If you didnt get the chance to make it to the InterAmericas Hash then you missed a pretty good time.

Each hasher has their own definition of a "good times" in which there are different scales of "good times". For instance mine are 1) it sucked 2) good time 3) pretty good time  and 4) God d*mned great. 

Colorado  rated a 3 which in my definition is just a pretty good time. However, that's way better than it sucked but just shy of a God d*mned great.

Some of us dont have much in the way of expectations so you have a good time because you don't expect much. Some of us expect alot and then get disappointed when the event doesn't reach our expectations so it sucked. However I had a few expectations  going in so to end up with a pretty good time is AOK in my book. 

Well, why did I just have a pretty good time and not a God d*mned great time? 

Expectations is the reason. 

I expected a few things such as decent trails, good food and plenty of beerm, which for the most part I got.

The IAH MM also expected a few things from us as well such as  hydrate, hydrate, hydrate, act like a normal person in front of the few civilians at Winter Park and have a God d*mned great time. Which they also mostly got.

Thursday nights Okinawa PreLube trail is a great lead in to the IAH festivities. We dont expect much from that trail except beer and that is exactly what we get - beer.  Most everyone walked that trail because we were not used to the altitude which means we got drunk pretty quickly which means most everyone has a God d*mned good time Thursday night.

Friday night is the official start of the IAH and trail was about a mile around the town of WInter Park. The hares dont expect us to run much nor do most of us because we figure we're getting used to being high. 

Literally and figuratively. Because it's legal for medicinal purposes. And from what i could smell there is a huge abundance of hashers with glaucoma, either that or they all have squinty eyes.

We all got to know each other again and hang out and drink good beer and our expectations of a God d*mned good time were met. 

Saturday morning finds most of us with the three H's - and I dont mean Hash House Harriers - I mean Hefty Hefty Hangover. But breakfast was awesome, coffee was plentiful and there were endless reams of toilet paper in the basement potties so as a hashers we were more than set. 

At 8 am the thin and in excellent shape hashers- all 43 of them set off the continental divide ball busting trail. This was promptly renamed liver busting. 43 or so hasher drank 27 cases of beer, 3 bottles of iced schnapps, and then stopped at a bar because 43 of us are not quite at emergency-room-alcohol-induced-poisoning-pump-your-stomach-levels yet. Ball busting, gut busting, ring my liver out trail that started at 8 am and ended at the venue some 13 hours later. Now that was a God d*mned good time. Save for one thing..... In our lovely hash area here in DC we have a much loved hasher by the name of Mellow Foreskin Cheese. Most of us know when he drinks he spits. Alot. When he comes and talks to us when he is drinking you will see many of us cover our beers. Well, my little friend Two Lips in the Bush was on the God d*mned great liver busting trail and when he came into the venue twelve hours after having left for trail, I suddenly realized that not only would I need! to cover my beer, I would need a towel to wipe my face dry, a dry shirt and maybe even a rain poncho. He was drooling like many a southern banjo playing, mentally handicapped, hashers hollering SOOUUUIIIEEEE like we're all about to be "Delivered" to in two years. That reminds me to presend a spare liver. And some rain ponchos. 

Since 43 hashers were on the liver busting trail that left roughly 1457 of us to run the rest of the trails. And I say run lightly. The trail numbering scheme was just like my pre-calculus class -  I tried to figure out why x+y = pii x2 to the 9th negative degree but in the end I failed. I would roughly try to figure out a result but more often than not I put a great big F at the top of the paper and handed it back in. And when Little Bog Man takes calculus this year, and then asks for my help I'll get my big red pen out and put an F at the top if his paper and tell him there ya go. Just like staring at my calculus problems I sat at the trail table at 8:00 am and tried to decipher what E1 and T3 was, or if I went on E2 would I end up on T4 or was it T3 and E4 were together, no no no, E1 and T4 were the same, oh hell, just take the ZipPy trail except is that T5 or T1? Which bus gets me on E1 and is that at the venue or the hotel across the street? If E1 leaves at 11! am but I want to do T3 because E1 is too hard will I need to be on bus 5 at the venue or at the VIntage? 

My expectations to get on a trail were high. 

However, I did not expect that I would need a calculator and my red pen to figure out which trail to do, what bus to get on and where the hell that bus was. 

Once it was all sorted out (which was more like I found a bus, it had an empty seat so I got on it) and we got to trail start (with many a good THE OTHER BUS SUCKS) we were then given the hares expectations: which were very few. 

1) Please stay on trail - there are many a wildlife looking for their pre-hibernating meals. 

2) only blow your whistles if you are in trouble. 

Well as far as I am concerned number 2 was too high of an expectation. Being able to blow anything means that you have to take somewhat of a deep breath first. Living at 0 feet above sea level and suddenly finding yourself at 10000 feet above sea level means only one thing - blowing anything is not going to happen, not even a small, tiny whistle. Wanks with Wolves and I found ourselves on one of the eagle/turkey trails. You could go eagle or turkey but end up in the same spot. It may have been E3 with T5 who the hell knows, anyway, we started out on Turkey and got all the way to base camp at Winter Park and found ourselves on the ski gondola's. Wanks found she could not figure out how to get on the gondola seats without her skis on so we ended up almost toppled by a ski bench seat so we almost had a big R for retard stamped on our foreheads - yes I said head. We got to the top which was about 11,000 feet above sea level. The Coors Light was so cold up there it was truly great so we had 2. On the way down we started on Turkey and took the Eagle split- thus we were on the Turgle trail. In the IAH numbering scheme this was t4-e6+E1/2.

Effed it was and that's just what we got. 

Normally cars drive up switch backs so they can handle getting up the mountains. Only goats - that have mountain as their first names - can climb up the Eagle portion of trails these hares picked put. By the time I got halfway up the 95% sloped mountainside, my legs were shaking, I was sweating, my heart beat so loudly and fast that I could feel it in my throat  so I reach for my friend Wanks and we reahced for our whistles. We put them to our lips and then tried to blow. It sounded alot like hphhh. hppphhh. There was not enough air escaping my lungs to even make the damn little round thing in the whistle beat against the insides to make any noise whatsoever. Instead it sounded like we were up there farting in the wind. Now how the hell are the hares gonna find us when all we can do is make enough noise to sound like a fart? 

Yes, there expectations were entirely too high. 

My expectations of living through the interhash were slowly dwindling. I was hoping to live long enough to finish the Turgle trail - E3-T4 x E2/T6 - T3. 

So we stopped, shoved our lungs back down our throats, caught our breath, and eventually made our way into circle, however it wasn't our circle - it was E4 and T2 or maybe it was E5 - T6, who knows. My expectations of ever figuring out the trail numbering scheme was getting lower by the minute. So we were sent on our way and found our circle and were delighted to see more ice cold beer, sandwiches and snacks. 

A few hours later finds us at supper at the venue followed by skits and the interhash bids. Any city expecting bit should realize our expectations are very low. Your expectations of what we want are too high. We don't need to see a 20 minute slideshow of naked girls and nude beaches, nor do we need to hear from everyone of your people on MM about what a great event you are gonna put up for us. All you need to show us is the following - how much is this weekend gonna cost us - will it be $169 for 4 days of fun or it will be $189 for four days of fun? We dont care about the hotels- we're hashers - we're gonna ruin the pool and the hot tub with all of our hairy naked bodies anyway so who gives a sh*t about the hotel. 

Show me some man's ass with a price of $169 or less, show the men there womans breasts with $169 painted on them and you have our vote!

See? 

Our expectations are low. Thats why the male quartet in the Dancing Queens skit with their green thongs outfits was absolutely the most hilarious thing we saw.

We dont need alot to make us happy. 

Trail Sunday was alot like trail Saturday. Again I had no effing clue which trail I was on, i found an open bus seat and hopped on. Several of my friends also got on the bus so there were quite a few of us on trail number T4-E6/E5-T1.  However this one was shorter. ANd once again we got the same expecations from the hares which were very few:

 But we had Boytoy in front of us and so we tried to keep up. 

Which was a mistake. 

Which means that we found ourselves once again blowing whistles while simultaneously putting hand over own beers so we dont get our own spit flying into it. Once again we were sounding more and more like farts from a pig. A big fat pig. We tried to blow those whistles so hard I think I did fart ... but you could have never even heard the difference. A fart at 11000 feet above sea level is not the same as a fart at sea level. 

We eventually found out that we were not going to die so we trudged onward to find finish only 3 miles from where we started. We then very much enjoyed our circle with Chucky Cheeks at the helm. 

Sunday night brought us back into town for dinner, a band and a lesson from Rumson on how to eat p*ssy. 

 Let me tell you, this lesson on how to eat P*ssy is best enjoyed on Sunday morning with only the GM's in the room. 

Mr Jackson understands our expectations or low. 

All we need is a projector purchased on ebay for 35 bucks and a few hand drawn slides. None of that uptodate PC slideshow crap for us. No sir-reee - Elephant Dicks hand drawn google page and a lesson on how to present a winning bid was a lesson on how to win over 1500 votes. 

Mr Jackson learning us all on all the pieces and parts to our very own p*ssies is best enjoyed on Sunday morning with only the GM's in the room. All I got from that is that too many people talked through the entire thing so they must all already know where it is, what it is and how to eat it. 

If you look around at all the men there I call Bullshit. 

Most of them haven't even seen one in 7 or 8 years. Unless they're cleaning out the cat box once week and buying meow mix for the pussy that poo's in there. 

The theme for the night was Cowboys and Indians. When you throw a cowboys and indians theme party for a bunch of middle aged and beyond hashers you expect a few assless chaps, a few feathers on strategic places and also some really cute outfits. However, let's not forget that what is cute on a 24 year old, young, shapely woman is not the same on a woman 3 times her age and 3 times her weight. 

The same goes for men in assless chaps. 

Cutting out the ass of your jeans is not the same as assless chaps - that's cheap a$$ chaps. 

And you can expect that every 300 pound hefty hefty hasher will have a pair on. And since my expectations are low, I will look at every a$$ walking by just like I look at train wrecks, boogers, food in your teeth and that big, nasty zit you have in your forehead. 

There was alot happening this weekend up in Colorado. 

I went in with low expectations and they are all met and then some. 

And when you sum it all up it was a pretty good G*d damned time. 

On On

dual airbags