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.
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.
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.
Editor’s Note – Think you can do better? Volunteer to do the next write-up. Please send Whore Rules, more literary allusions, and “actual flesh” to ZH3.com.