Booty's Fast and Furious Hash
Run #1537, Sept 14, 2015
Hare: Sleeping Booty
Time: 6.30 pm Venue: Ninigret National Wildlife Reguge, the former Charlestown Naval Air Station
Weather: Nice. Clear. Getting dark.
Hare: Sleeping Booty
Pack: 15 or so, plus some latecomers including, but not limited to: Crotch Tiger, Y Shitoe'd, WHO, WIPOS, Basket, Rusty, OOzing, Krisco Kid, Fecal Veneer, Sleeping Booty, O'Bone'R, Chicken Man Eh, Finger Lickin' Good, Pussy Galore, Tinker and tree lost from RgH3 Unknown.

The run site was at the former NAS, cars parked on a remnant of Runway 30. For some reason, Basket (my designated driver) thought the runway had a street number, like 39 or 98. Nobody else seemed to have any trouble finding the run site. (Does he do this often?)

The hare, bless her, made it known that there would be no swimming. We should expect only darkness. She next described how in a previous life she had recced the trail, and then returned to the present (2015) to find things weren’t quite the same, so she explained something she thought was very important about the markings. I was distracted by thoughts of beer, so the explanation was something like “borf yabba blah, flour, blah, woof yabba, blah mawks, wank wank woof, backcheck, yabba yabba, blah womph.”

The first check was just beyond the car park. Not sure why it was there, but it got rid of Basket. And his horn. (Does he do this often?)

WHO must have disappeared more or less at the same time, only to re-appear at the beer check an instant later. I suppose that why he’s Dr. WHO. Bizarre. (Does he do this often?)

With the first check out of the way, I settled into a slow trot (walk), anticipating another check in a couple hundred feet, and so on until the hare ran out of flour.

But there was no check in 200 feet, nor 2000 feet – and to my dismay, the fit front-running bastards were rapidly disappearing into the setting sun. It had a quiet beauty, but that wasn’t how I’d planned my return to the RIH3. You know, splashing, dashing, running fast, solving difficult checks to the growing admiration of the bimbos, and shrugging it all off with disdainful aplomb.

Dammit, I didn’t know that Crotchy could run that fast.

My only hope now was to keep a red shirt in sight. Just before the second check at the intersection with runway 35 I saw her veer left into the shrubberies. Heard her calling OnOn from the bushes! I thought for sure tonight I’d be in luck!!!!

I came crashing though the undergrowth, and – horrors – saw her squatting, taking a dump! “No, No! I’m only stuck in a briar patch!” (Does she do this often?)

What do you do when you have to take a poo in an English country garden? Pull down your pants and paralyze the ants in an English country garden.

“Poo” sounds better for a Harriette than “dump”, doesn’t it?

Being unsure of quite what to do, I gallantly sheered off, found trail and now I was calling OnOn from the bushes. (You never know!)

Here’s the reason we use hash names – so that embarrassing incidents stay on the hash, and the Charlestown Police won’t know who Boner really is – in case they’re reading this (possible these days) and shitting on trail is illegal in Charlestown. If Dr. Gonad had stuck with his hash name in New Haven, today he wouldn’t be a convicted felon. Adds a bit of a cachet to your rep, tho.

Eventually Boner caught up. (There were skid-marks on the red shirt and no briar scratches.) We ran (walked) the next 2,000-foot leg. As those of you WHO were there know, most of the hash was an enormous triangle that followed the rubble that had once been runways and taxiways for carrier aircraft.

Boner and I walked, talked and trotted for most of the rest of the trail. “Boner, have you noticed that it’s been two miles and there’ve been only two checks? (Discounting the first check.)” “Yup, flour must be very expensive.” “Hang on, here’s a check.” “I’ll check this way, you the other.” “Wait, here’s another check – I think – or are the two of them a tit check for very large Harriettes?” “Whoa, WTF, here’s another check – and yet another check?”

Four checks in less than 200 feet. (?)

Boner had no explanation, although she seemed to find nothing unusual about it. My guess is that at this point, the hare (Booty) got to thinking about the last two 2,000-foot checks, and it occurred to her that she still had a LOT of flour left and the beer stop wasn’t that far away. The other explanation was that we’d missed three long Async-like loops into the shrubberies and poison ivy and back again.

“borf yabba blah, flour, blah, woof yabba, blah mawks, wank wank woof, backcheck, yabba yabba, blah womph.” Next time pay more attention.

Boner decided I was useless, took over, and went right to the beer stop. I noticed the car park up ahead, with frosties surely inside at least one of the cars. Probably easy to break into one, just like I did once with Bondo’s van.

But even more surely there was beer at the beer stop.

Everyone but Oozing were (was?) at the beer stop. Shittoe was busy catching crabs. (Difficult to get rid of once you’ve successfully caught ‘em.) The rest of the pack was milling around, admiring the sunset, and making little attempt at song. I thought this was a great spot for Sunshine Mountain, using WHO as the mountain.

Beer ran out, and we returned to the car park. On the way Booty and I ran into the Oozing sitting dejectedly on a park bench. He claimed he’d been delayed by three Groton hashers WHO’d refused to offer him sexual favors. Does he do this often?

To circle-up, we moved behind some low shrubs on the far side of the car park so that the Charlestown cops wouldn’t see us. Briliant – moving 30 feet away from the cars so as not to be noticed. But the cops would have to be stone deaf not to hear Basket’s horn – trying to call in the lost hashers. Even more brilliant!

(My theory, if those three Groton hashers didn’t exist in Oozing’s fertile imagination, is that they hit the four checks, and got stuck there bouncing back and forth among them - kinda like pinballs. They may still be there.)

Shiittoe gave the circle a bye, jumped into his pickup and was outta there. (?)

Anyway, Booty was bumming smokes off WHO or Fecal. The beer selection was esoteric. In the dark, Basket couldn’t see what was in the coolbox, grabbed a cider and gagged. The run was rated (the number of checks averaged out OK, no WIPOS, no Bondo, clear and concise directions, scenic beer stop, etc.), and received WHO’s usual zero-point-zero. You can’t do much better than that.

Tinker was called in as a backslider, and to Oozing’s astonished dismay, Tinker muffed three lines of a twelve-line hash classic.

Accusations followed, pretty lame for the most part (except for a face-off between Rusty and some old poofer). Tink did something stupid, got the imaginary Hashit, and other honors.

Pots on the ground, along with Tinker’s specs, and we swung low. (Some kind soul retrieved the specs, but not before they had been flattened underfoot. That makes two pairs of specs, a wallet and a watch – all lost on the hash. Add to that the extra charge for that moonlight cruise out of Wickford. And at least, over the years, $25,000 on beers. )

After some discussion, the Ocean Mist was chosen for the OOO because there weren’t any other suggestions. However, the Ocean Mist must have been tipped off, had locked the door, and posted a small sign on the door suggesting we take our custom next door to Tara’s. (Actually, they told us to “F**k Off”. You can feel the love.)

So we did, and it was good. Except that Shittoe re-appeared and tried to scoff a free meal. It’s probably worked with other hashes. (Does he do this often?)
OnOn, your scribe.

P.S. Health advice: