Dear wankers,

I'm sure your truance was merely an oversight, so I know
you'll appreciate a glut of hash-related material in your
inbox.

5 someodd (emphasis on "odd") hashers hunkered down in the
Dillard's parking lot, drinking and dodging raindrops,
talking up beers in Deep's garage, when Pod and Tonguehole
showed up out of nowhere and salvaged the hash.  Tonguehole
must have had a burning sensation (in her ears), because
we'd just been discussing her fondly, moments before her
timely arrival.  The hares, already warmed to the idea of
bailing in favor of more lubrication and less powder
tossing, set off around the mall, while the hapless fivesome
discussed plans to mount the Zip and scour the parking
lots.  Fortunately, they behaved themselves, for trail
promptly plunged under US36 into a quagmire.  

The mud, it sucked their sneakers off, and their legs were
ripped a lot.  At least, MD's sneakers and legs.  She
navigated a field and about 12 miles of straight,
featureless RR track trail barefoot, having sacrificed her
sport sandals to trail, before bailing in favor of fewer
lacerations.  Sinbad's dream trail, really.  Deep sensibly
hung back and waited for Tonguehole, letting FRBs Pod and
Chacockqua mount several mounds and disappear into the
distant construction of E-470 not far south of Dillon Rd. 
Tonguehole and Deep managed to sniff out powder for another
5 or 6 miles, but eventually lost powder to a stranglehold
of descending darkness in what turned out to be the scene of
a dual hare snare.  Snared hares don't throw much powder, so
the DFLs set off into the inky cocoon with a nomadic horde
of West Nile-infected mosquitos in hot pursuit.  Many stings
were laid upon the backsides of the poor hounds, who guessed
that beer must be stashed at the pavilion of nearby Stearns
Lake.  It wasn't.  So they pressed on across Rock Creek open
space another 8 miles to Deep's place, where a bit of
autowanking brought them back to the start.  The FRBs turned
up shortly afterward, and a caravan brought the pack, minus
a concerned and mildly heroic Little Head, who, let us not
forget, designed this splendid abomination of a trail, was
busily traversing trail in reverse, to the finish behind
Northrup Grummon on US287.  Knowing Little Head would want
us to continue without him, we opened beers and pressed on
with the business at hand - down downs.

Little Head quickly racked up 5 down downs in absentia,
which he addressed with ice cold Coors Gold upon his
arrival.  The award was awarded to Pod for some studly act
or other, its new "tap" and all.  Cream-filled they got. 
There were no on-afters (that Deep was invited to).

Thanks to the hares for a shitty trail on short notice. 
Next hash will be in two weeks, with, if the military
cooperates, a very thirsty Cum Silent in attendance.  If it
doesn't, Cum Silent will appoint by proxy someone to drink
for him.

On-on,
Deep