"Oops, I Forgot to Name the Hash... Again" Hash

Run #1044, April 3, 2006

Hare:  Trail Hoover (SESYB)

Location:  Hopkins Hill Rd, Exeter, RI (off exit 6A, not exit 6)

Weather:  Mid 50s, clear.

Present:  Oozing, Basket Boom Boom, Dr. WHO, WIPOS, Great at Giving Head, Dry Foot Fairy, Amish It Head, Cumunder, Bondo Jovi, Tinker, Oval Orifice (from Monterrey via Exeter), Backdoor Stuart (from Monterrey via Exeter), Async, Seamus, Ben.

The Run:

Since I wasn’t really prepared to do this write-up (when is a hasher prepared to do anything though?) I’m choosing to do this in the form of a first-person narrative. WHO can contradict anything I write if it was never vocalized and only present in my head (WHO said head?). Ok, enough of that –let’s go.

There it was on Monday, the start of another workweek. I managed to get up on time despite screwing up AM/PM on my alarm clock. The drive into work was lightly-traveled and easy. My cup of coffee was especially flavorful and I was actually, gasp, productive at work. It was a great day! And a hash too! Can a Monday get any better?

Some reasons behind my attendance were the wonderful weather, additional sunlight, proximity to my apartment and promise of at least one bimbo on trail (there were a total of three, a Monday CAN get better!). I assume Cumunder showed up expecting the sandpit to lead to the ocean. As for the others, WHO knows?! One thing I do know is how shocking it was to see everyone’s face in the light after months of anonymity. Yeah – how about postponing the start of the hash until sundown from now on? OK. Thanks.

After an explanation of the marks for the visitors we blasted across Division Rd into the adjacent sandpit. I head right at the first check (a long, long way from beer), the rest of the pack heads left. Of course. After a few seconds of waiting, the wailing horn of Basket calls us on towards the west. A few checks later I end up at a sand hill, only to see Basket carrying a plastic disk sled towards the top. Unfortunately I miss any attempt by Basket at going down, but do see him and Dry Foot pull Oozing on the other side. Gritty enema, anyone?! Strange enough Oozing appeared to enjoy it. I assume he enjoys being manhandled by multiple men and being left with a soar bum. Trail lead straight up another large sandhill, but those of us smart enough to go around followed an oddly-glassed figure ahead of us. Is that U2’s Bono? No – it’s Bondo! FRB? With no bike? Unpossible! Those super-duper yellow glasses managed to pick up a few marks and he lead us southward into the woods.

This is where things became fun. False trail marks – check. False trails marks that don’t mean false trail and lead to the real trail – check. Two of those puppies had us back into an area where it looked like Rhode Island was clear-cutting the forest. Eh, WHO needs trees? Actually, WHO needed a radiator fan, and found one in the rubbish. He tossed it like a pro (what else is he good at tossing?) and I (Amish It Head, remember?) picked up a hose and placed it in my crotch, thrusting for all to see. Good times, good times. There is nothing funnier than a dick and fart joke. As WHO, Dry Foot, G@GH and I proceeded left at a check Basket proceeded right, which was the wrong way but WHO would call Basket back? Not us.

A quick hop over New London Turnpike had us walking up a hill that’d just been mowed down by what must have been the most gigantic of gigantic lawnmowers as trees and branches littered the path. What a great place to be a beaver! As the mighty WHO, G@GH, Dry Foot and I forged ahead via a half circle jerk we come to the top to see none other than the hare. Short cutting wankerette! What the rest of the pack was doing back there I have no clue, most likely indulging in some sort of twisted, sadistic, dirty group freak-fest. I’m sad I wasn’t invited. A little bushwacking led us over Hopkins Hill road and onto a path around the littorals (not to be confused with clitorals, as the latter is much cooler) of Tarbox Pond and finally to the beercheck. Being intellectually superior to my fellow hashers I was first to find the brew. Mmmm. A tasty red from Trinity. Unfortunately the others were quick to show up so I had to share.

With the pack huddled around the beer Basket started off with a song when all of a sudden he was interrupted by a flash of yellow streaking through the trees. Async?! Impossible. That makes two weeks in a row! Not long after, a sorry pair of wankers (Oozing and long-lost Tinker) showed up as well. Brokeback Sand Mountain anyone?! Realizing this would most likely be the largest Rhode Island hash of the year the group proceeded into a multitude of songs. Bondo tried see-saw’ing with himself on a nearby log (better than anything else he could be doing by himself). The bimbo visitor, Oval Orifice, was treated with a rendition of “pubic hair.” And Hoover was almost treated to her favorite of songs. Once the beer was consumed the group left towards the west and split up at another clearing. The smart half going directly to the road, me being stupid enough to follow Basket and the trail in towards the woods again. Soon enough all ended up on Hopkins Hill road and after a short jog ended back at the cars. By this time it was getting dark and a nice lady in a Jeep came into the parking lot to tell Bondo she could not see him from behind. How could one NOT see Bondo from behind?

Yadda, yadda, yadda, I carry a bucket ‘o beer across the road back into the sandpit. With a clear starry night, a fairly warm air and a bucket ‘o beer how could I not be happier? The group circled up. Tinker told us the story on how the sand got there (not really – just why it was out in the open, although he is old enough to tell us how it showed up to begin with). Oozing carried the new spare-tire hashit around like it was meant to be his. WHO talked about how there had been a parking lot present at the location not too long ago trying to impress us with his wits. Mind you, I said “w”its. And the rest of us waited for the night to be over. Comments included: too much shiggy, not enough sand, good beer, three bimbos, WIPOS dressed for rain when none was to be found. Mathematical total: +0.69! Hashit was initially given to Cumunder, but after an amazing wrasslin’ match with G@GH she managed to escape sprinting to the street. Stand-in hashit went to WIPOS. For what reason? WHO cares! After what felt like hours of songs the cars were packed up and we headed to Mark’s.

Only problem – Mark had a sex change operation and became Rosie. Showing up to the remodeled Mark’s (aka Rosie’s), we weren’t sure if we’d fit in, or the food would meet the hash’s high standards. All the worrying was for naught as the menu had not changed and the IPA and Guinness flowed just fine from the taps. Food was ordered (including a Mark’s burger, which had now become a Rosie’s burger), the waitress was annoyed and non-stop singing ensued. The visitor’s were given a RIH3 shirt by Basket, which they appeared to appreciate. Evidently they didn’t see the pictures of his antics in Boston the other week. Tinker was loud and proud and everyone enjoyed their sippy-cup sized beers. Viva la hash!

On On

Amish It Head