The Hash of Wrong Assumptions

Run #1010, August 8, 2005

Hare:  WIPOS

Location:  Jamestown, RI (Beavertail State Park).

Weather:  Around 80ish, cloudy, breezy, and humid.

Present:  Basket, Oozing, Dr. WHO, Dry Foot Fairy, Tinker, Trail Hoover (SESYB), Great at Giving Head, Just Nathaniel, and Seamus.
Backsliders:  Beyond Hope, Red Snapper, and Cum Again.
Visitors:  kraM (DCH4) and Balls on Barbwire (Jolly Roger H3, Tampa Bay).
Late Cummers: Bondo and Ben.

Pre-lube:

A cool ocean breeze and overcast sky tempered the dense inland August heat and humidity – the kind of evening that beckons a hash. Weather conditions aside, that WIPOS would start a hash on the tip of a thin peninsula at the southern-most end of Conanicut Island would likely ensure that:

(1) In order to get lost on trail, one would have to drown somewhere in Narragansett Bay.

(2) The trail would have to be straight, uninteresting, and incredibly boring.

(3) With well-groomed walking paths, well-traveled shore-front, and only one road into and out of Beavertail Park, there would be no potential for unexpected surprises.

All three assumptions would soon prove to be wrong. And they weren’t the only assumptions to be proven wrong on this hash.

The Run:

With Dry Foot hanging out with Balls On Barbwire, visiting from Jolly Roger H3 in Tampa Bay, the two enjoyed a refreshing IPA (not Basket’s IPA), while the hare WIPOS arrives at 5:45 p.m. Without seeing any flower along North Main Rd, Dry Foot asked WIPOS if he was live-haring the run. Right! No, Wrong! The hare pointed to the arrow in the parking lot pointing southeast. Duh.

Dr. WHO and Tinker arrived early enough to mooch off of Dry Foot’s beer. You’d think they’d get a pre-lube from the hare. Wrong. The hare was overly protective of his thinning beer supply – an ominous sign.

Then Great at Giving Head (a.k.a. G@GH) rumbled into the parking lot in his monster truck and proceeded to have a show-and-tell with his new compound bow and razor-tipped arrows. Basket arrived, so the mood lifted as G@GH had the golden opportunity shoot Basket. Wrong. G@GH mumbled something like, “Basket’s not worth a perfectly good hunting arrow.” He might have had a point (no pun intended), yet disappointment nevertheless ensued.

Basket notified the growing crowd that four other non-regular hashers would be cuming. Nobody believed him (who would, no WHO would not… but I digress). Wrong. An unfamiliar minivan pulled in, and Red Snapper, Beyond Hope, Cum Again, and kraM (of DCH4) piled out of the vehicle. [Note: Cum Again originally hashed with RIH3, so long ago that Basket had not yet exposed himself at a hash, but the technicality on whether she was an RIH3 backslider, or DCH4 visitor was never really resolved. The hash had better things to attend to, like drinking beer, but then again… I digress.]

Just Nathaniel arrived and surreptitiously picked up a case of Yuengling lager from G@GH. He assumed nobody noticed. Wrong. The hare managed to smooch off of Just Nathaniel’s precious beer for the rapidly expanding and enthusiastic crowd. Oozing and Trail Hoover arrived. Basket expected to get Trail Hoover’s turtle for his goldfish pond. Wrong. Trail Hoover’s emotional attachment to her hissing terrapin was just too much to overcome.

And with that, the pack took off heading southeast into Beavertail State Park. They reached a check on the south side of a field, and Basket assumed trail could lead nowhere but east (as everyone started on the west side of the peninsula). Wrong. True trail turned out to be a clockwise bushwhacking circle jerk heading back toward the western shoreline.

With trail now heading southward along Beavertail Rd., the hashers enjoyed an inexplicable lightness of bliss and happiness along the run thus far. Nobody dared say it, but all knew that it was the lack of Bondo on the hash. Wrong. Ben flashed by the pack of hashers to join and irritate the FRB’s, as usual. And where there’s Ben, Bondo was not too far away – the hash now doomed by the presence of the Bodisavatte, on his bike.

Nevertheless, Ben (Bondo in spirit) joined the pack running along the western shoreline trails heading north. Since true trail headed north and straight up the rocky shoreline, there was pretty much nowhere else to go, thus nobody could possibly get lost on trail. Wrong.

The hare was supposed to sweep the pack. Wrong. He left Cum Again and Red Snapper in his blistering dust, walking stick and all. Thus, the two harriettes took a falsie and headed east toward North Main Rd and forever lost. Shortly afterward, Beyond Hope, as straight as they come, was also expected to follow the straight, monotonous trail. Wrong. Even the straightest have moments of indiscretion and Beyond Hope was suckered into the same falsie and lost true trail. How hopeless.

Led by Basket and Trail Hoover, the marks along the beach appeared to disappear. Nobody noticed at first, as all enjoyed the aromatic decaying biomass during low tide. But after a while without any marks, the pack turned around to find the hare. You’d think the hare would place a check were trail would (finally) lead inland. Wrong. Well, not totally wrong, as there was a check, marked by white flour on white sand. But to say that it was a check would be the equivalent of Bondo saying his shit don’t smell. A resounding Wrong!

So after multiple twisted ankles on the rocks of the western shoreline, the pack finally headed inland along Bonnet View Drive with Dr. WHO and Balls on Barbwire as FRB’s. Basket decided to check out White Rock Rd, which only led to a circle jerk back to Bonnet View Drive, but who would have guessed. Yes, in this case, WHO would have guessed. Arriving at a check back at North Main Rd. Oozing searched south and Dr. WHO went north. They were looking for any signs of flour. Wrong. Marks were now set in sidewalk chalk.

Oozing on true trail leading south, trail continued on and on and on until no arrows were seen. Returning to Hull Cove Farm Road, the hare directed all to head eastward along a well marked trail (for once). kraM grew weary that his wife Cum Again was alone somewhere along trail. He was worried about Cum Again being alone on trail with Beyond Hope. Wrong. He was worried about Cum Again being alone on trail with Red Snapper. Who wouldn’t? Wrong again. WHO would.

Nevertheless, as the hare stood at the eastern shoreline, he surreptitiously hinted that trail was north. Nobody believed him, but there were, this time, marks. So Dry Foot played along and called all on true trail for what must have been a half-mile of ankle-breaking rocks. Balls on Barbwire, G@GH, and Just Nathaniel (stupidly) followed. Thinking the beer check was near, they all picked up pace (too stupid to turn around and see that the hare did not move one inch). Beer check, beer check, beer check. Wrong. A big falsie!

WIPOS, giddy in his moment of hash glory, laughed at all the suckers, or what remained of the pack, for following the long, painful falsie. Everyone reversed direction and headed south along the shoreline. You’d think they were so close to beer, nobody could bail on the run now! Wrong. kraM, too worried about his wife in suspicious company, gave up on the beer and headed inland. So all followed the hare south along the beach to where they would eventually discover the “B”, since after all, there was a pristine view of the ocean and a nice breeze to boot. Wrong. No “B”. The hare abruptly stopped and said “Wait here for the beer.”

After being fooled so many times thus far, you’d think the wankers would learn and NOT trust the hare. Wrong. They did as they were told, and waited for the hare to return with the beer. Five minutes passed. Ten minutes passed. No beer. Who would have guessed? Yes, WHO did guess and went looking for the hare and the beer, surely hiding with Basket, Bondo, and Tinker giggling at the others. Wrong. The hare brought the beer to the beer check, as advertised.

That the hare only planted 13 beers for the beer check was to be a problem. Wrong. With Come Again, Red Snapper, Beyond Hope, kraM, Bondo, and last, but not least, Tinker absent from the beer check, the spirits lifted and beer savored.

Then a mysterious figure slowly but surely made its way toward the beer check. It was kraM finally finding trail again, since losing trail only a couple hundred yards from the beer check. Wrong. It was Tinker. Upset over all the wrong assumptions on trail thus far, Tinker decided to shell the hare and surrounding wankers with… well, lobster shells. He did not go without retaliation.

As everyone left the beer check, many complained that the hare didn’t even mark the beer check with a “B”. Wrong. Just Nathaniel, eager to finish the run, ran across a mysteriously large “B” with a circle around it in the yard of a Clark’s Village luxury home. Brilliant! Another beer check, only a hundred feet from the last one! Wrong. Disappointed, the pack continued to Beavertail Rd., turning south and back to the cars.

Nobody thought the five missing wankers would still be waiting at the cars. Wrong. They were there sitting on G@GH’s monster truck (the biggest thing to part the legs of Cum Again and Red Snapper), in high spirits (especially for Cum Again and Red Snapper), no thanks to Bondo and his Bondo brew.

Giddy with success having set a brilliant trail of wrong assumptions, WIPOS decided to steal a kids bike and ride the whopping quarter mile to the parking lot. Who gets a ride with the hare? Wrong. WHO did not get a ride with the hare. Trail Hoover got a lift – what a lush! This just showed that deep down inside his heart, WIPOS is truly a bike hasher.

Circle was held and much rejoicing in the form of song ensued. All started to sing in unison. Wrong. Whatever it was they actually sung, it took the form of a bastardized mix of “The Monks of St. Bernard” and “What’s Gonna Make My Rhubarb Rise”. Would the spirit of monks allow the rhubarb to finally rise? Wrong.

Comments on the run included just about every wrong assumption mentioned thus far. Total: +6.9! Visitors and backsliders were punished for their inexcusable sins, and Basket tried hard to get rid of hashit. Wrong. Hashit to Basket, again.

On-on-on was at Narragansett Café, but pizza had to be ordered elsewhere. Trail Hoover dutifully and thanklessly took control of the food situation. You’d think they’d keep the singing to a minimum until food arrived. Wrong. The relatively sober patrons quickly left, while the more drunken ones perplexingly observed the fine boisterous and booming voices echo inside the spacious establishment. Pizza arrived to shut everyone up, which caused the drunken patrons to leave and the sober ones to come back. After the food, a similar drunken-sober periodic paradoxical perplexing palpable and painstaking patron pendulation occurred again, as pizza crust seemed to make its way into unsuspecting beers. Now that’s just Wrong.

Thus, the finest, most worthwhile, entertaining hash in the history of hashing… Wrong. With that, yet another pathetic excuse for a Monday evening concluded.

And you thought this would be a short write-up. Wrong!

On On

Dry Foot Fairy