I came out late one Christmas to the city that is literally the foundation of our democracy. Sadly, it's now becoming the foundation of my debauchery. The salty swill of the Schuhyll filled the air, and Hashers desperately flailed to find the check across the damned river.
What started as an unassuming urban almost-cajun trail quickly turned into a bumpercunt crapshoot as we stalled out after the first bar stop. Legend has it, the Penn bridge was the site of an "ant--ax" scare back in the W days and so on. In order to avoid another 3 letter agency visit, no flour mark's were to be laid across a .35 mile stretch of bridge. Noone in the pack remembered this, of course, until we called the hare. Apparently these wankers have never heard of fluorescent chalk.
We continued stretching a short trail into a long trail faster than your mom can deepthroat a cheesesteak, god rest her. We ran across the water again to find Penn state and the rumored 99 Bannanas shots near the campus med lab. Why do I do these stupid things to myself? After wanking harder than a frat on a weekday, we crashed past Drexel into a small side street for some gingerbread shotskis. By now I'm doomed.
After determining the on in is but a short jaunt away, the raunchy MFers go ape on some public bench swings, putting the BM back in BDSM...
Now, safely shepherding to the home-bar like three drunk wisemen on a 5 day bender, the Hash has come to sing their awful Carol's and Karen's late into the night, salute their shorts and crush their kegs as the patrons wince and the staff regrets. These drinks just keep cumming. These a--holes made this Grinches bulge grow three sizes that day, and then shrunk it by 4 after an inordinate number of shots. I hope they wont throw me off the train until I make it back to my little village around 2 am for the ending ritual of WaWa hoagies.