Hashers,

Here's how it went down this Saturday past, from Deep in the End's
skewed perspective.  This writeup may have little similarity to the
experience of most of the pack who participated.

Cummy Pinko and Walk Like An Erection set off in a cloud of farts from
the Broomfield Police Station.  They flirted with the start in a long
loop around to the south, east, and finally north, but the oblivious
hounds did not take advantage of the opportunity to view the hares the
whole way around, and thus set off following what little powder they
could find.  Naturally, it did not take more than 7 powders or so to
convince Two Holes and Deep that their fates lay along another course,
and so they took off northward, screaming "Trail is for chumps!"  A
short while later, the speedy Turtle passed the duo on a "shortcut" of
his own, and the trio, filled with confidence, plied the gentle
underbelly of the neighborhood in the vicinity of Broomfield High. 
Unfortunately, confidence was not the only thing filling Deep, and he
limped to a serendipitous portojohn sitting on a sidewalk near an
elementary school, clutching his screaming abdomen.  Another visit to
the facilities of a Methodist church, and Deep was hopelessly without
companionship and stranded far from trail on another epic "shortcut". 
With a lighter load, he was able to move with alacrity toward the
intersection of 10th and Main.  Had he guessed right, he could have
covered the 1/4 mile or so to the finish in the field across Main and
waited for the hares to arrive.  But he did not guess right.  And so he
went back to the start and followed trail, laid almost entirely by Dr D
in the form of D^3 pack arrows.  While the hares coveted their flour and
guarded it jealously, Dr D was very giving with his sheetrock, and it is
largely to his credit that Deep made it through the several odd miles of
contorted trail to the finish.  Pack arrows guided him to Main and
120th, then east behind Taco Bell and Home Depot, north past the fields
where the GRASS ultimate tourney was played once upon a time, northeast
into the middle of subdivision hell, through a school with cute powder
marks, and finally to the finish, no more than a 1/2 mile from the
start.  Beerlust kept his drive going, though when he arrived at the
finish he was in bad shape.  Emaciated, grumpy, with parched lips, he
partook of what was left of down-downs, and soon had his color back. 
Deep arrived just in time to bridle a gaggle of unruly virgins supplied
by that car salesman Mt Hood, and managed to dig deep for a number of
untapped hash hymnal classics.  All told, the group polished off three
(3) cases of excellent brew (some would exclude the French beer from
such glowing praise) and two (2) Buds included specifically with
*Whp-Chshh* in mind.  Songs were sung, virgins were deflowered, and dogs
were fought against each other for sport.  There were no namings to
note, but the Hash Mismanagement distributed snappy hash tags with the
new Flatlander logo to those of the pack with the names to wear them - a
joyous occasion indeed.  If you fit into that category - named and
tagless - drag your sorry ass out to the next hash event and claim your
prize.  ($3 donations accepted for tags - Hood's free virgins are
wrecking us.)

The next event, to be affectionately called BFHHH #18, will happen
Saturday before Halloween (10/28) at 3pm, and will be hared by Cock
Gobbler and Bush Router.  Costumes are required to participate (hmmm...
red dress?).

On-on,
Deep