Mammorial Day Hash

Run #1208, May 25, 2009

Hare:  Basket Boom Boom

Location:  Smithfield/North Providence .

Weather:  70's, Clear.

Present:  Justin My Ass, JIMA’s Dad, Dr WHO, Retard, Head Mistress, Fuwangi Boner, Oozing SD, Nice Tits, NT’s POSSLQ. Hash Groupies: Dogmeat, Amish It Head, Just Mel. Cooks/Hosts: Flobanger, Wee Balls.

The Run:

With a RIH3 traditional holiday 2 PM start, the visitors, as is often the case, outnumbered the regulars. They will never learn. The hash started from Douglas Lumber(?) on Rt 7, well within the 295 beltway. Promptly, under the watchful eyes of the local constabulary who had appeared to direct traffic away from the North Providence parades, they were off, southeast on Rt 7 and almost immediately turning west into the woods. Suspicious behavior? I think not!

 

Trail led southwest to a series of paths, overgrown paths, imperceptible deer paths, and no paths, through light mud and briars. It seemed quite good for a while. And for quite a while it was. Most were stymied in an area which had a muddy stream, several fallen trees and a stone wall. Most ended up with mud on the shoes. Most ended up with a wee scratch or two. But despite the incompetent and irresponsible markings, the irrepressible and intrepid Dr WHO was able to find his way out to Ridge Road. Perhaps there was a beer check somewhere in there. I am sure I do not know.

 

 Trail turned southeast, on pavement. They ran past a gathering of public service workers, who looked enviously at the hashers bleeding and muddy legs, as they gathered up their protective gear to go and search for the source of all this anthrax powder that had mysteriously appeared in Smithfield. A right turn led into a lovely capped landfill. Ah, the smell of methane in the early afternoon! What an appetite stimulant.

 

Trail led south to Peter Randall State Park. Paths were found and followed, west parallel to some residential streets. Finally, they came down into the development and found the ultimate goal: Flobanger’s Pig Roast! Wee Balls and Flobanger had skipped the hash to feed us! How sweet. Too bad they were also feeding half the sociopaths in the neighborhood, as well. But at least there was beer pong.

The hashers straggled in, and they circled under a pine tree at the side of Flobanger’s house, joined by latecummers Amish and Dogmeat, with Just Mel as a two-tree timer. Ratings for the run: A to B, some shiggy, some pavement, extraordinary bimbos with Nice Tits (yes, she did!), and the promise of a fine Pig Roast to follow. And no Bondo! Total: +69! Hashit went to Oozing. Why not?

 

Well, the food that followed was fine, the evening approached with cool breezes and plenty of beer. But the sound of choppers filled the air. Gunfire (from the North Providence Beagle Club) disrupted the calm of the evening. Basket began screaming in Vietnamese. And one of the party members insulted Basket’s mustache. In Arabic! This was enough to send Justin My Ass into a frenzy. Like Rambo in “First Blood”, he meant no harm. But the resulting mayhem would best be left undescribed. And I’m pretty tired of this freakin’ write-up. As, I am sure, are you.

On On