A Yankee Drinking Bud in Connecticut Hash

Run # 825 February 25, 2002

Hare:  Surfin Compu-Sex

Scribe:  Oozing

Location: Arcadia, bordering Conn.

The Weather 40's, breezy, moon breaking occasionally through the clouds

Present: who cares? Oh, alright PW, here goes...Basket, WIPOS, Async, DrWhoSlasher, latecummer friend of the hare and your scribe, oozing.

Management: Baxter.
 

The Run:


On this day in 1919, the US Congress established the Grand Canyon National Park. As for the Arcadia, well they left that alone to whatever lowlives chose to grace it with whatever activity...And so in that vein, the Rhody Hash sans bimbos descended upon the park at the beach parking lot.  The hare sent the pack across the road and northwards into the dark...finding trail, the pack ascended a hill and around the house and soon back onto the trail which circled back and across 165 and southwards.

By this time, Basket was long gone. The pack forged forward and thru a few more checks, now circling the pond and into neighbouring CT. The trail was well marked for a newbee like Surf and soon he veered us off trail and into bushwhacking territory. The hash forged forward like the green ooze out of Bondo's rear orifice, like the greasy drool from Baxter's gob, like the syphilitic ooze from Oozing's penis, like...oh I digress!!

The pack soon, well... not that soon, arrived at the BC.  Beer found, the pack enjoyed SamAdams lager under near full moon. Partially full that is, for the only one to moon the brave wanks of the RIH3 was Surfin for the lager the pack eagerly consumed was none other than the queen of beers, aye Budweiser!! The wank!! Meanwhile, Basket's horn was heard in the distance, getting closer, then further and further. Or was it the intoxicating feeling of being duped by the relative newcummer!!

Beer consumed, the pack set out and followed the one-eyed one's trail i.e., Basket.  How cum you query? Well, the left over toilet paper was hanging from tree to tree. And by the haphazard nature and left veering tendency, it was quite obvious... The trail ventured westward, then north again and soon back toward 165 again. Basket's horn was heard back at the cars by now. The pack arrived back and circled up and drank proper Sam Adams this time! But in the distance, across the pond was seen the meandering head light of an errant hasher, it appeared it was Surfin's mate. The pack waited and waited but the light disappeared. He made it to a neighbour's house and thank Allah it was not a Wickford resident, for he drove him back.

The ON IN was at some godforsaken place that didn't serve grub, but the hare came to the rescue by going out for some frozen pizza. Hmmm... will the two bods and a cod do any better than this. But then again, they're not charging $7 either...

ONON.

Oozing