On the first hashy day of 2016, there was a hash. Two shitty hares, Just Grant and Cum Quick Cowboy, took a pack of half-minds up and down the hills west of Boulder. The ice was treacherous, the alcohol flowed freely. Tortilla took a knock to the head (“Head, who said head?!”), everyone did a YBF to the top of Anemone for no good reason, and we so outraged our virgins with shiggy and sex jokes about dead whores and necrophiliacs that most (if not all?) didn’t make it to the end. After much rejoicing, we drank all of the beers, sang about sex, did some fucking, and decided to name some poor bastard. He went to a “Creative Sausage Making” workshop and fucked some girl on a sandbar (who wouldn’t?), so he will forever be named Sandy Sausage. May he chug-a-lug.
Onon,
Sandy Sausage