Finally Fuwangi Boner, wearing a simple but classic red evening dress, with tastefully applied lipstick and mascara found a chalk mark leading into Union Station. He entered followed by most. The security guards mobilized preparing to arrest this group of obvious terrorists. But when one of the hashers came up to them and introduced himself as former Vice-President Al Gore, they were reassured and allowed the group to proceed.

The group unaccountably ignored the numerous chalked arrows on the station floor that indicated frantically that true trail involved boarding the next train for Back Bay. They proceeded through the station and followed the true trail down to the Moshassuck river and around to Waterplace Park.

On both sides of Waterplace, the hashers ran in groups, disrupting the tourists and milling about confusedly at every check mark. Some went straight. Some went left across the river. Some stopped to ask directions at the defunct Tourist Information booth. Finally they gathered at the top of the stairs leading to Providence Place Mall.

Wintoes 69, in a daring but pert red backless number, ran straight into the mall followed by a small group. [This had the happy result of provoking a sudden price war between Filenes and Nordstrom's who saw an opportunity of riding their inventory of tasteless red costume jewelry. But I digress.] The rest found trail in the tunnel under the mall leading to Promenade Street at the Foundry.

West they ran along the banks of the Woonasquatucket. On the south bank they heard a distant bugle call, and realized that once again Basket Boom Boom had managed to get out of the fix he had gotten himself into with his latest shortcut. Half-blind, half-mind, we never can seem to get rid of him. And those annoying Bugle calls! Back to the story: at Pleasant Valley Parkway, a check led left up into Federal Hill and onto Atwells Avenue. Most made it up uneventfully

but some insisted on turning east towards the Convention Center, seeing a blur of red in the distance (the Shriners convention may never be the same.).

The true trail led west on Atwells Ave. This street is the heart of Federal Hill, the 'Little Italy' of Providence. The idea of running this street in drag would make most Rhode Islanders think twice. But the local memories of Federal Hill's most famous son, Raymond "Red Dress" Patriarca, served to protect the runners in general (apart, of course, from the ever-present sexual harassment. Your scribe was told that both Deposits in the Rear and Cums in the Rear were severely and serially pinched in the Rear by a group of myopic Italian barbers, but this could be wrong. It was also said that they loved it. But I digress.). Passing the restaurants and shops, a parade of sorts formed. It was led by a car following the runners pace (it is amazing that manual transmissions can go that slow without stalling) honking loudly to add to the already impressive din. Turning regretfully south on a side street, a BN was finally encountered. Trail crossed over Broadway and Westminster to a house on a formerly quiet street near the Armory.

This was the house of Just Alex, an infrequent and new RI hasher who had gamely agreed to host the first beer check. He even wore a simple dress with white pearls. Adding his brilliant red lipstick, there was a certain "Rocky Horror Picture Show" quality to the effect that was most interesting. The beer was found in a chilled garbage can, but yet again, the appropriate valves to pressurize and tap the keg were missing. [Basket has always had trouble with prongs and male adapters, among other things.] But the quick thinking and resourceful FRB's managed to hoist the keg upended into a tree where gravity allowed it to flow freely ("I'll have two-tree beers!" quipped the hare, annoyingly.)

Amazingly, all the hashers gradually straggled into the BC. (Although a few were slightly late as they had come upon a gay bar in Olneyville that had a Special, providing drinks on the house for "Most Tasteful Ensemble Sunday".) Conversations flowed, fashion tips were traded and beer was sipped in the lovely breezes and in the shade. A group decided that songs were in order and, led by 'I Left My Heterosexuality in San Francisco' (Al Gore), Enos (Al Bundy), Basket (Al Anon) and the Hare (Al Qaeda), the peace of the afternoon was disrupted. A prolonged version of the Limerick Song droned on, resurrecting limericks that have not been heard since WW II (for good reason). The Hairs of Her Dickie Di Do were again discussed. My Rhubarb again refused to rise. But before the police could arrive, the beer ran out, so it was on on to the next phase.

Trail led back north to Westminster, then east. The runners were somewhat the worse for wear from the beers after the initial run. They jogged slowly until, while crossing into the Vocational High School area, they encountered some twelve- year olds on skateboards. The leader of this group, a somewhat husky lad whose voice had not yet changed, called out: "Look at these f*cking homos. Youse are all a bunch of f*ckin' faggots. We should f*cking kick yer ass!" This stimulus invigorated the hashers who spontaneously joined hands and began to skip gaily for the lads.

More confusion developed around the Central/Classical High School quadrangles, but ultimately Broad Street (renamed "Red Broad Street" for the occasion) was taken across Route 95. Trail was followed through the courtyard of the Cathedral of SS Peter and Paul, where a wedding was taking place. The Men of Honor wanted their photographs taken with the colorful hashers, but the bride wept, realizing that her bridesmaids outfits looked drab and dull next to the vision in evening gloves that was Shine On, or next to the startling yet elegant white-wigged KNO, or even the Harriette-Whose-Name-Your-Scribe-Does-Not-Know in the accompanying picture.

(When Evil Bitch RIPTA arrived, wearing a elaborate maroon brocade ball gown with creamy bodice and frilly underthings, the poor bride grabbed the keys to the Rolls and drove off to call her psychiatrist, who unaccountably could not be reached as he was hosting some kind of an athletic event. But I digress.)The hashers regrouped on Weybosset Street at the 'Round Top' Church and headed past the bemused limo drivers at the Providence Performing Arts Center. A sold-out special performance of "An Evening with Dame Edna" was in progress. The quick-witted manager, seeing the reaction of the people in the street to the runners, made an immediate call to his booking agency to see if the "Blue Man Group" would consider a change in color. Meanwhile the trail led through the commons of Johnson and Wales University. The students, assuming it was another Rhode Island School of Design event, didn't notice anything out of the ordinary. Thence to the old Garrity Courthouse, and back up under Route 195 to Richmond Street. A strange figure was ahead for much of the trail, a red dressed individual with a long pink pole and a blonde pageboy wig. It was WIPOS. When WIPOS is FRB, you know the trail must suck. But he knows this area. He has driven here often, usually after hashes where Barleywine has been served and he takes the wrong exit off route 6 trying to get home without crashing.

It was now obvious to the natives, that the destination was the Point Street Bridge. The RIH3-ers led the way, and sure enough, crossing the bridge, one could see on the opposite riverbank two red figures. Even at this distance, it was obvious that they had had too much to drink. It turned out that it was none other than Bondo Jovi and Cream Whora. Both crippled (one by injury, one by poor choices in a dissolute childhood), they had been expecting arrivals for over an hour. With nothing to do but to try to make conversation with the nearby Cambodian Eel-Mongers, they surreptitiously broached the beer that was their sacred trust. As everyone arrived, the beer supply was already dangerously low. The scenes from the previous beer check were duplicated. The Cambodians packed up their eels and left in a huff.

Once it was clear that there was no more beer to be had until the on on on, the group began to leave, following the short trail back along South Main and Benefit Streets, half-way up College Hill to the Hares place on Benefit Street. They gathered in the parking lot and had more beer. Bondo fired up the grill, Dr WHO fired up his chili upstairs and as the cooking progressed, the circle was joined. Basket Boom Boom acted as RA. [ Whine#1: Your scribe was in and out of the circle because of tending his chili for the benefit of the unworthy runners but he will do the best he can. You can probably get more details from Cums Alone's writeup for Boston, if you want. But why on earth would you want more details?]

The ratings of the run reflected mostly a sense of relief that the torture was over. Many complained that it was too short. Your scribe would estimate it as well over the unofficial limit of 6.9 miles [Whine#2], so this criticism cannot be gainsaid. The weather was inappropriate. No one of significance was lost for any length of time. But soon it was pointed out that the run was ENTIRELY POPULATED BY BIMBOS! Hooray! Total: 6.9! Next: visitors in the circle. This as is usually the case in Rhode Island, resulted in mass confusion. So read the other write-ups from Boston or Newport or wherever, and we'll skip that part. We move on to awards. Awards for Best-Dressed, Worst-Dressed and anything else the progressively confused Basket could come up with were given. For Worst-Dressed, Enos from Australia was given a new white tutu to keep his conkers down under. Best-dressed went to EverReady the Beaver. [Whine#3: This represents blatant favoritism on the part of the audience, under the influence of Bondo-brew. How else could they not see the charming simplicity yet stunning audacity of Dr WHO's outfit? But I digress.] Commemorative CD's containing original Hash songs were distributed as well as special NERD t- shirts.

Many crimes were discussed as the evening wore on, and the Bostonians seemed to mutiny and take over the proceedings. Unnecessary body parts were exposed. Wearers of new shoes were chastised. They attempted to name Just Carole on her fifth (run, not whiskey), and could only come up with "Swallows My Pride". This is obviously unsuitable for a Rhode Island Name as it is mildly witty, and is a sentence fragment. Why is it that Boston feels the need to name everyone in sentences, usually incomplete, rather than the more typical adjective-noun pairings? [Whine#4.]

With darkness upon the group, they swung low and moved onto dinner; more beer, thievery (of Basket's horn) [Eds. Note: THANK you all, so much!], nudity, and grammatical faux pas abounding. We of the RIH3 thank all that came, especially those select few who actually paid their $10 [Whine #5], and hope that the nasty diarrhea from Bondo's beer didn't keep you up all night.

On On

The Slasher Dr Whining Horse Orifice

Photos by Dr WHO and SpongeBath SquarePants