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BMH3 #420 02/28/2026 Brass Monkey 420 Runs! 16th anniversary! and Twinkles Birthday Campout!!!!
First, a note from our illustrious RA:
Picture it. The Woodlands. 2010. There were some drunks who felt they needed to create something. Not just anything. Something really, really stupid. They would craft beer bongs in the shape of Jewish toys. They would drink out of plastic drakes that were cut in half. They would throw stupid prelubes… even prelubes to prelubes. The setting was perfect. A compound. A house that had people who knew how to make food and a big back yard, and a house across the street that smelled like a Cheech and Chong movie and had enough floorspace for 60 assholes. (Seriously, it happened)
They would lay trails through muck, thorns, water, and other places they were not supposed to be. Asphalt? Nay, not for these people. Instead of fancy booze they would drink malt liquor with a splash of OJ, just enough to fight the scurvy. They would keep cheesy poofs and jalapeño chips on hand. Pabst Blue Ribbon wouldn’t just be a song, it would be a lifestyle. They would travel to distant lands, like College Station, practically time zones away, to bring their joy, merriment, and offensive presences to all who would accept them. Even if they didn’t accept them, they invaded anyway, like Americans to some southeast Asian country.
They made offensive shirts, silly patches, even dumb challenges where you would earn nothing but pride. Possibly a disease, but pride for sure. They would welcome anyone: gays, jews, gay jews, gingers, scientists, even people who had mustaches that weren’t first responders. They were practically the inn for all those who were also rejects in their own right. There was a couch that everyone slept on – or passed out on – at least once. If you sat on it naked, you probably got pregnant (regardless of your gender) The most comfortable couch in the world. Legend has it that it even started out as a sort of white color in its infancy.
These people were known as the Brass Monkeys. Like Neil Armstrong planting a flag on the moon, the Monkeys stuck their rod into the soil of Montgomery County and claimed it as their own. Starting in February 2010, they began laying the Brass Monkey Hash. No one thought it would last. People laughed and wouldn’t let them play in any reindeer games. But they persevered. No chill, all chimp. They kept going. 10 hashes. 50 hashes. For the 100th trail, they held a formal event and people showed up wearing fucking monocles. MONOCLES! Like fucking Monopoly or Mr. Peanut. The built a 6 foot tall Old English piñata and filled it with condoms, and booze, and clothing – OH MY! They got kicked out of two bars and a Motel 6. Level Unlocked: Legendary.
Did they stop? No. “Let’s do three trails and three circles in one day and call it an IronHash! We’ll tell everyone to meet us in a Wal-Mart parking lot at 6am, throw them in a U-Haul, then make them forget hours of their lives.” They did that five times… as far as they remember. Green Dress. Flock You. Monkeys In The Mist. These events broke people, and caused at least three arrests. For the scripture says, “Forgive me, for I have monkey’d.” (Hangover 3:16).
200 trails. 250. 300. These fuckers just kept going. Along the way, they teamed up with the few people from Louisiana with enough teeth to whistle and made a dysfunctional child called “VooDoo Monkey”. May it rest in peace. Seriously, that bitch is dead. Cremated. Rolled into a joint and smoked. Then they took that dumb energy and threw a Texas InterHash with a mechanical riding dick. Everyone say hi to “Moby Dick”, the toy we could not live without. That Texas InterHash hit Good Friday, 4/20, Easter Sunday, and was during Passover. When we saw those days align, we locked in those dates faster than Joel Osteen locking his church during a flood.
350 trails. 400. These stupid assholes just didn’t get the hint they should stop. The 400th trail (five trails, four beer checks) saw broken ankles, broken hymens, and at least one butt virginity put on the side of a milk carton. Now… here they stand… 20 trails later. Somehow, with Mercury in anal glands, or Virgo boner rising or whatever, the 16th Brass Monkey Analversary somehow aligned with Brass Monkey Trail… FOUR FUCKING TWENTY. 4/20. 4:20. However you want to write it, chisel it, speak it, the 420th trail is on our analversary, and that, my children, is fucking poetic. As if that was not enough, this will also be Twinkle Toe’s AИAL BIRFDAY Trail!
So now, come on a journey, nay, an excursion, nay, a quest, nay, an odyssey, nay, an expedition, nay… a pilgrimage, to the Brass Monkey Trail #420 slash (the mark not the singer) 16th Analversary trail. Laid by Cocktor Spork, one of the hares from Brass Monkey Trail #1, and Twinkle Toes, the hare from Brass Monkey Trail #2, we will take you on a banana-fueled safari through the mystic land of Coldspring, Texas. Don’t forget to wear bright colors, because, you know, guns. Not only will there be trail, there will be a campout, and AN AWESOME GIMMIE FOR ALL WHO FINISH TRAIL! It’s not your money back, so fuck right off with that.
So cum one, cum twice, cum ♫three times a lady♫, to the Brass Monkey 16th Analversary AND 420th Trail AND Twinkle’s Birfday Trail AND last day of February trail (which means your mom is finally available again). We’ll see you there – YOU WON’T WANT TO MISS IT!
0n-0n Bitches,
Cocktor Spork
Ok, Here are the DEETS!
When:
Saturday, February TwentyEighth, TwentyTwentySix
• Main Pack 1PM show, 1:30PM Go
Where:
Hares:
Twinkle Toes
Cocktor Spork
Sidenote:
FROM THE HARES:
Expect 100% SHIGGY! Trail of ~6 miles. There could be water, mud, thorns, feral hogs, hunters, or any other shiggy you can imagine! There will be THREE manned beer checks in case you need to bail.
There will be camping available! I suggest arriving early, and setting up camp before trail. CAMPGROUND IS PRIMITIVE! No water, no toilets! Don't forget the poop shovel! This is Bring Your Own Everything camping, you will be responsible for your own dinner, and drinks!
Bring:
Your fucking self and everything you need to survive a trail on your own.
Drinking vessels for Brass Monkeys at circle.
Why: Because you like drinking, period.
D’erections:
FROM HOUSTON: Who do I look like, Spōrk? Fucking put the where into your phone and get your own directions.
Questions? Comments? Concerns? Sorry, can't hear you. (P.S. We're not sorry.)
Signal Group: https://tinyurl.com/BMHHH3CHAT
Cocktor Spork's #: (832) 372-5133
KatchUp's #: (817) 235-6141
0n-0n,
-=Twinkle Toes=-
