Every hash club has those legendary days that get talked about for years.

This wasn’t one of them.

Instead, nine gloriously dehydrated alcoholics masquerading as athletes gathered for the 56th running of the OKissMe Hash House Harriers, proving once again that poor life choices are best made in groups.

The theme celebrated America’s 250th Birthday and Pride, because the OKissMe Hash firmly believes everyone deserves equal opportunity to make complete asses of themselves. Wear red, white, and blue. Wear rainbow colors. Wear both. Just wear something, because nobody wanted to see Jake Off in only trail shoes.

Unfortunately, the day was doomed before anyone even tied their laces.

Our Religious Advisor, Short Cummings, committed what may be the greatest dereliction of duty in hash history.

He forgot.

The.

Fucking.

Mimosas.

Forget the Constitution. Forget the Bill of Rights. The real tragedy America suffered this weekend was brunch without champagne. Somewhere, bald eagles stopped soaring. George Washington rolled over in his grave. Lady Liberty quietly whispered, “What the actual fuck?”

The pack stood around in stunned silence, wondering if civilization itself had collapsed.

Thankfully, Open Whore Policy and Lerooooy Wankins had remembered to hare trail, because apparently someone at least understood their assignment.

With temperatures hovering somewhere between “surface of Mercury” and “Satan’s taint,” the hares wisely kept trail to roughly 2½ miles. Historians will no doubt credit them with preventing at least three heat strokes, two divorces, and one very expensive airlift to Orlando Regional.

That didn’t stop them from dragging us through every miserable patch of shiggy they could legally—and perhaps illegally—find.

Construction zones.

Tree groves.

Open fields.

Construction zones inside open fields.

At one point it felt less like a hash and more like we were filming a low-budget episode of Naked and Afraid, except everyone kept their clothes on because Florida mosquitoes have standards.

Nearly one-third of the pack came down from BVD, proving that bad judgment isn’t confined to a single kennel.

Notably absent was Beaver Receiver, who is somewhere wandering around Asia. Hopefully she’s teaching the locals that “On-On” is an internationally recognized emergency response.

Also missing was All Cocks Are Beautiful, whose absence brought a level of peace and quiet not experienced in Kissimmee since air conditioning was invented. Apparently all that whining about trails not being in Kissimmee finally exhausted him. We’re sure he’ll tell us all about it next month.

Meanwhile, Eat A Puss spent most of trail exhibiting the thousand-yard stare of a Vietnam veteran. Every patch of shiggy triggered horrifying flashbacks to Jake Off’s death march from last month.

Witnesses reported hearing him mumble, “Not again… not again…” while subtly checking Uber prices.

To everyone’s amazement, he made it all the way to the finish without summoning a rideshare.

Personal growth comes in many forms.

The beer check was located beneath glorious shade—a magical oasis where exhausted hashers could recover from the brutal quarter-hour they’d spent pretending to enjoy exercise.

Then Jake Off announced his digestive system had other plans.

Nothing says “cold beer with friends” quite like a grown man wandering off to fertilize central Florida.

Fortunately, the hares had laid enough toilet paper to mark trail, wipe asses, and mummify a medium-sized Egyptian pharaoh.

Circle convened only a few hundred yards from the start beneath blessed shade because even the hares realized none of us possess the cardiovascular fitness to walk any farther.

Then came accusations.

Glorious, baseless, alcohol-fueled accusations.

In a statistical anomaly that scientists will be studying for decades, every single hasher remembered both their tags and whistles.

Every.

Single.

One.

Which meant Short Cummings got to stand there drinking by himself while the rest of us watched. It’s rare when competence results in public humiliation, but hashing continues to find new and exciting ways.

Down-downs flowed like sweat:

You Otta Miata drank for failing the incredibly difficult assignment of dressing in red, white, and blue.

Jake Off drank for turning the beer check into an EPA cleanup site.

Short Cummings drank for forgetting the mimosas—a crime for which there is no statute of limitations.

Then Miata, Short Cummings, and both hares all drank again for proudly sporting Pride colors, proving that inclusivity at the hash simply means everyone gets equally abused.

Finally, it was time for the Hashit.

The nominations were worthy.

Jake Off, for committing what can only politely be described as an unauthorized biological release.

Eat A Puss, for surviving an entire trail without rage-quitting into the back seat of an Uber.

But no amount of gastrointestinal terrorism could compete with brunch-related negligence.

The Hashit landed exactly where justice demanded:

Short Cummings.

May this shame follow him until every future trail begins with enough champagne and orange juice to drown the memory of this catastrophic oversight.

Despite the blistering heat, missing mimosas, PTSD-induced Uber cravings, biohazardous beer checks, and enough public ridicule to fuel six therapy sessions, the OKissMe faithful once again proved the First Amendment protects not only free speech—but also free insults.

God Bless America.

God Bless Pride.

And God help the poor bastard who forgets the mimosas ever again.

ON-ON!