🗑️ Hash Trash #69+28 – Malört. – Chattanooga Choo Choo Hash House Harriers

Sometimes things aren’t as they seem. You take a scoop of ice cream expecting vanilla, but when you taste it – BAM – surprise, motherfucker, it’s habanero! Now, other times things are what they seem, but they imperceptibly lead you to another thing that makes you feel kinda icky afterwards. Such is Malört. It is never a choice. It is the hook buried in the lure when someone from Chicago hates you. It hates you back. It wants you to regret your life choices. It succeeds.

Somehow a single bottle migrated from that godforsaken Illinois hellhole to a single bar in the greater Chattanooga area, and somehow the hashers found themselves at that bar, and somehow a hasher from that godforsaken state of Pennsylvania plied C3H3 with high-gravity BEER until he convinced them that taking a shot of Malört is A Good Idea, Actually. What started as a simple hash with some so-called friends turned into a night of abject horror.

But that came later. First was hash #69+28, a sort of impromptu event to welcome a repeat VISITOR, Sex Toys of the Ben Franklin Mob kennel. They gathered at Mike’s Hole in the Wall (again) in fair Northshore, where they indulged in the decent BEER selection. Hounds trickled in, and by the time the last of eight arrived, the rain also arrived in thunderous glory. They decided to continue enjoying their BEER until the storm passed and the temperature cooled because they’re fucking pussies.

Soon hare Ghost Rider announced that it was time for chalk talk. As the hounds looked down at his scribbles, they were puzzled. There were only three symbols. What happened to the Ghost Rider we know and love who lays out every mark known to man, whether he used them or not? It was short, he admitted, but only because it was cold out. (It was not cold out.) He was quickly blessed, and off he went. The hounds finished their remaining BEER then cried ON ON!

They burst forth from the bar, or at least the EAGLES did, while the remaining lollygaggers went lollygagging as TURKEYS are wont to do. It was only one block on trail when F’n B found a 369 check. They were about to go in search of true trail, but a voice from afar shouted, He went that way! The hounds turned and asked this kindly neighbor, Are you sure? Because he could have backtracked. Oh I’m sure, she said with the confidence of a lover inviting you into the back door. Strange, but the hounds felt they could trust her and went the way she pointed.

Another check here, a true trail arrow there, and finally, after a grueling half mile, BEER NEAR! Right back at the bar, the hounds joined the hare at the table where their seats were still warm and ordered more BEER. The GM called for a quick circle to get hash shit out of the way. First up was trail vote, which was voted GOOD TRAIL! Sure, it was short, but it was adequate. There was a single hare charge, that of ESPIONAGE! That kindly neighbor? She was not who she seemed. She was a spy who had sweet-talked her way to true trail then passed the information on to the hounds. Ghost Rider fell right into her trap. With much shame he drank it down down down.

Next was first in (Cranky Old Bastard) and last in (Sex Toys), who of course had to drink it down. The rest came at a quick clip because there were no INTERRUPTUS, no VIRGINS, and the lone VISITOR had been welcomed once before. This was Just Drew’s third hash, but instead of a NAMING, the kennel opted to promote him to Shocker status and save it for the August hash.

With all that covered, it was time to get down down to BUSINESS:

Only two spots left for the rafting hash! On August 15^th, Shocker Gibby and Daddy’s Little Beaver are taking us down the Ocoee rapids.
- RSVP here and pay a $5 deposit here no later than August 7^th. That’s in two days for those of you who can’t math.
- Some hashers are interested in carpooling. If you want to carpool and didn’t RSVP through the form, fill out the form now so everyone can coordinate.
We have NAMINGS on the next hash! Shocker Drew and Shocker Gibby will have many opportunities to do something stupid as we crash through the water, so keep a sharp eye on them.
Next drinking practice is August 25^th. We’ll figure out where closer to the date.

That was it for BUSINESS, and the hash came to an end. The GM told everyone to go in peace and get a piece to enjoy the ON AFTER, which happened to be right where they sat. And this is where the real story begins.

The conversation was merry and the BEER was flowing. Sex Toys and Ghost Rider somehow got on the topic of Malört, probably because it was the only thing dirtier than their filthy mouths. They explained to the kennel its origin and extolled its virtues. The hashers were curious. They didn’t want a taste, but they also did. But not really. Sex Toys and Ghost Rider said they did. With subtle pressure, all but Perverazzi were convinced to take the bait.

Sex Toys ordered a round of Malört shots. The waitress gasped. The manager came out to confirm that they knew what they were doing. The bartender gagged as he cracked open the Bottle That Shall Not Be Served. All eyes were on the hashers. Even the trivia guy called them out. Of course if the trivia guy was going to pile on, C3H3 had to own it with the team name Malört-a-Trois.

Down down down they drank the vile concoction. It’s not so much the initial experience that drags you into the depths of hell, it’s that aftertaste of the devil’s diarrhea. It doesn’t merely linger, it takes up residence on your tongue and deep in your throat. It cackles as you try and fail to wash it away with BEER. You curse your mother for giving you the life that led to this.

Trivia was a blur. Their answers made no sense. Only Ghost Rider had the strength to turn in the answer sheet. They lost.

Such is Malört. If these hashers are lucky, the trauma will cause them to forever repress the memory. If they’re not lucky, they will repress the memory and later try it anew. Godspeed, dear hashers, godspeed.