The First Annual Guaranteed to Get Wet Hash
 
Run # 665  February 15, 1999

Hare:   Cheap Licker

Write-up by:  Spank Me

The Start:   Shady Lea Rd - North Kingstown
 
The Pack:

Async
Jake
Buster
Bondo Jovi
Cheap Licker
Basket Boom Boom
Oozing Syphilitic Dick-Ta-Phone
Kamanawannaleia (NH3)
Hurling Dick (NH3)
Spank Me (NH3)



It was a dark and stormless night.  The pack gathered at the appointed
hour, fleece-wrapped and champing at the bit to be unleashed on the
strapless hapless hare.  The Newport Hash House Harriers contingent was
particularly anxious to get a move on after suffering the long ride from
the island.  And without delay, it was on-on.

Harriette Cheap Licker led the pack down the road and between a couple
houses.  And that was the last the pack saw of pavement and civilization

on this run.  The dark and dreary forest consumed the pack like Jake
consumes his master’s backwash.

Spank Me set off solo at the first check.  His ill-fated jaunt put him
deeper into the abyss of North Kingstown and beyond sight of the pack’s
D-cell torches.  Alone and scared, he about-faced and high-tailed back
to the check, chanting to himself, “Lions and tigers and bears.  Oh,
my!”  He headed outbound on the only other apparent trail and, much to
his relief, soon heard the baying of the hounds.  All that now separated
him from the pack was an acre of forest and enough new growth shiggy to
bleed a hasher dry.  He rendezvoused with the others as the pack emerged
from the woods...and found another check.

Spank Me did a right turnout to parallel the highway, solo again.
Others went left up the side of the highway.  Still others milled about
smartly, conserving energy and precious sweat, waiting to learn of true
trail from the check.  The left-goers’ intuition was on, putting them
on-on.  Meanwhile, beyond range of their shouts and horn blows, Spank Me
nearly crossed into another state before giving up on finding trail in
that direction.  He double-timed back to the check from where he spied
eight hashers above him, running along a ridgeline that paralleled the
highway.  He followed in their direction of advance, staying down by the
highway until Oozing and Async, in the lead, darted into the woods.
Spank Me scampered up the 30-degree incline of loose dirt and scrub
shrubbery to join in the search for trail.

Mag-Lights were turned off at this point.  The pack turned to their
sense of hearing to follow FRB Oozing’s near constant shouts of,
“Whatthefuck?  There’s no flour on this trail!”  Cheap, accompanying the
pack, played dumb as the pack wandered about the ridgeline, poking into
the woods now and then in hope of finding trail.  “There!” shouted
Bondo. “I think…  Is it?”   Basket knelt next to the smidgen of white,
powdery substance.  “Doesn’t taste like bird shit.  I think we’ve found
trail,” he proclaimed.  And there was much rejoicing…until the cops
showed up.

Twenty feet below, in the breakdown lane of the highway, was one of
Rhode Island’s finest in his trooper car, cherries on.  We strained to
see whether he had made a stop or was interested in us.  A mile-long
Mag-Light pointed up at us gave us the answer.  The nervous pack quickly
discussed strategy.  “Let’s tell him we’re a drink—I mean, running
club,” offered Oozing. “I think we could overpower him,” chimed in
Async. “Fuck!” said Bondo Spank Me threw in, “Why not say we’re just
a bunch of guys reclaiming our masculinity by beating our drums…er,
blowing our horns and whistles?”  “What about Cheap here?” challenged
Bondo. “Say we rented her for the night,” said another .  But it was
Basket’s plan that prevailed.  “I’m going down there and explain to the
trooper that we’re a harmless group of runners who wear silly-looking
hats like this one,” he said, puffing out his chest.  And down went
RIH3’s diplomat.

Not one but two troopers met Basket. The first guy must have called for
backup upon seeing Basket clamor down the hill, adorned in his
Russian-like faux fur hat with a RIH3 patch proudly centered on the
front.  And just to add difficulty to Basket’s painfully slow progress
of cumming down the embankment, one of the troopers focused the beam
from his Mag-Light on Basket’s face, momentarily stunning Basket. He
stood frozen in place, looking much like Dan Quayle.  Blinded and with
arms reached out like a zombie from “Night of the Walking Dead”, Basket
managed to reach the troopers, now with their sidearms unlocked from
their holsters.  “I am Basket Boom Boom of the Rhode Island Hash House
Harriers,” Basket announced.  The rest of the pack gathered behind
Basket to listen to the troopers tag team him with probing questions.
“Name, address and telephone number,” demanded one.  “What’s the name of
that pond in Glendale?” asked the other, hoping to throw Basket off
balance.  But the good Basket kept his cool, answering their questions
with questions, taking the high ground.  “Why, which pond would you be
referring to, Officer?” countered Basket. The troopers retreated,
satisfied with Basket’s explanation that this was an Adopt-A-Highway
group out doing its monthly cleaning of that stretch of the
highway…hours after sundown.  But as the pack turned its attention back
to finding trail, Basket remained at attention, his eyes focused on
infinity and his mind on another time, another life.  His nostrils
flared to take in the heavy, humid air of Southeast Asia.  The sounds of
Huey gunships, the barked commands of a Marine sergeant, dogtags
plastered to his sweaty, still hairless chest…it was all coming back to
him.   “Matsinger, William J., lance corporal, United States Marine
Corps, serial number….” He muttered.

Newly on the scene was Newport HHH’s Hurling Dick. “What up?” he asked
as the pack regrouped.  And the run continued.

Oozing had found the beer check stash just as the first trooper arrived
on the scene.  Now he led the pack into the safety of the woods, where
it could enjoy the liquid refreshment.  On a calm winter’s night in
Rhode Island, hare and hounds shared a lair and sustenance.  Cheap
helped Oozing off with the rucksack that contained the beer check
supplies:  ample servings of Tetley’s and Bass, as well as piping hot
Irish cwoffee.  And there was much rejoicing.
From there the hare led the pack through ankle-deep water and back into
the woods.  At a check, Spank Me struck out in a direction to his
liking, this time with others in trail.  Much to his surprise, he found
himself on true trail.  He followed the dirt drive uphill and through
secluded, posh, private property.  Missing a check, he wandered deeply
off trail until experience told him he’d gone way too far.  He
backtracked until discovering the check and stumbled his way back to the
pack, which was just sitting down to its second beer stop.

Niggardly with flour, Cheap was anything but stingy with her beer
selection on this run.  Shipyard and Double Diamond were the tasty
treats on this stop.  The hare and hounds sat on a felled tree under a
clear sky and enjoyed tales of hashes past, funny happenings on this
one, and witnessed Jake topple Oozing from his perch and proceed to
mount his Pakistani play thing.  Struggling under the weight of a
hundred pounds of determined Lab, it took Oozing nearly a minute to free
himself.  Too bad there was no bonfire for the two to light post-coital
cigarettes, although Cheap Licker had staged wood for such a fire at the
beer stop site.

Chilled from their own sweat and the sight of the crazed, neutered Jake
having his way with Oozing, the pack humped it (sorry, Oozing) out of
the woods to where Cheap’s Honda awaited.  Hurl and Basket debated
whether to apply LIFO and FIFO in determining who was to be among the
first to get a ride back to their cars.  It worked out that Cheap
shuttled a select few and Basket, Hurl, Oozing, Spank Me and the dogs
were left alongside the road and directed to guard what remained of the
12-pack of Shipyard and await extraction.  And there was much rejoicing
and shivering.

Predictably, the on-in was held at Chez Cheap.  After the dallying duo
of Kamana and Spank Me showed up, the circle was called.  Cheap drank as
hare.  Oozing was presented the hashit and did the accompanying
down-down.  Hurl drank for being a late-cummer.  After a most
heart-warming rendition of “Swing Low” was sung and the circle closed,
the ravenous lot made for the kitchen, where warm deep-dish lasagna,
garlic bread and salad awaited.  As expected, the food was delicious and
in grand quantity.  What’s more, the beer selection was far above
average, even by RIH3 standards, including one of Spank Me’s favorites,
McEwan’s Scotch Ale.

 

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