My First HNT...
I tried all day, but the cat would not wear the panties. Gaylord volunteered.

Pre-fib...
Since, as you all know, I type this blog with my tongue, I will probably limit the copy due to a sudden case of strep. I know, I know. Strep throat, not strep tongue - thank you Mr. and Ms. Science. But the ache limits my agility. The case appeared and went full-on in less than 24 hours. Doc Holiday was real impressed, and said so before he pistol whipped me and attached the leeches. Love this new HMO.
Now for the real bullshit.

LAND HO!

Above: After city officials squandered local resources on motorists, Spanish galleons, summoned across time by Houston mediums, transported stranded Hashers down White Oak Bayou on Sunday, sailing directly over favorite Hash territory, and drinking establishments. Exclaimed one hound, who wished to remain anonymous, "Look! I can see my house from here!"

SURF'S UP, MOONDOGGIES~
or, "How Big Was the Hole?"
In whitewater talk, a hole is the space in front of, or between big ass waves. SO here's a tonesetting joke:
"How many whitewater paddlers does it take to screw in a lightbulb?" "Just one; and 10 more to talk about how big the hole was..."

As y'all may know, Houston was smited this weekend with floods and locusts. Damn the press - they always leave out the locust part. Bad for crop $tocks. That's why blogging is so important in the face of all this deception... ANYWAYS, after the first day of rain (before reaching the levels pictured above), the bayous were canoe/kayak-able, if you don't mind 4 foot standing wave trains and gnarly trees and garbage wrapped around the sometimes narrow bridge pilings, and hitchhiking/suicidal fish. The fish tried to kill me at the very end, but I didn't fret, 'cause this ZZ Top-lookin' guy with a Big Staff came and parted the waters while I escaped. Lucky I wasn't Hungover... But I can only lie for myself. Since this isn't Hash Trash, my fellow paddlers, should they choose to reveal themselves, will have to embellish their own ride - but they have a better story!

Porch view of Bee Mountain honey source (above). Gladly's Porch.


It's Just Too Short!

After the last week of almost continuous Hashing, I decided to make a pilgrimage to the mountain and commune with my friend and spirit animal, Gladly. I did not choose my spirit animal, he picked me:
My family was frequently banished from small-town churches based on my dad's tendencies to challenge local pastors on matters of faith and grammar. Pop was also the worst singer in every church we attended, and demonstrated it with great zeal... Yet, that is how the hymn "Gladly The Cross Eyed Bear", in all its divine mysterious meaning, became one with my psyche.

Gladly had to overcome great visual obstacles in his youth, which he now recognizes as his path to the third, inner eye. After being driven from the bear clan through shame and ridicule (much like my father), he took on a life of solitude. He has learned many things from his hermitage, such as how far into the woods he can go before he is coming out, whether he shits there or not, and whether it sticks to his fur. While his teaching is subtle, his students are often permanently scarred by his affectionate back scratches.

Between meditation sessions with Gladly, I had meant to share my experiences through a blog entry or two, but found that I just didn't have enough data cable to reach Mr. Drucker's store. So Gladly and I rolled down there in his pickup, but Mr. Drucker wouldn't let us touch the phone crank. Gladly finally climbed the pole outside Mr. Douglas' house, and was so moved by the view, he decided to just send a transcendental message... So if any of you have had Sunday School hymns, particularly Gladly's, running through your heads lately, eat some honey, get all sticky, and give someone a hug. But mind the claws.

FINALLY!
Medical researchers in Houston TX have announced a miraculous breakthrough. In conjunction with the Houston Hash House Harriers, who provided volunteer test subjects, doctors have announced the prototype of "The Ideal Hasher", pictured here at St. Arnold's Brewery.

After much debate, project leaders agreed that the "Third Arm" would be the most viable enhancement of the already able drinking experts. Now, Hashers will no longer have to ask for help pumping kegs, minimize sacred two-handed Hash gestures, or squeeze only one boob or cheek at a time - modifications made necessary by the permanently installed mug of beer included in earlier prototypes. With the addition of the third, predesignated Drinking Arm, hashers can do all these things at once, or perhaps, just carry another mug or two.

In a blitzkrieg of team spirit, intensified by the ensuing Jager celebration, the prototype creators have already cloned its first "brother". According to his blog, EZ generously gave birth to it himself...