The Johnston Powerline Electromagnetic Nocturnal Emission Hash!

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Run # 818  January 7, 2002

Hare:  Async

CoHare: Oozing SD

Scribe:  The Slasher Dr W.H.O.

Location: Johnston, just east of Snake Den

The Weather  Light Snow, 30's

Present: Async, Dr W.H.O., WIPOS, Bondo Jovi, Oozing SD, Basket Boom Boom.

Missing: Eager Beaver, Short Peck, PW, Compusex, Shine On, and Tinker (believed to have short cutted to the Snake Den "Fugawi Cliffs" trying to outsmart the hare and get to the BC).

Commemorating: Handsel Monday.

 

The Run:

The hare gave clear and specific d'erections to the start of the run. It was to be a live-hare hash. The promised storm could barely be called a dusting, and the temperature was moderate. In spite of these ominous signs, the loyal membership of the RIH3 arrived singly and promptly led by the ever-punctual Dr WHO, who received instructions from the hare before he set off to lay trail. Next came WIPOS, Bondo, Oozing and before 6:30(!) Basket. With little fanfare, the dogs were loosed and they were off, north on the driveway for the Greater Rhode Island Baptist Temple.

The road was clear at first. After passing the Temple itself, paralleling Rt. 295, a light covering of snow was encountered and the flour stopped, to be replaced for the most part by footprints. The trail led to a field covered with pockets of standing water, the sad result of a septic system accident after a particularly moving revival meeting at the Baptist Temple. Negotiating these water hazards was no problem, and the group spread out over the field trying to find the true trail. Occasional marks of whitish orange could be seen by all except for the visually challenged Basket but the best sign of the hare's passage was still the footprints. Unfortunately it was discovered that when everyone spreads out over a field looking for footprints in the snow, the result is: an awful lot of footprints. This led to several hound-created circle-jerks that would have heartily satisfied the hare, had he witnessed the scene.

Finally, trail leading west into the woods was found. Skirting around the sides of Cat Rocks, bushwhacking (through the prototype for the Johnston Landfill) and on paths, the experienced hashers found no challenges (except for
Basket who, whenever anyone found a mark, examined the spot saying: "Where? I don't see any mark!"). The group stayed close together until the trail led out to a powerline trail north by west, where the faster (Oozing), more shortsighted (Basket), and more trusting (Dr WHO) runners took the lead over the smarter (Bondo) (Well, that's RELATIVELY speaking, of course.) and more cautious (WIPOS). With Basket leading, this had the inevitable consequence of sending the lead pack off the wrong way down off the slopes of Tracy Hill into the western woods. It was only the sounds of sexual excitement from Jake and the hare that gave away the location of the beer check at a switching station on the eastern edge of the powerlines. The hare was joined by FRB WIPOS. The rest straggled in and waited for the DFL Basket who immediately began making excuses about losing his eye on a branch, and thorn injuries and the like. He had to be reminded that this was a beer check, not a whine check.

The hare had joined the
Dr WHO school of decanted-beer-in-juice-bottles as a way of hiding the incredible age of his beer choices. (When will he run out of that Sam Adams that was given to his father when he returned with a medical discharge for the groin injury received in the Ardennes in '45?) With no women present, Basket saw no reason to be rude or disgusting so the beer was sipped uneventfully without German songs. The hare took off to set the rest of the trail, warning the group to look for a left arrow on the inner powerline trail after about a half-mile. Giving him ten minutes, the group resumed this endless back and forth on the powerlines and began to run south by east, laughing in the face of the danger of brain injury from exposure to electromagnetic emissions. Except of course, Basket. He has already had too much of this type of radiation as all can attest. He decided to bushwhack in order to provide your scribe with some material to lighten this otherwise sad and sordid account of middle-aged men lost in the woods in the dark in a snowstorm. He decided to head east into a thicket of briars, rhododendrons, and holly, hoping to find trail somewhere near 295.

Oozing took the lead, ever fleet of foot and small of brain. Sensing the implacable pounding of Dr WHO and Bondo Jovi catching up with him, he decided to promote himself to co-hare, and quickly made a left arrow in the snow pointing into a particularly impenetrable thicket of woods. Hiding ahead on the trail, he chortled with glee as Dr WHO crashed though the underbrush, looking for footprints or flour, sounding like a wounded elephant in the jungle. Bondo and WIPOS stood by the arrow on the trail, Bondo saying: "I think there's a path here, somewhere." Oozing sounded: "On on!" ahead on the true trail, and the run began again. The enraged Dr made a quick call on his cellphone to the hash lawyer Misses Enema Bill. (He is at home recovering from the surgical reduction of his congenital craniorectal intussusception. By the way, he is stable, but it is still "touch and go".) Dr WHO was advised that he had every right to prosecute and at the very least, subject Oozing to a severe taunting. At any rate, the left turn mark was finally found, and the hare's footprints followed southeast around the Cat Rocks again to a fire in the middle of the trail, where the hare had arranged a circle.

Oozing, Dr WHO, WIPOS, Bondo and the hare chatted about the trail and how each week they seem to get lamer. (The hare protested.) Oozing's prank was mentioned, and it was agreed that no one could be so stupid as to fall for a trick like that for any length of time. It was almost decided to begin the ceremonies without Basket, when like a preputial chancre appearing after a weekend in Subic, he suddenly arrived, torn and bleeding. Another tragic and prolonged tale of eye-loss, fractured kneecaps, broken ribs etc. spilled out. Apparently he had finally made it to 295, and not finding trail he had made his way back to the powerlines. Things were going good until he found the left arrow. The one that no one could be so stupid to fall for. Back to 295. Coyote attacks. Falling into ice crevasses and spruce traps. Frostbite. Yada yada yada. Is it any wonder no one else can get the hashit? 

The circle was joined, and the run rated. Bondo gave a charitable 5F, Dr WHO gave a 6.9 because of Basket's falling for the false arrow, Basket gave 6.9 because of Dr WHO falling for the arrow first, WIPOS stated: "I didn't even need my gear!", and Oozing complained of dry feet aggravating his chilblains. Overall: 6.69. The hare did his down down and started "The End of the Month". Next, hashit. Bondo Jovi had thoughtfully provided a new hashit: an unwashed sweat sock he had stolen off a homeless man lying in a drunken stupor in a puddle of urine in Woonsocket (the local Selectman). But the standard hashit was there also, and nominations progressed. The obvious choice was initially settled upon, but after drinking he started singing the dread German song again, and he had to be given a whiff of Zyklon-B from a canister that the quick-thinking Oozing was carrying. WIPOS was considered, but eventually PW was settled upon, for deserting his hash spouse and whining on the web site. Enema Bill will hold the hashit for him. No one left to insult, initiate or irritate, and they swung low, and the hare went off to get some water to douse the flames.

After freezing his hands and creating a smoke signal sure to catch the attention of any spy satellites, the hare led the group south-southeast at a run back to the cars. Those in front showed their appreciation for Oozing's sense of humor by placing false arrows every 40 or 50 yards. The north side of the Temple ground was crossed for the sole purpose of fording the mighty Assapumset Brook (which the hare very well could have started the trail with when the group was in the mood for it thank you very much). Someone had foiled the hare's scheme however as the remnants of a rickety Massage table labeled "CCRI: Reject" formed a makeshift bridge over the raging waters. Thanking their unknown benefactor, all crossed safely except Oozing who felt the need to ease his aching feet and plunged on through. The group met at the cars. The On On On was to be at the redoubtable Swampy's, and all made ready to meet.

Swampy's, known worldwide for its cuisine and ambience proved a bit of a disappointment. The group started off with pickled eggs and asked for Bass Ale. A 2/3 full pitcher was provided with the announcement that they were out of Bass. "No problem," said the resourceful hashers. "We'll have Murphy's Stout." The Murphy's was brought out and food was ordered. At first it was thought that the pickled eggs had distorted their palates, but after a few sips it was realized that the Murphy's had been watered down with Pascoag water containing methyl ter-butyl ether and was undrinkable. "We'll settle for the Red Hook," they said. It was gone. "Well, what is left?" The waitress said: "Hey, I'm just filling in." and went to check. Bud, Bud Light and Amber Bock were the choices. Oh, the angst! The pseudo-Bock was ordered sadly, but the mood was somber as Async and Bondo passionately discussed the Monday Night Football game, and WIPOS flirted with a married 64 year old football groupie at the other end of the bar. Oozing called for switching the TV to the Test Matches loudly until it was threatened to unmask him as Osama Bin Laden's long lost brother. Dr WHO and Basket looked deep into their beers, fearing what they saw around them. The evening ended however, on the happy thought that football season is almost over, and that the weather is sure to get worse at some point, ensuring at least a few Mondays with shiggy trails and raucous barroom behavior before the warm weather returns and ruins it all.

 On On

 The Slasher Dr. W.H.O.