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