The Lebowski Hash is a time honored tradition with a lineage reaching back thousands of days into the past. An homage, not unlike the rituals of yore, where men and women dressed in disguise to honor their gods. Only in this ritual, the gods are characters in a movie and the costumes vary from carpet ponchos, to an inverse Jolly Green Giant, to grandma’s matching purple pajamas and a balloon.

This super special hash started almost like any other. The group slowly trickled in, undoubtedly hindered by the local population’s inability to drive in even the lightest of precipitation. They arrived frustrated and in search of the dulling properties of cheap domestic beer, only with this hash, the beer was not near. It was not far. It was not anywhere to be seen! There was a rug, there were costumes, and there was even a bowling alley, but ‘twas not a beer in sight! The beermeisters had failed in the most basic of tasks, but fortunately the hares had provided an alternative: the White Russian. And how delicious it was! With expert proportions, obviously mixed by a professional, the one gallon jug of velvety deliciousness was of superior quality. This was Walter White, blue meth quality chemistry. And so the jug was passed around, and around, and around, until it was gone. Once the deliciousness was consumed in entirety, the beer arrived. Nothing like pouring a couple beers on top of a gut full of dairy, some would pay for this more than others. The RA brought forth the hares for their blessing before they embarked into the Woods of Crest.

The trail started haphazardly with the FRBs quickly jetting off to win nothing and prove nothing while the rest of the lot tried to figure out how this was going to play out. “Are we running or is this all walking?” said one. “It can’t be a run, one of the hares is wearing proto 1970s Crocs! Nobody runs in that!” said another. The trail was pretty straight forward until a turkey-eagle split. The eagle portion was subtitled “I Hate the Eagles.” This is a statement this dude cannot abide, because the Eagles just forked over their 2016 first, third, and fourth round, 2017 first round, and 2018 second round picks to the Browns for the no. 2 overall 2016 pick and a 2017 fourth round pick all so they can grab a QB out of a shitty QB class. Thank you Eagles, GO SPACE BROWNS! And just as long and unnecessary as that statement, so too was the eagle trail. The eagle trail should have been named El Duderino because it was not into the whole brevity thing. A thousand miles later, the hash stopped in Crestwood Park where the slinging of the ringer was to commence. Ringers were slung, beers were drank, and pudding shots that resembled sides of sour cream were drank/ate.

A fairly straight forward second half moved the hash efficiently back whence it came. The failure of the beermeisters in the beginning was nearly forgotten with the plethora of cheesy snacks. Doritos, Cheesy Puffs, Cheez-Its, and [insert Spanish name] pork rinds were plentiful. Beers were drank again, snacks were eaten, and fun was had. The hash was hushed and the formalities began. The hares were told that their trail was complete shit, per usual. A kangaroo-court of a costume contest was held with questionable results. Before a revolution to overthrow the despotic hares could even begin to form, the local fuzz stopped by to let us know that fun should be confined to the city. Locknut, clad in flesh-toned synthetics and fake ivy, told them to chill out or the whole lot would turn on them like ravenous dogs. They left with his assurance that the torrid affair would soon come to an end. Well, it didn’t come to an end fast enough because they returned ALMOST in time to catch the blessing of the carpet, blessing in this instance involving urine. Fortunately, the blessing hasher’s urine stream was cut off before it was sighted by the unforgiving eyes of Crestwood’s finest. The hash quickly moved into the bowling alley to consume delicious bowling alley snacks and beers.

The weather didn’t cooperate and the locals didn’t like the noise, but fun was had by all and the fifth anal Lebowski Hash goes down as a success. I guess that’s the way the whole darned hasher comedy keeps perpetuatin’ itself, down through the generations. Westward the flour dots, through the shiggy of time until we… Oh, look at me. I’m ramblin’ again. Well, I hope you folks enjoyed yourselves. Catch you later on-on down the trail. “Say, friend, did the fucking beermeisters ever show up with the beer?”

~ Cum on the Record