Wankers,

Most of you weren't there, but in the interest of completeness, I'll
describe what went down at BFHHH #49 for you.

The pack gathered at the oft-used Parkside Park in N Boulder right on
hash time.  The vast Flatlander symbol set was describe to visitor Semen
on the Pew as Chacockua, our lone hare, bolted into the neighborhood to
the west.  Dr Dripdick rolled up, blessing us with his first visit after
a Lazy-Spermesque absence, and the pack rolled out.  Cum Silent and Deep
guessed correctly at the first DP, but managed to lose trail shortly
afterward.  So they split up and embarked on parallel shortcuts, as was
the style at the time, in the process throwing the rest of the pack off
trail and confusing the issue.  Their SCB sense kicked in, however, and
they circled directly to the south, reaching Columbine Middle School,
and TT, about a half a block ahead of the good Doctor.  Semen eventually
closed on the SC/FRBs, and the foursome picked their way to the south,
then east along a convenient creek.  The trail ducked under Folsom, then
turned into a parking garage on the west side of 28th, where a map was
uncovered, in the usual parking garage/map arrangement that we taught
Chacockua in hashes past.  The map led across the street into
Fascinations, where a dildo had been reserved by our cunning hare for
his hapless pack, with a map attached.  After kahlua and hot chocolate
in the parking lot, the hounds set off on a winding path which tended to
the north, eventually returning to the start as a true A-A should.  DPs
were plentiful, TOPs obvious and FRBs fat and slow.  And surly.  A
pleasant enough trail completed, the hash retired to Hash House I, where
they found Poopa nursing Blowsis back to health.  Upon our arrival she
blew him off to join us on the thirsty carpet for a lengthy round of
singing and imbibing.  Down-downs ensued.  Papa Woody (unnamed) was
thoroughly impressed with the whole affair, and several observations
were made, including, but not limited to, the fact that keg cans are
easier to crush against one's forehead than are kegs.  Pukie knows many
verses to many songs, but can neither recall them nor vocalize them when
put on the spot.  Freudian still possesses her "circus" underwear.  The
Flatlanders sing every song just wrong enough to piss off our visitors. 
And Cummy Pinko.  The award was finally awarded again, this time to
Chacockua for stuff.  Dr Dripdick busted a gut on songs he's sung for
years but hasn't heard in years do to his ill attendance.  We busted his
chops repeatedly.  Pizza and beer rounded out the evening, in typical
fashion.

On-on,
Deep