Run # 811  November 19, 2001

Hare:  Dr Who

Scribe:  Basket Boom Boom (new husband of PW, aka Misses Enema Bill)

Where:   Seekonk, MA

The Weather:    Dark, 50's

Present:   Dr WHO Slasher, Enema Bill LAM, ,WIPOS, Misses Enema Bill, Oozing, EverReady, Britany Spears & Norman Bates.

Hashit: Enema Bill LAM

Management: Zoe, Baxter.

The Run:

 Our own Pooh Bear Dr. WHO Slasher (where did this Slasher thing come from anyway? Anybody know or did he give himself a bikers moniker to gain respect?), anyway I degress. Dr. WHO chose a virgin terrain for this hash, and it was virgin for good reasons. Why anyone would want to bring such an upright group of athletes to the sewers of Seekonk is anybody’s guess. Not enough woods to make it entertaining, too much pavement to make it painful, even Mr. Shortcut Bondo Jovi decided along with Async, that it would be better to stay at home and cuddle with the wife in front of a warm fire, sipping mulled cider and licking whipped cream off each others … sorry I got carried away again.  Back to the hash..

When I arrived a the local fitness center behind the famous Grist Mill off Rte 114 north, not south towards Barrington, a motley crew of Oozing, WIPOS, PU and Zoe were standing by the hare wondering if anyone of substance would show in this hollow of a cesspool.  I thought at first they were waiting for me and Baxter to arrive, but then I realized that without Bondo to lead the troops out of the park, they were hesitant to begin the fiasco.

As it was getting on 10 minutes past our appointed start time, it was apparent that the previously mentioned sex crazed fools and our own little darling of Rhode Island Eager Beaver 9, would not be joining us. The hare reluctantly pointed us off towards to road and eventual disappointment. I, having called Bondo at his love nest to insure he would not be late arriving and miss this unfortunate event, left after the initial thrust of the pack, leaving not only a billowing of dust from their galloping shoes, but my flashlight behind in the jeep.

I caught the pack as it rounded 114 south towards…can you guess?, and followed the smell into the woods. I was pretty confident I could maneuver through the trails, even though there was no moon and I only have one good eye, because of my heightened awareness of self and my surroundings. Along with the specialized nose of my faithful friend we were soon scampering along, first catching the laggards, and then passing their putrid bodies as they meandered along. I came to a small lake where a waterfall invited me across the rushing water. Baxter was at first unsure of it’s rushing water, thunderous billow, and slick footing. That plus crossing as such a great height gave him concern, but eventually followed me. The pack meanwhile searched miserably for an easier, drier, safer crossing to no avail, and eventually followed the sure-footed and swift Basket and Baxter over dam and onto a short trail along water's edge.

The hare in his cute ‘trying to be cunning’ way, left small amounts of flour under freshly fallen leaves, in an attempt to make a short trail longer, but with my trusty Saint, we smoked out every sad attempt. Eventually we made our way out to the road way, which was inevitable given the limited off road terrain, and continued leading the pack until a length of trail had been erased by passing motorist. I was soon heading off in the wrong direction.  I was not alone, however as the pack had also missed the mark. The hare in his despair to end our suffering led us back to trail and eventually the beer. We crossed a beautiful wooded area, complete with rope swing for our entertainment, but no beer would be found here. It wasn’t until we arrived at the sewer drainage ditch into what could have been a pristine pond when native Americans roamed freely among the pine and oak, that we found the elusive beer.

As we held our noses and we swizzled some brew, which was evidently purchased at the discount, out of date liquor store, Zoë decided to see if she could walk across the scum-covered water. She was only able to get a few feet in when the weight of her anemic body, someone should feed this poor dog, slipped beneath the foam, stirring up a strong odor, which prompted all to caution WIPOS not to light up the cigar until the wind blew the volatile gasses away. We finished our beer, and continued on out, but not until Zoe brought the backwater spillage to our feet.

Back at the car park we gathered our belongings and headed straight to an abandoned trailer on a hill. Thinking we were out of sight we circled up, and gave the hare his deserved down down. As we sang a few songs, the local constable drove by, shining his searchlight in our direction looking for the source of an odor complained to the police by the locals.  As the pack buried deeply in the layer of leaves covering the ground, additional complaining was heard as we now smelled the source of that odor, our feet had picked up what Zoe left behind. Next, I was invited into the circle, after the police left, as I carried the Hashit, unearned for the previous week, to be given to the most deserving. Choices were given for PU, WIPOS, and even the hare, but the winner was Async for his lame excuse of having to baby sit the children at home.  Hell, they’re 20 and 22 and you would have thought they could tuck themselves into bed by now. Finally, we had a special naming. The bragging PU spoke often that his “Mother Hash” was not Rhode Island, and it was there he had gained his handle of PW, which stands for Poor Whitetrash. Now it is Rhode Island tradition that we give each hasher, who earns it, our own name and even though it could be argued that he doesn’t deserve shit, we proudly and fondly bestowed the Hash Handle of “misses Enema Bill” on the wanker.

We then gave a good "swing low" and traveled off to the yuppie bar where a Britney Spears look-alike contest was underway. The winner asked to sit at our table, but just then Eager Beaver joined the fray. She had been to a business meeting at some men’s bar in Pawtucket, and had evidently dressed for her part complete with a dress that had a slit so high that you could see the tattoo on her chest. Britney left dejected, and we enjoyed some Guinness and Bass along with some sandwiches of unknown meat, and we watched the local Cricket match.

When the beer was finished, we sojourned over to the next town for another beer at Async’s. Not knowing his address we drove around for about an hour until EB got his address from a drunk walking along the street. We knocked on his door, rang his bell and were just about to go into a chorus of Christmas songs, when down the stars who should appear, but Async in his Fleet underwear. He refused to share any beer with us, so Eager Beaver, not one to let down a bunch of boys, offered us to join her at her house for a nightcap. We drove over to the other side of the tracks, walked through the junkyard, crossed the trestle and found our way to her love shack in the Barrington Woods. The place was a bit untidy, but she had beer and a pretty Greek baby-sitter, who entertained us with her new Belly Dance routine. We thanked all for the entertainment and made our way home, unscathed.