Location: Bäckeranlage, Zürich – 47°22’40.2″N 8°31’26.8″E

Hare: Thirsty Thursday and Cavity Search

RA: Weapon of Ass Destruction and Asphalt Liquor

Attendance: 69 hashers signed up, let’s leave it at that.

Scribe: Spunknik

In preparation for the Polyball, Zürich’s finest curled their eyelashes and tied their bowties, while completely unawares that they were only going to the second coolest event held on the last Saturday of every November. In different parts of town, Zürich’s something or others laced up old shoes and slipped into shirts with garnish slogans. The city did not know what it was in for.

The hashers received an unusual triple treat, three trails: runners, walkers, and horrors. The rain that morning had been heavy. In the best of times, we had trouble distinguishing a single trail. These were not the best of times. We began in a rush of adrenaline, fanning out across Weidikon and filling the Swiss silence with cries of, “On on!” The virgin running next to me said that she was confused. So was I. So were we all.

Several times, the FRBs ran straight through, calling out for marks I never saw. Meme called them sheeple. He also followed. I would run back whenever I noticed the hares, the unlikely duo Cavity Search and Thirsty Thursday, lingering behind, and find freshly laid flour. Asphalt Liquor had brought her mother. Weapon of Ass Destruction wanted to know what she was called. Mrs. Liquor perhaps? We got our fill of shiggy mucking through a school field. It was not long before we converged on Triemli. The markings became superpositions (ed. note – Look it up.), inviting confusion on the scale of Schrödinger’s Cat. Many hashers followed their instincts, where if there is an Uetliberg then we must go up. The rest of us were unsure and we loitered on the train tracks until the hares appeared. Yes, we must go up and with that the wave function of our uncertainty collapsed.

Thirsty Thursday was grumpy. If he had to go up the Uetliberg then so should we! We ran on through the forest and farms, a pair of adorable bunnies and a horse our only witnesses. As we ran back down closer to the beer stop, the trail took a dramatic turn back up the Ueltiberg. FRBs bolted ahead, but Ice Footsie had his doubts. This trail carried the stale scent of Tall Balls. I decided to trust Ice Footsie over the FRBs, and followed him back through the streets that he knew so well. We returned to the warmth of the beer stop where jackets, drinks, snacks, and people who could not be bothered to hash for their turkey awaited. Being of the anything-but-beer persuasion, I was happy to see so much cider thanks to Butt Bugger. However, her heart had been bigger than her foot and when she realized she actually could not carry them, she had summoned Stick a Dick in It for assistance.


Asphalt Liquor and Weapon of Ass Destruction ran a tidy circle. There were down downs for virgins and visitors alike. One visitor, Lifa from Chicago H3, said this was his fourth Thanksgiving this week. I wondered if this was on purpose. While we had enjoyed our run outside, Christian Harlot and her minions had been busy preparing a feast inside. So we made her drink beer. Weapon of Ass Destruction wore yellow neon everything. So we made him drink beer. Just Leo sported his own rather fashionable yellow neon coat. We did not make him drink beer.


Then came the crowning moment of the evening. Dare I call ‘hash of the year’ too early? We feasted on the fruits of the Harlot’s labours, as well as offerings from hashers myriad. Several turkeys, vegetables, salads, sauces, pies, cakes, cookies, were had by all. I enjoyed my seat at the only adult only table. At some point Dr. Nob produced champagne so good it did not need orange juice. I thought I had eaten so much that I would not be able to walk. The Macarana proved me wrong. Flash in the Pants informed me that Macarana was some woman’s name, thus ruining my childhood.


As the night wound down and the limbo lost its lustre, someone had the brilliant idea to move the party to Bonesklinik. Apparently hashers and metalheads mix well together, unlike oil and water. More like sweat and mercury. Because we had not had enough alcohol, we procured several rounds of mead. The jukebox did not have enough Nickleback for Naked and Wasted and not enough female-fronted symphonic metal for me. Shoutouts to the pirate, the popcorn, and Miss Fucktober’s galaxy-themed backpack.


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