distance in the opposite direction of travel. I set out to explore potential trails and lost even that group. Found a checkpoint and headed shakily up a very slippery slope, grabbing onto trees, branches and twigs to prevent a precipitant slide back into the valley – Snuffler cruised past effortlessly, demonstrating contempt for anyone who doesn’t run on four feet. Dead end, so back down the slippery slope and on along the trail to find a single blob of snow at a fork in the road. Tried right – nothing. Tried left (up the hill) – still nothing. Snuffler, bored with the monotony of simply running, picked up a log twice the length of his head and with a girth that barely fit in his mouth. Later, even that was boring, so he carried it by one end, at one stage nearly swatting my legs from under me as he passed on a narrow trail.

A couple of lefts later, I came to a check-back from the wrong side and followed it back to a trail where, miracle of miracles, there was flour. Giving the hares their due, where I could find it, trail was marked with epic mounds of flour which stuck out of the mush nicely. (Ed. Note – The trail was perfectly marked until Stettbach, where we lost the plot. Well done in terrible conditions.) Another checkpoint, so went up-hill through shiggy and found two dots, but not the cross. Another flour-less trail, another left, and then a sinking feeling of familiarity as I saw Footsie prints in the mush and realized that I’d come full circle. Sound of the pack in the far distance to the left. Back through the same check-back to the last checkpoint, staying on the trail until I came to a viewpoint and a Hash Hold (really? In THIS weather?) and realized that I was on the outgoing trail so headed down the hill. The walkers led by Squatty Potty and Slippery Digit (dressed as a Yorkshireman) did a speed workout between Schwamendingen and Stettbach Bahnhof. A radiant Butt Bugger was inside eating pizza and fending off multiple proposals of marriage from the restaurant staff.


Hashers trailed in, along with a clean looking Climbidia,  and circle was held under the awning outside (stroke of genius, hares …) with glüwein, cider, spiked hot chocolate, and, for the traditionalists, beer. Special thanks to MeMe and Loves It Down Under for the warm-boozy drinks. Hands were kept warm by new hash gloves (On sale now!) A departing waiter, picking up his moped, stopped wide-eyed in his tracks at the sound of, ‘… sex with you is boring …’ before departing into the sleety night. We all steamed gently while every hasher made a nomination “whip-round” style, a concept that Crutching Tiger, Hidden Bruises found impossible to understand, and then in for pizza.

At the on-after, How Do You Define Veird was defrosted, Just Andrea aggressively rejected the cream atop her soup, Just Scott told us this was his last hash in Zürich, and What Cums in Vega Stays in Vega spoke at length about tulip bulbs.

Announcements –

1) Please sign-up for SOLA. The ZH3 have two teams and will get a 3rd team if there is sufficient demand. Otherwise, no complaining.

2) Winterfest– four slots left. Please pay if you have not.

3) Bring a flashlight (electric torches) to every hash until at least the vernal equinox.

4) Hash in Basel on Boxing Day (26 December)

5) Of course it is okay to change your mind, but please, if you are not going to make it to the hash, change you meetup sign-up (Sticky Fingers, Canada Wet, Stick a Dick in It, and Tall Balls were D.N.S. tonight)

Editor’s Note – Think you can do better? Volunteer to do the next write-up. Please send votes on which is more important length or girth, appeasements to the storm gods, and 2 donkey dowries to

Hash #1087: The Hoodlum Hash – Write-up

Name: ZH3 Hash #1087: The Hoodlum Hash
Location: Zeus Music Bar,  Löwenstrasse 9, 8953 Dietikon
Hares: Just Tobias and Slippery Digit
RA: Weapon of Ass Destruction
Attendance: 11 hashers
Scribe: Slippery Digit

Gopferdammi siech es isch chalt gsi, und denn hets no gschneeied obe druff! Nöd numme bim lege vu dem super hash, NEI es het denn no afange schneeie wommer alli am säckle gsi sind. Zum Glück hets nöd nur eine, aber zwei Profis am Start gha wo de Hash Organisiert hend. Naja, välicht hani da übertriebe, ein luute alte Haas, de Schlüpfrig Finger, und eh wahrechti Jungfräulichi Häsin, de Nur Tobias, hend sich i dem Wetter nach usse gwagt und en Pfad vorbereitet für die arme Hashers wo sich bis nach Dietikon, usserhalb vu de gwohnte Zone 110, hend müesse bewege.

De Nur Tobias het sich aber wahrhaft müeh gheh, durre richtig schöni Winter Landschaft hemmer eus bewegt, Brugge hets geh, Tannebäum, Flüss, wirkli s’ganze Packet. Irgendwennmal sind den au es paar wenige Hashers uftaucht, 10 insgesammt. 2 Dervo hend chei ahnig gha, ufgrund vu Ihrem Jungfräuliche Status, was mir da überhaupt mached. A de Arschzerstörigswaffe isch das aber egal gsi, de het sini Rolle als Religiöse Berater überhaupt nöd wahrgno. Wetter: Scheisse, Begrüessig vu de Jungfraue: Nid passiert, Chride Red initiiere? Chasch vergesse, de isch am Wii suufe gsi! Da simmer alli blöd da gstande und hend müesse warte bis er sin rotwii abgegutsched het bis mer mal hend chönne loslege …

Danach isches aber RUCKZUCK gange, die Läufer sind los gange, und d’Spaziergangrundi het sich gmüetlich uf de weg gmacht. D’Hockendi Töpfli, d’Füddliwurmerin und de Schlüppfrig Finger hend für en gmüetliche Lauf dur d’Winterlandschaft vu Dietlikon ufbroche, das mit Hund im Schlepp. Irgendwie hend die Läufer jedoch echli Startschwierigkeite gha, und d’Spaziergangrundi hets immer wieder ufghollt, fuhli Säck die…. Es isch denn so nach richtig Schwiizer Art, demokratisch entschiede worde, dass es Ziet isch zum eh heissi Schoggi trinke, teils will d’Füddliwurmerin bi de Stäge fascht gstorbe isch, mehrheitlich aber wills arsch chalt gsi isch. Also ab zrugg zur griechisch inspirierte bar, wo vu voll verzettlet gsi isch mit posters für en Porno Neujahresevent (de Chlamydia het denn spöter recht interessiert uf die Posters glueget).

Perfekt, het die truppe denkt. Nach de erschte heisse Schoggi mit Baileys isch denn aber doch eh Müehdigkeit erschinne, en Motivationsschub hets brucht. Bier Stop ufbaue! Genau wases brucht het. Zu Dritt isch die Truppe also usse gange und het sich der Arsch erneut abgfrohre. Es sind denn doch no die erste 2 Harretes erschienne, d’Nur Andrea und d’Nur Sophia (eh Jungfrau, chli, wie en Iiszapfe isch si zrugg gschliche). Sie hend de rest vum Pack verlohre und hend ufgeh. Natürlich entscheidig? Tee mit Rum! Namal 20 Minute sund vergange und die letzte armselige Hashers sind denn au no cho.

De Chreis isch eh chalti und schnelli Affäre gsi. D’Jungfraue Nur Scott (chunt definitiv wieder) und Nur Sophia (Die gsehmer nie meh…) hend Ihri Iiweihig gha. De Chlamydia het de armi Hund ufgruefe, und denn dörfe als Ersatz für Sie trinke. D’Arschzerstörigswaffe hets irgendwie gschafft sini Bestrafig für s’schlechte Wetter z’vermiede. Nur Tobias isch zälebriert worde für sind erste Pfad, hetter natürli dankend agno. Wie immer, het D’Arschzerstörigswaffe versuecht de chreis so lang wie möglich z’phalte mit sim Yogi Bär Lied, hemmer zum Glück chönne abchlemme und die ganz gschicht ich schnell zu endi cho mit de chürzischte Variante vu “Schwing Tüf” sit Jahre.

Rough translation: The trail was shit, the weather was shit, there was good alcohol, the circle was too long, Virgin Just Scott was cool, and other Virgin Just Sophia will not be returning.

Editor’s Note – If anyone can provide a clear translation, I will update the post. Think you can do better? Volunteer to do the next write-up. Please send a prayer for Just Sophia (who has already left the meetup group), Jägertee,  and Butt Assault Waffels to

ZH3 Hash #1086: The Gunky Appendages Hash – Write-up 

Name: ZH3 Hash #1086: The Gunky Appendages Hash
Location: Grain,  47°22’34.6″N 8°33’33.2″E
Hares: Sticky Fingers and Slippery Digit
RA: Weapon of Ass Destruction RB: Thumper Insides
Attendance: 33 hashers, 2 dogs, and a man wearing Christmas trousers.
Scribe: Just Tobias

Two virgins and one visitor graced us with their presence. Just Zsuzsa and Just Ioannis impressed with their exotic names and linguistic talents, but Polly Wanna Crack Whore (Washington D.C. – Everyday is Wednesday H3)  just made everyone wonder what exactly happened. No-one got the name of the hash right.

Surfaces were slippery, sticky in places, dark and cold, but digits and fingers were wrapped up. The trail offered something for people of all creeds and colours, as long as those people get off on woods, shiggy, and telling clumps of snow and flour apart. Yours truly is one of those people, and reached the end with a raging semi.


Located at a record-breaking proximity to the venue, circle formed around a welcome fire. Just Joe was recognised for c*mming on a Thursday. Spunknik unexpectedly commemorated her 100th hash and Grab My Sack has survived around turn around the sun. Polly Wanna Crack Whore gained favour with his recital of an old ditty by the name of ‘Hot Vaginas’. Bierathloners, virgins and hares were all noted.

On-Inn at Grain:
Like before, we had a room to ourselves, a good variety of drinks, and food which both looked nice and probably tasted nice too, praise be.

Editor’s Note – Think you can do better? Volunteer to do the next write-up. Please send the other half of that boner, Christmas pants,  and pyromaniac nymphomaniacs to

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