There once was a hash to wear a green dress
That ChooChoo H3 had given a miss
A tradition re-born
For the dresses they’d worn
Two wankers revived the whole fucking mess

So gathered nine hounds and the hares for a BEER
Including three VIRGINS I hear
They looked quite confused
And were ripe for abuse
But shrugged and drank lager with cheer

Shamy O’Leary’s 1^st Anal Green Dress Hash. It’s a thing. At least it is now, because as the name implies, we’re gonna be doing this shit year after year. Why? Because it’s hash tradition! Hashers are called upon every March to eschew their bifurcated lower garments and the tops detached from said garments in favor of a well-ventilated one-piece as verdant as the hills of Ireland. ChooChoo H3 had long ago fallen off the green dress wagon, its hounds relegated to celebrating with faraway kennels. This year, Walk O’Shamy and Timothy Leary said NO MORE! The hounds showed up in their best green dresses and kilts, ready to flaunt their fannies all about Southside for ChooChoo H3 hash #69+23!

It was the perfect day for a Green Dress Hash, mainly because it was really fucking hot and that extra breeze was much appreciated. Walk O’Shamy was the only one who fully committed to the spirit, wearing a floor-length evening gown that would’ve been above the knee on anyone else. The rest of the hounds were a mobile Sport Kilt convention. I’m not sure if they should be paying us for advertising or we’re supposed to pay them royalties, so we’ll call it a draw.

The GM called the hounds to circle up so the hares could explain themselves. It was at this point that the hares announced there would only be a TURKEY trail! ChooChoo H3 was taking it slow, embracing the green-dressness before taking it to the next step. They could still tell themselves they weren’t losing their reclaimed green dress virginity, it’s just the tip. The hares went over the marks, the GM gave his blessing, and the hash was ON ON!

The hounds soon noticed someone unexpected among them. A pretender. An interloper. They recognized hare Timothy Leary, who had taken it upon himself to join the EAGLES. Hare Walk O’Shamy prowled amongst the TURKEYS. The hounds eyed them askance, trusting only the age-old truth that hares lie. They pretended they hadn’t noticed, but they dared not follow any of the hares’ directions on trail. Of course, these hounds didn’t need hares to throw them off course, they were quite good at doing that to themselves.

I’d Tap That must’ve had eyes in the back of her head, because they definitely weren’t in the front. She ran past checks and whichy-ways and pretty much anything that would keep them on trail. Cum Analyst placed her bet on the wrong hound as she pounded behind her. They both looked confused when the trail petered out, then noticed the rest of the pack trying to get their attention for going the wrong way. This happened not once but like three or four times; they really were that fucking blind.

The FRBs took a left onto the train tracks once the pack was back together. After a really long way, like a tenth of a mile or some shit, I’d Tap That finally noticed a backcheck. This one sent them back 11 marks. The hounds counted one, two, three marks…nine, ten, eleven…fourteen, fifteen, sixteen… Eighteen. Eighteen fucking marks. That’s nowhere close, whether you’re computing by prime numbers or exponents or Fibonacci sequences or whatever. Even F’n B could count the difference between eleven and eighteen, but to be fair that’s only because it’s the ages from which he lost his virginity to the first time he banged your mom.

Those eleven eighteen marks led them to a hole in the fence. Timothy Leary sure does love his holes. Pretty sure there’s one on every trail he lays. One by one the hounds scooted on their backs and bellies through dirt and shards of glass to get to the other side. Cum Analyst realized as she positioned herself that she had too much booty and not enough shorts under her kilt. She gave the pack a show that most people pay good money for as she scrambled through. Patsy tried to top that by stretching through into an updog pose, which will later be remembered as the birth of the Urban Yoga craze.

Once all the hounds were through, the trail led them through the sculpture garden, which made for prime photo ops, and back into DOWN DOWN. The hounds descended upon the BEER like vultures because they were really fucking thirsty because there had been no BEER on trail, just like Leary’s last trail  It wasn’t an utter failure, though, because the trail was barely a mile long.

A hearty BEER in hand, the GM called the pack to circle up. First was vote on trail, which was a mix of good trail, no trail, and shitty trail, so let’s average it out to NO TRAIL! The pack had been promised both EAGLE and TURKEY but were left wanting, and the hares had so little faith in these hounds that they felt the need to chaperone them over a single mile. (Let’s not forget, however, Leary’s hash two years ago where he laid the trail while walking with the pack. His bar is low.)

Hare charges took aim at the hares’ lack of computational skills. Timothy O’Leary must have been one of those students that the teacher gave a passing grade just to get them the fuck out of their class. Off by one, sure, we all make mistakes. Maybe two. Three could be blamed on too much BEER. But if he can’t tell the difference between eleven and eighteen, the school system truly failed not just him but society as a whole.

Up next were first in and last in. Since there hadn’t been any checks between the fence hole and DOWN DOWN, I’d Tap That came in hot for first in. Walk O’Shamy, so busy strutting her dress on the catwalk to the left, then right, then pause, and turn, came in last. The racist and the lollygagger both drank it down down down.

Trail charges! I’d Tap That and to a lesser extent Cum Analyst were charged with trail blindness. They probably ran six miles to the pack’s one, so you could argue they’d been punished enough, but the pack still made them drink it down down down. Meanwhile, Cranky Old Bastard had made an effort in the spirit of the green dress hash by wearing a little leprechaun hat, but it still wasn’t a dress so his stunt liver had to drink it down down down.

INTERRUPTUS included a long-wayward hound, Cut It Short. He revealed his surgical scars, as if that would grant him mercy, but the pack was having none of it. Patsy and I’d Tap That had no excuse whatsoever. They all endured Where oh Where Were You Last Hash before drinking it down down down.

VIRGINS, fuck yeah! This hash included Just Tony and Just Mike, both made to cum by Cut It Short, and Just Matt, made to cum by Walk O’Shamy. Just Matt was no stranger, having been a hanger-on at drinking practice, and he had sworn up and down that he would never hash. No one can resist Walk O’Shamy’s siren song, however, so here he was, in all his kilted glory. Just Tony and Just Mike were exceptionally eager hounds, volunteering themselves for charges, but the pack had to tell them, no, no, you must wait until you are named. To all our VIRGINS, ChooChoo H3 says fuck you!

Last on the checklist was BUSINESS:

• Monthly drinking practice this Tuesday, March 24^th at 6pm. We’re assuming it’s at Mike’s Hole in the Wall, which also has trivia that night.
• Next hash on April 18^th is the kennel’s second ANALVERSARY! The real founding date has been lost to history, so we now celebrate its revival every April. Hares Cum Analyst and I’d Tap That are musing on a trail where it all re-began in Northshore.
• May hash to be hared by Patsy, his first time as lead hare! Tentative date May 9^th with details to cum.

The checklist complete, the GM told the hash to go in peace to get a piece, and the green dresses marched on over to Oddstory for cheery on after.

Thus concluded the 1^st Anal Green Dress Hash
For fucking about and flashing your ass
We’ll see you next year
For running and BEER
Should O’Leary complete remedial math.

There once was a hound who was first in: I’d Tap That
Plus another who brought up the end: Walk O’Shamy
He stretched out the hole, with his bendy soul: Patsy
And wore his tiny green hat with a grin: Cranky Old Bastard