Santa again made his annual appearance in our fair city and proceeded to do just what he promised - fk the hash.
There were wankers young and wankers old. Readingites who returned from the snowy plains of Minnesota and the sunshine of the Outer Banks. Well dressed bimbos and those remaining in their stinky trail clothes. Some who stayed all day and some who (usually) pull out early.
If you weren't there, where were you?
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A Visit From St. Dogbreath, by Decoy
Twas the Night Before
Christmas… No. Wait. It
was about 3 weeks before Christmas! Heck, IT WAS HASHMAS!!
And All Through The House… Wyomissing Pool actually. Yes, we invaded
Wyomissing. That’ll teach those bastards to start putting up
fences. Not A Creature Was
Stirring… about 30 of them, but I wasn’t really
counting ….Not Even A Mouse… but Dogbreath was there. He counts
right?
The stockings were hung by the chimney
with care… Bad was wearing his signature Red
Sock/Green Sock thing. That joke never.gets.old. In hopes that Saint Nicholas soon would be
there… Dog. I mentioned that already,
didn’t I? The Children Were snuggled all safe in
their beds while visions of Sugarplums danced in their heads (ZZZHead? WHO SAID HEAD?)
Mama in her kerchief…
That had to be that thing that Tippy was
wearing on her head. And I in my
cap … couldn’t find my Santa Hat, so I settled for an
‘ARMY’ knit hat Had just settled down for a long
winters nap. .. Sure. Whatever.
Who writes this shit?
When out on the lawn there arose such a
clatter… “Muffy, the HASHERS are at the Wyomissing
Pool, and they’re…. gulp… wearing plaids with stripes, and last year’s
sneakers. I sprang from my bed to
see what was the matter… I don’t really ‘spring’
these days. I kind of ‘lope’.
Away to the window I flew like a flash, tore
open the shutter and threw up the sash…. Girly was
absent from his usual duties as ‘2nd Assistant Elf to the Assistant Elf’
because he was home spilling his guts into the toilet.
Interestingly enough, Bushwacker was there, looking
rather sprightly and bragging about this bottle of ipecac that she had procured
this past week.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen
snow gave a lustre of midday to objects below. I have no idea what that shit mean, but someone
said ‘lust’ and ‘breast’ in the same sentence, and I kind of got aroused.
When what to my wondering eyes did
appear, but a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer.
…. The only ‘tiny’ thing was NFB, who should
be making money as an elf at Christmas Village instead of hanging out with us
every December.
With a little old driver so lively and
quick, I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
Or Dog, or something. Wait, there was some old dude there
with a beard and a droopy eye.
EVERYDAY!
More rapid than eagles his coursers they
came. Heh… ‘came’.
And he whistled and shouted and called
them by name: On Mattress, on OE, On
Darth, On Spore. On Fudgy, on Dives, on Trunk, On Tippy, On Princess, On Happy!
Look, I probably could have made that shit rhyme, but I’m at work, and I think
Scroat is on to the fact that I write these things instead of going out and
buying steel and shipping stuff across the country… so let’s just pretend I
spent more than a minute, shall we?
To the top of the bridge to the top of the
wall The pack followed flower up the
Wyo Creek to the Museum. Upon crossing Museum Rd, there was Dog
standing on the bridge with a shit eating grin on his face, and a big red “F”
just behind him. Shit… back to the cars.
Now dash away!
Dash away! Dash away All! …. Keep looking for true trail, you befuddled pack
of drunks.
As leaves that before the wild hurricane
fly when they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky; So Up to the housetop the
coursers they flew with a sleigh full of toys (JAGER
CHECK!!!) and St. Nicholas
Too!
And then in a twinkling, I heard on the
roof, the prancing and pawing of each little hoof ….
It was an A-A, so we headed back to the Wyo Pool and then made for Skip’s for
chilidogs and burgers.
As I drew in my head, and was turning
around, Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.
Heh… ‘came’.
He was dressed all in fur from his head to
his foot and his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot..
Yup, the same old cumstained, beer-smelling santa
suit that he’s had for like 30 years…I wonder if you boiled that beard how many
bottles of Jagermeister you could distill out of it?
And bundle of toys he had flung on his
back, and he looked like a peddler just opening his pack. Sex toys and BOOZE FOR ALL! IT’S A
HASHMAS MIRACLE!!
His eyes how they twinkled (when a bimbo sat on his lap), his
dimples how merry (those are dimples?... Sorry, I
thought you had smallpox). His
cheeks were like roses (drunk again) his nose like a cherry (a well
marinated maraschino cherry). His
droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow (I have
read this story for like 40 years I have no fucking idea what this line
means. It always bugs the shit out of me).
The stump of his (crack) pipe he held tight in his
teeth, and the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath (that wasn’t smoke… Santa had some chili last night at the Pacers
party). He had a broad face and a
little round belly (are you kidding?
Dog is like the vanishing man). that
shook when he laughed like a bowl full of jelly (KY
jelly of course). He was chubby
and plump, a right jolly old elf (you have the ‘old
part’ right), and I laughed when I saw him in
spite of myself.
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
(seriously, how does he do that thing with his
head? Its like the damn excorcist chick!). Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread
(other than a nasty hangover in the morning a mild
case of VD).
He spoke not a word, but went straight to
his work (Sure. Dog didn’t talk.
Whatever.)
And filled all the stockings, then turned
with a jerk. (I take this to mean that
he jerked off into a sock. Probably the most plausible part of
this story, other than the part about Bushwacker poisoning
Girly).
And laying a finger aside of his nose
(or up it… your call).
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose
(actually, he went back to the ladies room at Skips,
with that drunk lady who came through to pee like 10 times in the
afternoon. Hey baby… overactive
bladder?)
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave
a whistle (and that’s when he got bitchslapped by
Tongue Job).
And away they all flew like the down of a
thistle. (Seriously… whistle, thistle,
this Clement Moore guy is a fucking genius. Must have been a
hasher).
But I head him explain, ere he drove out of
sight (if you used the word ‘ere’ in one of Princess’
7th grade
English Class Essay’s, she’d flunk your ass on the spot, and make you drop and
give her 50 just for wasting her time.)
Merry Hashmas To All. And To
All A Good Night (that shit actually
happened)
Shitty Hash!! Thanks again to Dog and TJ for
flying in from Minnesnowda. Thanks to all the hares who make this
shit happen and really make my year. One of the best days of the
Christmas season, and you drunk assholes make it work. Merry
Hashmas!
