Assquack, Crabby Shag, Basket Boom Boom, Dr WHO, Rusty, WIPOS, Oozing, Holeminer’s Daughter, Crotch Tiger, Shemale Man, Weeballs, Awesome Cum Dumpster, Last of the Spreadcheekins, Buckafuffalo, Just Mark, Just Susanna, Just Melissa, Virgin Just Kate, and no less than 5 people called Just Kurt
There is nothing quite like a feeling of arriving at a hash – parking amongst that group of cars bearing their On-On stickers and smelling of beer and generally disgusting bodily odors – only to find that there is a new car. A car none of us had ever seen before and yet still somehow…so familiar. Could it be a new friend? Why, yes. A friend…called Johnny Law. In true hash fashion, the group ignored the officer-shaped elephant in the room pointedly and for well over a half hour, even as the inexplicably condemning headlights of his car washed over us just as surely as the full moon in the sky above.
As a few of the last hashers arrived, the group was informed that Oozing was on his way, but would be late – due to the extreme pulling over that he was receiving. Moments later, our very own new best friend sped away from the parking lot with nary a word – presumably having received a call that one of his comrades had just pulled over a terrorist trying to get onto the island.
Unwilling to wait – because the Rhode Island Hash is nothing if not a big old group of bigots – the pack took off a few minutes past time.
The giant arrow of flour pointed the pack Southish to the road. We ran along it for perhaps a little over .1 miles…and just when we all thought the pavement would never end, the trail veered off (with the help of another giant arrow) into Ballard Park.
The arrows never dwindled, in number or unnecessarily large size, the entire run. The pack, generally able to stick together despite the ridiculous number of people, followed what we were later informed was upwards of 20 lbs of flour painting the trees (all of them) in ten foot swaths.
A most dangerous drop was reached by the front-runners of the pack, which was indicated by the screams and shrieks (of pleasure?) of Crabby Shag. As everyone slowly filed down the abrupt drop, it was gradually smoothed over by tentative asses, creating something of a packed dirt slide which – if properly slid down – could be inclined to…how to put this delicately?...ram a root, rock, or other foreign body up your ass. Just right on up there.
Not long after, and with some avoidable mud and viney shiggy, the pack reached the first Beer Check no more than 15 minutes into the run. Beer was passed, songs were sung, and there was much rejoicing. Far in the distance (fairly close) there could be seen two lights shining – late hashers no doubt. The pack watched as the two lights descended the cliffy drop, heard the screams of a terrified WIPOS, and then all was dark. Several minutes later the lights reappeared as WIPOS and Awesome Cum Dumpster arrived to find that the beer was gone. And there was much sadness.
At the behest of the hare, the pack backtracked to the BN and hung a right (which direction we were travelling at this point is anyone’s guess… and I’m not wasting the precious seconds it would take to pull up a map and check) towards some more cliffs and shiggy. At this point we were joined by Weeballs (sans Flobanger) and Oozing (with a brand new criminal record).
The trail was now littered, not only with arrows that could be seen by the astronauts standing on the very full moon, but also with a disconcerting amount of X’s. What are usually regarded as the signal for a False Trail were just scattered willy-nilly next to True Trail arrows and whatever religious hieroglyphs Assquack had painted on the trees. Later, we were informed that the X’s marked the edges of cliffs and that the hare had been “trying to save [our] lives”. As if anyone would believe that.
There was some Westward, Southward, Northward and eventually Eastward circle jerking around an itsy bitsy quarry-like situation. Lots of up’s and down’ (just the way Basket likes it) before the pack finally – and ignoring some incorrectly and frankly bafflingly marked Checks – reached a road. The road led us Southly to Goose Neck Cove, which both looked and smelled more like a salt marsh, and the second Beer Check. There was some admiring of the reflection of the moon on the water, a couple laments at being caught without a camera in the face of such a beautiful vista, and possibly a few eyes shining with tears at the untamable majesty of nature. All in all, it got very gay for a minute there.
Luckily the beer was able to transform the group back into the very model of primal masculinity and shameless homoerotica that is their natural state of being.
More songs were sung. More beer was passed.
The pack split up on the Out Trail, some taking a shortcut and others backtracking, but almost immediately found ourselves reunited on the road – finding Assquack’s ‘shortcut’ to be both shorter and allowing some to ‘cut’ the rest of the pack, yet somehow lacking in execution more than definition.
The road led us back to the high school without a single problem, where we were met by many more cars in the parking lot than we all could possibly have driven. It was then we learned that we had been sharing our trail with a church group – night hiking somewhere out there – presumably praying and listening to all the wonder of God’s creation. And thanks to the hash that included – but was not limited to – a stirring rendition of ‘Pubic Hairs’. You’re welcome, Lord.
The circle lasted longer than the run, earning the hare a -6.9 rating for his virgin trail as well as two gold stars – awarded by Just Kate and Basket. Four visitors were called in, two backsliders, and one virgin. Holeminer’s Daughter was named hashit – and I quote – ‘just because’. There is no arguing with that kind of airtight logic.
The On On On hailed a large crowd at Coddington Brewery, where there was good food, better beer, and the best a cappella interpretations of Gilbert & Sullivan you could ever hope to hear.