Name: ZH3 Hash #1079: Bonfire Night

Location: Robinsonspielplatz (47.361526, 8.584426)

Hare: Asphalt Liquor, Vulva Las Vegas, Climbidia, Shogginatrix

RA: Weapon of Ass Destruction

Attendance: 46 half-minds and two hungry dogs

Scribe: Fishy Hooker

Four subjects of the Queens, from London and from some UK’s Guam county ending by shire, happily sprinkled flour for this Bonfire Hash. Slippery Digit wittily highlighted this as an English conspiracy to avoid throwing pennies in the kitty. Or, I don’t know, something like this.

Two virgins were fool enough to join, as well as long-time-not-seen and so-long-time-not-seen they were reborn virgins – that has to be noted in the an*als. As we are celebrating Catholic plots, we can add another miracle.

The pack took off in fair spirits, the ones with legs ran to their first check-back while the ones with brains spotted it and directly trotted down the woods. Hares performed a good job to keep the pack together, given the amount of leaves threatening the marks and that fish hooks got ignored in a not great again behavior – I was an innocent witness. (Editors note: C’est vrai.)

FRB were r*nning up and down and down and up into false trails. During that time, miles away from sweat, panting, and mud; merry folks lit fires, ate chocolates, and did suspicious weaving. Back to the trail. Bushes, bitumen, and brambles were crossed, mushrooms got snubbed – no place for poetry. Except though for Keys to the Treasure, who had a dubious reading of the marking. But is that poetry? The false virgins r*n gaily by the hips. Meme got caught racing. Probably a side effect of Dry Movember. Mentioning dryness, the RA probably entered in trance to keep the rain at bay. Eventually we hit the shot stop and shots hit us. That was when the trail became shiggy. Of course. You would expect the shigginess while being sober but that’s forgetting UK citizens do everything the other way round. Nettles bit into legs, however, immunized by vodka no one bailed out. Meme was still racing. Grab Me By the P*ssy bravely led us into a massive downhill check back. The last one before the beer stop.


Too many down-downs to be counted:

  • Hares for their performance
  • Pappa F.K.K. for his Würste
  • W.A.D. for his weaving
  • True virgins, Just Amanda and Just Jennifer, for their c*mming
  • False virgins, Just Mike the Eagle Scout and Just Robert, for their hips
  • Meme for his racing
  • Slippery Digit because voilà
  • Butt Bugger and Kneels Sporadically for late coming.

To be noted, the beer bitching was perfectly orchestrated by Grab Me By the P*ssy and Fishy Hooker. The down-downs tasted awful even after mixing beer and cider. I still don’t get though why we had to down-downs on regular basis. (Editors Note: Quelle heure est-il??)

No Guys, nor bones were thrown on the fires, but sausages were grilled, Glühwein poured, and ginger cakes tasted.

Editors Note – Think you can do better? Volunteer to do the next write-up. Please send lapsed Catholics, a garden clean-up crew, and burnt offerings to