The Lost Bimbo Hash or "Stick me Baby"

Run # 829 March 18, 2002

Hare: WIPOS
Hounds: Bondo Jovi, Basket Boom Boom, Slasher Dr. WHO, Oozing Syph, Ever Ready Special Edition Lost Beaver 99
Visitor: The Bimbo’s new squeeze, err the Grand Mattresses new sex toy, err OK he didn’t hash, but he did show up for beer.
Mismanagement: Async – missing at Betty Ford, out of sight but not out of mind, so to speak
Replacement Mismanagement: Ben, Jake and Baxter
Weather: Pleasantly Raw, Heavy Rain disappointedly changed to Light Snow at start of trail.

The Run:

A rain/snow mixture was falling in the parking lot behind the Lodge, as I changed into my Irish Hash Wear. I looked across the cold landscape at Dr. WHO, standing alone, as he pulled his sweat shirt over his head, and thought to myself, “Where the fuck did this guy cum from?”

At 315 pounds, he’s no average hasher, and his Clydesdale physique is more suited to Sumo Wrestling than running over hill and dale, and swamp or meadow, for that matter. Just goes to show you, “Life is like a box of chocolates, after you eat the candy all you’ve got left is cardboard and wrappers, a fat gut, and shit the same color as if you had peas and carrots.”

Bondo soon drove his burgundy all wheel drive yuppie SUV, complete with puppies and beer in the back, across the snow covered lot and joined the good doctor. Baxter ran over to say hello, and the pack of 3 frolicked, like little children, in the snow together. Then Bondo let his dogs out, and things started to get really ugly. Bondo pulled up his sweat pants and the WHO grabbed another beer.

I finished my dressing and joined them, just as WIPOS appeared out of the woods. The scene was right out of an old fairy tale. He was a jolly old elf, and I laughed at him, in spite of myself. His clothes were of Teflon all shiny and bright and nothing would puncture his armor tonight. His hat stood up high, red like a berry, and with a great round belly, you just knew he ain’t cherry. His long pink walking stick, wet feet, and a frown told us all, that along tail, much water was found. A brew in his left hand, a smile on his face, with that beard and the froth, he’s quite the disgrace.

As Oozing arrived, and all had a beer, we thought all together, “Just who wasn’t here?” “Our little own Bimbo,” we all said aloud, surely she’s home, all warm, proper and proud. “ She wouldn’t cum out into a night so mean and so far. She’s the smart one amongst us; she wouldn’t drive in her car.”

The time was still ticking, about 25 past the hour and the weather’s quite dear. Dr. WHO said let’s travel. We’ve lost her to Boston, I just know she won’t show, so convinced he was right we started to go. Finishing our beers, bottoms we did it quick time, who splashing down lane, was Ever Ready Special Edition Smelly Beaver 9. She drove all the way, all by her self, outside in the cold we thought, “What a twit!” She should be at home, snuggled and warm, with a fire and hot toddy, and a couple of studs in her dorm. Not out in the cold with some ancient old men, who thought getting it up meant standing on end.

You might think she deserved great respect, for cuming so far, but we left her sorry ass, alone in the car. We all ran off together, not waiting for she, not even the hare, not stopping to pee. The trail along trees bending with snow, we ducked here and there, and the going was slow. The hare marked the trail with little square dots, he said they were shamrocks, now that was a crock. You couldn’t even see them, so tiny and small, and when you looked really close, they weren’t even there at all. We all made our way, some left and some right, until Oozing found trail and ran off in the night. We hear he faint whistle go toot way off far, was followed by Bondo out near the sound of fast car. But the Doctor and I decided quite fast, that if we’re getting lost it won’t be with him. We learned that in the past. We ran and we ran and we ran and we ran, ‘till we crossed a wide stream, then we ran and we ran. We ran very far, too far for us dear, so we started to call out, “Where’s the fuckin’ beer?” There wasn’t an answer, just that whistle in wood, so we ran and we ran and we ran all we could. Then up jumped a road, and I just knew we here, there’s a quarry ahead, there surely is beer.

We had not a mark, no nothing but snow, but we guess just to where the hare, he would go. Down in the crater, down deep in its bowel, we’d root out the beer like a rooting old sow. And find it we did, with some help by the hare, he wasn’t going to let us go dry, and he wouldn’t dare. As we drank and we drank and we drank and we drank from our beer, we noticed some one missing Ever Ready Special Edition Smelly Beaver was not here. You’d think the hare would have waited for her. A Bimbo, alone, we don’t have many to spare. She surely didn’t follow, she went into the bar, and we left her seated still in her warm car. Why would she leave and follow us here? Now that would be strange and really quiet queer.

But high up on hill, a screech and a sigh, the Bimbo had followed, we all thought, “Oh, my.” She must be from another, a planet so far, to drive all this way alone in her car. And run still alone, through the dark dank wet wood took plenty of guts, to just drink with us here, she really is nuts.”

So we voted, these men, and all did agree to make her Grand Mattress of the RIH3. But what about Async, he was our choice just last month, but we were all in accord “Fuck him”, we just shouted. “He’s at Betty Ford.”

The trail back was quite simple, just out of rhyme. Along road, then trail, and then back to the cars. The only thing of distinction was the missing stick. As we started out of the crater, we could hear cursing echoing along the ridge. “Son of a Bitch!” was hear a number of times, but it wasn’t until we got back at the circle, that we found Oozing had stole the cripples crutch, and he had to hobble back 2 miles with out it. Pissing and moaning about getting no respect. Well, what did he think? Isn’t this the hash? Isn’t Oozing an asshole?  Cum on WIPOS, get over it, you can get a back operation any time, but you can only hash on Mondays. The silly bugger didn’t see the stick stuck in the mud at the top of the quarry and would have to go back later to retrieve it. And after all, it was just St. Patty’s day yesterday, and he should have used a Shillelagh.

We circled in the woods, and the hare got a raving .69 for setting half a great trail. Bondo was nominated Hashit for life, just nudging out the stick thief, but because he had a sore belly, he asked Basket to drink his beer. I’ve never had Bondo offer his beer to anyone before, so I graciously accepted. We had religion and finished inside the Lodge for beers and sandwiches.

And that’s all I’ve got to say about that.

On On,

Basket