The Catholic School Girl Hash was happening again, seems like just yesterday the pack was donning their sluttiest holy wear and desecrating churches all over the city. But we were back at it again last night, gathering at the southeast corner of the lovely but heavily sidewalk-trafficked Francis Park. Hares Beaver Chaser and Froggy Style dressed in their Sunday finest as they did chalk talk on the aforementioned busy sidewalk.

Hashers trickled in, some dressed as school girls, some like priests, some like boring old hashers showing up to any other Wednesday night hash. Pretty typical chalk talk, of course with the addition of Communion Stop. (Though SS now means Song Stop instead of Shot Stop? Come on now, that ain’t right.)

Walkers took off shortly followed by the runners. I have no idea what the walkers did, where they went, or how they got there. I’m sure it was lovely. Us runners weaved our way through the hoods south of Francis Park, with trail carefully marked to lead the pack by (A) houses ornately decorated for Halloween and (B) Churches. We were momentarily puzzled by a SC marking outside St. Raphael Church, but chalked it up to Beaver’s general propensity for f*cking things up.

Another song check at the church across from Francis Park, then a naughty check just around the corner from Ted Drewes, then a long straightaway back to St. Gabriel’s where we encountered the Communion Stop. Jesus’ body never tasted so good - peanut butter pretzels, His blood could use some work - sh*tty and excessively sweet Missouri wines. The pack enjoyed our treats, blocking the busy sidewalk once again and confusing the locals as the speaker blasted sac religious music. Father Lock Nut showed off his sack.

Onward eastward to Hampton and our Beer Stop at Bishop DuBourg High School, where Postage tells me the boys who get kicked out of SLUH go. The pack did a great job of interrupting the short cutting traffic and causing general confusion to the locals. A short jaunt back to A, only to circle up on said trafficked sidewalk. Carti P led closing circle with down downs abounding. Try as she might to pass off hash shit to the hares (for using an eerily similar trail to the typical X-mas lights hash), Carti P retained hash sh*t for _______ (fill in the answer in the comments.)

All in all, another sh*tty X-mas lights–err Catholic Schoolgirl Hash.

Yours in Christ,

Disco Ass

Well, virgins, sinners, and perpetual bridesmaids, another successful Bridesmaid Hash has come and gone. The cast of characters included Dos, Dapper, Humpin' Iron, Free Mustache Ride, Just Anne, Froggy, Whistles, Princess Albert, Cardi P, Wet Spot, and our hardworking hares Sweet Ho Alabama and 2:19.

The original plan was to gather at the Naked Lady statue for a proper pre-hash circle. Unfortunately, the beer coolers apparently weighed more than the collective bridal party's dignity, so circle-up operations were relocated to the far more elegant venue of the closed public bathrooms.

Just as the hares headed out, Mother Nature decided she'd had enough of wedding season and unleashed a torrential downpour. The pack huddled beneath trees for a bit, looking less like bridesmaids and more like drowned rats waiting for Noah's Ark.

Eventually it became clear that trail was optional and survival was not, so the pack embraced a Choose Your Own Adventure mindset.

Some walked.

One actually ran.

Several made the obvious choice and piled into Wet Spot's van, affectionately known for the afternoon as the Bridal Shuttle of Shame.

The first stop was the Shaw underpass where a full-scale bridesmaid dance party broke out. Not everyone got the memo, however. Princess Albert and Whistles somehow found themselves inside a fancy brunch establishment. Sources report they horrified the brunch crowd simply by existing, which may be the most successful hashing they accomplished all day.

After regrouping, the pack enjoyed enough cocktails and cupcakes to fuel the appropriate poor decisions. The bridesmaids then demonstrated years of wedding expertise by performing a master class in reception dancing. The Macarena. The Chicken Dance. The Electric Slide. And, of course, the wedding classic that somehow never dies: Thunderstruck.

By this point the rain had eased and dignity had not improved, so the pack continued on to Stop Two, where champagne flowed, disco lights flashed, and several hashers briefly became convinced they possessed actual rhythm.

From there it was On-On to St. Louis Pride, proving once again that if you release a pack of hashers into a crowd, they will immediately scatter like rainbow-colored feral cats. The group repeatedly found and lost each other amid the colorful chaos. Along the way, the pack randomly encountered Perp and Dewey, gathered an impressive collection of gimmies, and experienced enough kindness from strangers to partially restore faith in humanity.

Eventually, through a combination of luck, technology, and alcohol-powered navigation, everyone found their way back to the start.

Cardi P ran a quick and efficient circle before anyone could escape. The consensus was clear: the bridesmaids had successfully planned and executed a fantastic wedding celebration for a bride who never actually showed up.

Ten years of Bridesmaid Hashes and still no bride.

At this point we're starting to suspect she may be imaginary.

Until next year, bridesmaids.

On On!

The group circled up for chalk talk. Marks were explained with the usual mix of confidence and questionable accuracy. Arrows, checks, - simple in theory, but destined to confuse at least half the pack once beer entered the equation. Nods all around suggested understanding.

Trail kicked off smoothly, surprisingly so. The hares must’ve been feeling generous, because the path was well marked and almost suspiciously easy to follow. No one got properly lost, no backtracking, just a steady progression with the occasional shout of “On-On!” echoing ahead.

The first beer stop arrived without drama. A quick regroup, some laughs, and a few well-earned drinks. Spirits were high, legs were warm, and Just Doug dog was jumping on everyone in sight. Then came the second beer stop—the real turning point. Out came the Fireball and Jägermeister, accompanied by Seagram’s Ice like some kind of chaotic holy trinity. Shots were consumed with enthusiasm.

By the time everyone staggered back toward the finish, the stories were already forming. But nothing topped the crowning achievement of the night: Disco Ass earning the coveted “Hash Shit” award. Not metaphorically, not figuratively—literally. A mid-trail incident that would not soon be forgotten, discussed in admiration. It takes a certain commitment to the cause to secure that title, and Disco Ass delivered a shit on trail.

As the night wound down, people gravitated towards the on-after, High Hat.

On-On.

Perhaps this is hash trash, which hasn't been written in lo so many years, but I feel I owe the walkers somewhat of an explanation. My valiant cohoare Strap On and I laid out a wonderful trail through lower Carondelet. It was well scouted and planned to a T. The early part of trail had the Eagles and Turkeys/Walkers meeting up at a very well-secured chruchyard overlooking the Mississippi River and Arsenal Island where a Puke Halt was left. We messed up by putting the PH in a very dark corner of the lot, which was missed by both groups. Our bad. Puke Halt to be leveraged at a future trail.

Continuing south and down to lower elevation, the hares laid a true trail arrow out of the alley, through an abandoned building and out the front door. As we laid said true trail arrow, there was a dude hanging out by his car in the alley and we didn't really acknowledge him as we passed and laid the directional mark. A short time later, the Eagles passed through and found their way. But sometime after that, apparently the alley man saw our true trail arrow, and decided to lay his own true trail arrow with his own chalk in a totally different direction. When the Turkeys/Walkers then came thru, they were pointed to a totally wrong direction and lost their way. Fatliner, a runner, earlier shouted out to the dude as he passed, "nice night for a run" to which dude responded, "at least there's beer at the end." Makes me think our trail hijacker had some history of hashing and has his eye on fucking up our trail this fine evening.

The runners eventually found the beer stop at Alaska Park, where we were graced with a fistfight between a couple of unhoused gentlemen, and where also Wet Spot retrieved a porch-pirated box of Asian food. She honorably decided to reclaim said food and will be returning the box to its original address somewhere in deep south county. Great work, Wet Spot!

The remainder of trail had the pack heading north on the closed section of I-55, back down to the Carondelet Greenway only to face some light harassment from a few more unhoused folks trying to enjoy their bonfire in solitude under the Loughborough overpass. Meanwhile the Turkey/Walkers adjourned to the Little Bar for a rousing game of Thunderstruck with the bartender before craniuming back to circle.

A religious ceremony was expertly conducted by Triple D, who awarded Fake Bake hash shit for dismissing himself to the commode exactly when he faced an extended turn in Thunderstruck at the Little Bar. A good night was had by all on the warmest evening of this January week. God speed to all with the incoming deluge of frozen shit. See you Saturday.

Yours in Gispert,

Disco Ass