Sunday, 12th of October
π Hash N°325 – Rise, Run, and
Ruin Your Sunday
A
historic 10:30 start, because miracles do happen (thanks, Kraut).
Hash
N°324 Recap – The Little Hash That Could (Almost)
Hash
N°324 was a rather intimate affair—translation: small. Which was a real
shame, because we had visitors all the way from Canada, ready to experience
BrasΓlia the proper way: lost, sweaty, and slightly hungover.
Luckily,
Sperm Bank and Just Trinidade laid a fine trail that kept
everyone entertained, confused, and hydrated (well… beer counts, right?). Our
guests were not disappointed—mainly because they were too polite to say
otherwise.
At the
beer stop and again after the Circle, heroic tales and tragic confessions
flowed faster than the warm beer. In short: a truly shitty Hash,
as tradition demands.
Up
Next: Hash N°325 – The Legend of the Flexible Kraut
Your
hares for this week: Just Richard and Union Jack-Off, plotting
chaos in the depths of Asa Norte.
In an unprecedented moment of humility, Just Richard begged on his knees
for a 10:30 a.m. start so he could set trail at 7:00. And the Hash Master, in
an act of divine mercy (or mild inebriation), said yes. (A flexible Kraut?
Miracles do happen.)
After
the trail, we’ll stumble straight to the EixΓ£o for beer, food, and
questionable life decisions.
π Start: SQN 107, Bloco C
– Asa Norte
π Trail: Winding through Asa Norte’s
quadras and, naturally, the legendary EixΓ£o.
πΊ️ The Trail
π Runners: 7–9 km of “Oh
God, why didn’t I stay home with Netflix and wine?”
πΆ Walkers: 5 km of “Instagram stroll…
minus the filters, plus the sweat and at least one identity crisis.”
π» What to Expect (Besides
Regret):
π Chalk Talk: The TED
Talk nobody asked for.
πΊ Beer Stop: Where your liver files for
divorce.
π Circle: Public humiliation, tone-deaf
chanting, and beer so warm it’s basically soup.
Then we
hit the EixΓ£o parties, where sobriety goes to die.
π¦ Forecast:
☀ Hotter than Lucifer’s bidet.
π§³ Packing List:
•
Sunscreen stronger than Just Richard’s excuses.
• One sacrificial sock (don’t ask, just trust).
• Your liver’s last suicide note.
• Whatever dignity you’re still clinging to—it won’t survive Circle.
So lace
up your shame-proof shoes, hydrate like you mean it, and come suffer gloriously
with us.
This
isn’t a run. It’s group therapy—with beer, heckling, and the
ever-present threat of accidental nudity.
On
On, you magnificent disasters! π»π₯π