The directions were more than adequate, as a matter of fact, and this may sound like a fine whine, the directions were a bit redundant. It could have been simply 95 to exit 6A, go left 669 feet on left, but I digress. On the finer points of tonight’s event: no Slasher Dr. Who, no Bondo Jovi, no Jake, no Tinker, no Short Shorts, no Ben, no Baxter, no PW, no ShineOn, no Fergie or Hopeless, no Gobble Gobble or even Itchy Bro, and what ever happened to Little Neck? Well, I guess the "No’s" knew something we poor suffering bastards didn’t.

The pack waited for a reasonable amount of time, to see if anybody with half a mind, might show up late, and without Bondo to push the panic button we enjoyed the lovely weather and deer flies. At 6:47:23 sharp, the hare pointed us down the dusty road toward the Great Swamp and our eventual fate. Traveling east by southeast, (is that 150 degrees Slasher?), we found our first check about 1969 feet. Basket checked out the left trail into the woods, and could hear Async calling, "On One, On Two…." going straight. Basket found nothing more than a couple of turds left by some careless fisherman by the pond, he turned back towards the now growing fainter sound of the pack traveling East at 105 degrees, along the dirt road and further into the woods straight ahead.

As he got out to the street, Oozing was waiting and asked why he hadn’t found trail. The pack was still on "ON Two", so he turned back, going over the turd and paper to the fishing access area, where more manure and paper littered the ground. This was surely going to be a shit hash, he thought until off in the distance he saw the bastard hare take off, laughing in a hysterical Paki manner.

Basket got back to the street, and found another trail leading due west of the check at about 269 degrees, and since the hare didn’t follow the foolish into the woods, he check out this one. Basket found 3 checks in a row, and a couple of Hungarians off on a tangent, so he called the pack with his trusty horn. Only Oozing and Short Peck followed. Of the others, they, having good navigational instincts and personal knowledge of the area, said, "FUCK ‘EM", while we continue on true trail.

The trail meandered: east then south, then southwest and west, or for the Slasher, 98, 175, 169, 205, 253, 291, and then took an abrupt northerly trek and up a steep grade at 352 degrees directionally and 17 degrees vertically. The Basket thought he would stop for a minute and smell the roses, and dove quickly over his handlebars. Not finding roses among the rocks and tree roots, he mounted his trusty bike and followed the fearless and flawless Short Peck sprinting over fallen tree trunks. Oozing waited at the next check, as SP went west and Basket east, approximately 180 degrees of each other. Basket found true trail and called the something less than a 6 pack onward.

Basket, luckily, hit the next 4 checks perfectly, and was well in front of the daring duo, when check number 5 did him in. Remembering that the hare said, and I quote, "All false trails are marked!", he continued for about a mile in a generally southern direction until his good sense figured he was YBF’d. Turning around he saw an adjoining trail and soon found a check coming in from the opposite direction. He could here Oozing’s whistle in the front of him, then in the back, then in the front again, and he found all checks had be pre-marked to the correct direction. The Hare thought Basket was in front of him and was marking the trail for Short Peck, but soon discovered Basket coming over the hill behind him. A sheepish look overtook his Moslem features, and he turned from Usama bin Laden, to a foolish little Paki boy with his left hand stuck in the Tandoori Roti jar.

Short Peck arrived and we traveled another mile before coming to the beer check, where the so far missing were found. Async had already finished his second Heineken (that’s what I said), and WIPOS was cleaning his bike off with his wife’s underwear, which he had been wearing as a mosquito net. After a couple of songs and finishing off the last of Oozing's light beer leftover from his father’s visit, we continued to the cars and circled up.

The Hare got a down-down for shitty trail and beer, WIPOS decided to keep possession of the Hashit, and we were in the middle of a beautiful and melodious Swing Low, when down the road, kicking dirt in the air and our beer, long hair flowing behind her was a young lady. It wasn’t a lady at all, as we found out soon enough, Mother Goose came running down the path to a resounding finish, cut short by her arrival. She was invited into the circle to explain her whereabouts for the past 5 years, and all prayed she wasn’t going to go into her alien abduction story as it was getting late and we were hungry. No excuses were given, and she started downing her Bass Ale (a little better than a hiney), but she couldn’t finish. Being a gentleman, Oozing offered Basket's head for a receptacle, when a better idea overcame her, and she poured it down his shorts. Ahhhhhh!

The On On was at the little pub a mile west of 95, and most joined in for good, good, good, good libations. All but Async, that is, who, as his custom, chose to take advantage of the on-on to consort with the hash wives and girlfriends suddenly left without anything to do on Monday nights.    Guinness and Bass were on tap for Black and Tans and food was ordered. We continued our festivities in good Hash fashion and found the rednecks in need of some entertainment. They decided the jukebox was good enough, and turned the volume higher. Food consumed, beer gone, shorts sticking to the seats, we left the bar with much approval from the regulars, and look forward to the lame sorry excuses next week.

On On,

    Basket Boom Boom