Run # 798 August 20, 2001

Hare:   Bondo Jovi

Scribe: Dr Who

Where:  Diamond Hill State Park, Cumberland

The Weather:  80, raining

Present: The Slasher Dr. WHO, WIPOS, Shine On HM, Oozing SD, Just Susan.

Late-cumers: Basket Boom-boom, Short Peck

Management: Ben, Jake, Baxter.

Commemorating: The Memorial of St. Bernard, Founder of the Monks of St. Bernard at Clairvaux (as well as the 61st anniversary of the ice-pick execution of Leon Trotsky in Mexico City).

The Run:

First, your scribe must point out that the hare's d'erections to the start of the run have again raised our level of incompetence to almost superhuman heights, setting the standard to which we all must ultimately be held. In spite of this and because of the well-known locale, Just Susan, Dr WHO, WIPOS, Shine On, and Oozing arrived before the strict 6:30 deadline noted by the hare. Of course Diamond Hill, described as virgin territory by the hare, is about as virginal as the average 104 year old sailor so it wasn't that hard to find. It did provide a bit of a poser for Basket and Short Peck, who circled between Mt. St. Rita Convent and Mercymount School looking for virgins (and flour) before the location of the true start occurred to them. Just Susan, in an effort to gain an unfair advantage on trail by poisoning the pack, provided a six pack of Carling Black Label: an unusual brew obviously mislabelled as beer by a ruthless and amoral manufacturer. But the stomachs of WIPOS and Dr WHO were more than a match for the dreaded Black Death; in fact they were pleasantly surprised to find that the mixture successfully killed off their tapeworms, as well as several other intestinal parasites. The hare committed the unspeakable crime of passing the deadly mixture on to the GM after enjoying a few sips himself.

As 6:30 arrived, the rain which had been light began to come down in earnest and WIPOS, fearing that he might catch a wee sniffle, broke out a second water-proof layer, and spot-welded the seams before setting out on trail. Just Susan, under an oversized umbrella, asked if the hash truly intended to go out in the rain and thunder. Reassured that this was indeed the preferred weather of the RIH3, she lent the bumbershoot to the hare (who used the blunt end in deviant ways while awaiting the pack at the beer check), and the pack was off. Arrows led northwards, and then turning right to the base of the ski slope, no further evidence of trail was seen except for a flour tinged rivulet coming down from the awesome peak. Using crampons and a modified chimney traverse, the 481 foot crag was attacked by the valiant hashers to find still no evidence that the hare had ever made the summit. The body of Archibald Mallory (George's brother) was found half-concealed in the permafrost of the South Col glacier, but left reverently intact. Southeast along the ridge, crossing the 42nd parallel a lone checkmark was finally encountered. This was followed to a second most obviously placed check, downhill and visible from the first. Dr. WHO felt that the hare could not have been so stupid, and that the group was probably following the trail backwards. Oozing and Shine On, having long experience with the hare's level of intelligence, knew better and continued on trail, picking out the partially washed-out paste of flour from the white quartz with ease.

Meanwhile, Basket and Short Peck crossing back over 114 after a brief but ill-advised sojourn at Catamint (or was it Catamite) Hill, made several rotations around the hare's circle-jerk which the rest of the pack had missed. Short Peck, tiring of this, followed the obvious ridge and joined the rest of the mountaineers who had followed trail, conch horn sounds and unusual odors to the hare and the beer check. This was on a cliff, 150 feet above 114, qualifying it as highest beer check of the millennium. Brown Ale and Shandy were enjoyed, the rain stopped, a beautiful sunset and breathtaking rainbow were marveled at, and all was for the best in this best of all possible hashing worlds. But, like a booger in the scorpion bowl, Basket arrived dripping on to the otherwise perfect scene.

The hare said: "Of all the beer checks, and all the hashes in the world, and he walks into mine!" Yes, after weeks of missing beer check after beer check, Basket finally made one. There was a palpable change in the tone of the evening as he proceeded to show his delight by mooning Cumberland, insulting the pack, and attempting to convince WIPOS to hang-glide off the cliff using his legionnaire's cap. A few songs, a quick game of shandy football with the dogs made Oozing and Dr. WHO give up and head off down the trail north along Sylvy's Brook to the cars, followed by the rest of the pack. A brief trip back up the mountain by the confused Slasher resulted in a few scrapes and a fractured patella, but otherwise the run ended without incident. The hare had no beer and ran home to start cooking with his tail between his legs (about the only thing visible in that location without significant magnification, by the way). Just Susan had run out of diabetic horse urine, but she came up with a six pack of Irish Ale to soften the fact that she was already showing annoying signs of responsibility by skipping the on-on-on to care for her children.

A convoy to Woonsocket was next, and at chez Bondo the circle was held in the garage, knee deep in filth and detritus specially prepared by the hare to discourage a long ceremony. The run was rated by opposites: the ideal weather was balanced by the lack of shiggy, the presence of Basket was balanced by the presence of two females (a record for 2001), the shortness of the run was balanced by the gain in elevation, etc. Total score: 0. Hashit was presented by the Baxter sniff test: the hare had left the circle in a cowardly fashion to burn the chicken, but he could not fool Baxter who strained at his traces to nominate the hare. After swinging low, the wet and malodorous bunch went upstairs to befoul the furniture, swill the beer and ravage the hounds. Basket, feeling that not enough damage had been done this evening, set himself up in the hot tub, using 7 times the recommended amount of Kermit the Frog Bubble bath. He was not seen again, although many of the group noted a suspicious looking formless cloud of foam which now and then materialized to steal more chicken and corn. Compared to a naked Basket, the improvement was immeasurable. Just Big Sh*t arrived, and took the scene in stride, pretending not to notice the destruction and carnage around her. As always, a good time was had by all.


On on


The Slasher Dr. W.H.O.