The Last Waltz

 
August 5^th 840 Th. RIH3 “The Last Waltz” or the Minute Waltz, depending upon your perspective.

Oozing was off to Hash with the Henfield H3, but promised a home grown event upon his return. The plane touched down in Boston on Friday the second of August at 6-turdy, and messages were sent via email to the Paki traveler to give last minute directions for Monday. Basket had offered to relieve him, so to speak, but SESYB (summers eve seven year bitch – remember) said he was well aware of his responsibilities and would have none of that.

Frantic phone calls to his residence left nothing but ring, ring, ring, not the same as the yearly clean rings around Bondo’s arse, but the irritating tone with no pick up. It appears that even psychiatrists can’t pay their phone bill if they’re out of work. Now, just for the record. I’ve been out of work all summer, and my phones work perfectly well. I’ve even been able to maintain my natural line-less all over bronze, by entertaining the kids at the Cape, in the Mountains, at almost every venue available to a cute chick, except Social Ocean that is. The kids might get sick!

Any way, we were all cozy in my air conditioned bedroom, my two lovely children and KNO, who just hates being in this heat wave, discussing this Paki and what he was going to make of this in such short time. He can’t be reached. He’s evidently doin’ SESYB somewhere cheap, he is out of work, and goodness knows how unreliable he can be. If it isn’t his football or cricket, forget it already. So everyone’s been calling all weekend, and finally on Monday, he returns his calls. I’m at the beach, with KNO, who hates the sun, and the kids, who love it, so he can’t call me. Async was off kayaking one of the Great Lakes. Bondo was in Ohio, showing off the new Hashmobile to his daughter and family. Finally, he reached Basket, and asked him if he really wanted to hare in his place.

His gonads have got to be HUGE! That lucky SESYB!

Basket of course, being the intelligent one of the bunch of bananas, turns him down, but does offer the sight he has already scouted and was more than willing to set last Friday. Oozing inquires as to what was available, and figures if Basket could – he would.

The directions were left on the Hash Visitors Book, for the world to see. Now I ask you, how many poor unfortunate people, with nothing to do but run in this heat, with this bunch of malcontents, could you possible find at the last minute.

ZERO!

Of course the Hash is not known for its brilliant people, just look at them and you’ll agree. I’m not going. Not after KNO tells me he just scored a big account and scooped in lots of cash. “IT’S LOBSTER TONIGHT, HONEY!” My spies of course would fill me in on the minuscule details, so I’m sure I wouldn’t miss anything.

The Hash would start at some unknown parking lot off exit 8B at the corner of Rte’s 295 and 7. Basket had promised 3 water crossings, outdoor cooking, keg beer, and dancing ladies, if he had set it, that is. Oozing on the other hand, still mired in jet lag and shandy, had little to work with. Much like his attempts at urinating; lots of pressure but no hose.

Joining this sorry lot were: Basket (just to see how uncreative a hare could be), Slasher Dr. WHO (back from vacation with the kids and mom), WIPOS (evidently missing Bondo), SESYB (can’t understand it, she’s cute, intelligent, and talented. Oh, she’ also out of work.), and filling out the dance card was our newest newt Just Craig, who decided that as long as he would be home from college, he would sacrifice his dignity running with the RIH3, until his frat reopens that is.

So there you have it. The scene was set at Windy Mill, by the brick shithouse high on the hill.

Oozing gave directions, that few understood, but nodded approvingly and ran off into the woods heading south. The tiny pack split into 4 camps, each deciding their way was the shortcut. At one point Basket and Just Craig ran into each other overlooking the steep cliff on 295, and Basket convinced Jake to continue south, because there wasn’t much in the other direction. Now there was something to think about.

Minutes later, alone with no sound besides the roar of traffic under their feet, they ran back to the parking lot. Oozing was there calling the RRB’s (rear running bastards) on across Rte 7 to the other side.

Why did the Red Cocks cross the road? …because they only have half a brain. (Where have I heard that before?)

The trail ran parallel to the highway, along a long traversing, ball-bustin’ loop, that almost doubled back on itself. This was actually the longest stretch of actual trail set that day, so enjoy it. And traveled back uphill to the Church of Good Women and Cheerful Men, where upon they looked over the land that God gave them and were satisfied. That is until the Hash ran past their services, and all hell broke loose.

“Hey, you! This is private property, you know. You’re not allowed to run here.”

Now would Jesus have turned out to be anybody if they stopped him at the Synagogue, and didn’t allow him to preach there, then crucify him for disobeying their commands?

Oh, they did. Well then there may be hope for this sorry lot.

The trail continued around the church and straight back to the road, where the hare suggests everyone crawl under the street in a 2-foot diameter pipe, filled with runoff from the church picnic’s holy urination pit. Unbelievingly, the doctor and the Just did just that.

Basket meanwhile had been missing, so the hare stayed on the holy side of the street until he miraculously appeared with his trusty hound. Basket and Baxter had been resting on the grass in front of the large glass window, beside the altar. I imagine the congregation got quite the view of the two of them sucking off the sprinklers, arses in full bloom like two ostrich with their heads in the sand.

Oozing ushered them across; suggesting they take the subterranean course, of course, and all joined together again at the beer stop, not more than 350 feet from the start. It was pathetic to say the least, but then I didn’t have to be there. AMEN!

They circled up after running all the way back to the car park, and the hare got a down-down along with the two timer Craig. The circle was cut short to mirror the trail, and they all drove the half-mile to Parente’s for libations.

You’re all wondering about the name of this hash. Admit it. All right, I’ll confess. The last waltz was the name of the best documentary of a band (the BAND), and after the kids went to bed, KNO and I did some waltzing ourselves in the altogether, and the alternate was the shortness of this trail, but not the shortness of KNO, if you know what I mean? Get it?

And now to finish it, a ..

SALVATION ARMY SONG

Melody - North Atlantic Squadron

(Last verse by Flying Booger)

We're coming, we're coming,

Our brave little band,

On the right side of justice,

We'll all take a stand.

We don't smoke tobacco because we all think,

That people who smoke are likely to drink.

CHORUS:

Away, away with rum by gum,

With rum by gum, with rum by gum,

Away, away with rum by gum,

The song of the Salvation Army.

Rum chug-a-lug, rum chug-a-lug, rum bum bum.

We never eat fruit cake,

Cause fruit cake has rum,

And one little bite turns a man to a bum.

Oh, can you imagine a sorrier sight,

Than a man eating fruit cake until he is light?

We never eat cookies,

Cause cookies have yeast,

And one little bite turns a man to a beast.

Oh, can you imagine a greater disgrace,

Than a man in the gutter with crumbs on his face?

There's Viceroy cigarettes for people who think,

And Ban deodorant for people who stink,

But thinking and stinking are not right by me,

I get my kicks from Saigon tea.

We never eat candy, 'cause candy has brandy,

And brandy is known to make a drunk randy.

Oh, can you imagine a sight more disgustin',

Than a sot in the gutter with his loins a-thrustin'