The Search for Usama Hash

 Run #880, March 10, 2003
 Hare: WIPOS
 Scribe: The Slasher Dr. WHO
 Location: East Side of Providence
 Weather: High Teen’s, Clear
 Present: Bondo Jovi, Basket Boom Boom, Dr WHO, Fuwangi Boner, Seamus, Jake, Ben.
 Absent: Usama Bin Laden
 Commemorating: The 46^th Birthday of Usama Bin Laden; or the 26^th anniversary of the discovery of the rings around Uranus.

The Run:

Anxious to conserve his precious supply of beer, the hare set trail from the identical starting point of the previous week’s glorious outing hared by Swallows My Pride. (Last weeks hash was so wonderful he reasoned, that people would be bound to say: “Why show up, and ruin my memories of that near perfect hash? What could WIPOS be thinking? Is WIPOS actually capable of thinking? I’m gonna stay home and watch some “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” reruns with a liter of porter and a jar of pickled eggs!”) As it happened, he was right. Only the few stalwarts (imbeciles) showed up at the appointed hour. The hare gave instructions to follow paper squares bearing the likeness of the notorious Bin Laden. The search was on.

Bondo started off early, while the rest waited for the clock to show 6:30. He went down into the ice-covered playing fields. This enabled him to get lost, kick his dog, swear profusely, spill his beer, and fall on the ice three times before anyone else had left the parking lot. He struggled up the hill to rejoin the hare as Fuwangi, Basket and Dr WHO led on trail, south on Pleasant Street. The marks from last week’s first falsie provoked some sighs of wistful nostalgia. At the first check, Fuwangi and Bondo went straight, over the wall and into Swan Point Cemetery. Who and Basket went west on Alfred Drown. They obviously missed the point. Consider that entering Swan Point would not only be trespassing, but would also be an act of sacrilegious desecration as well as international terrorism. How could the hare resist? They re-gathered in the trails of the woods of the cemetery.

The combination of numerous falsies, obscene photos of Usama Bin Laden stapled to trees, and treacherous ice and snow underfoot had the hashers thinking that this trail might be OK after all. But far too quickly, a check at the main entrance led out of the woods, across Blackstone Boulevard and onto Elmgrove. They headed south. And further south. And further south. The markings were few. [Still, they were probably enough to cause some consternation the next morning as the residents of this mostly Jewish Neighborhood awakened to find the grinning face of the world’s most wanted terrorist smirking at them from their telephone poles as they collected their morning paper. But I digress.] Finally a check was followed onto Upton heading east.

Dr WHO continued straight towards the beer check, while the rest followed the hare’s advice and took off to the right after a few blocks. South, again! WHO crossed the boulevard but turned around, giving up less than 25 yards from a mark that would have led him straight back to the beer. What an idiot! Everyone knew that the beer would be in one of three places: Blackstone Park, the Railroad bridge, or at the home of Oozing Bin Laden on Benefit Street. Dr WHO was starting to favor the idea that Oozing was waiting with the beer at home, warm and comfy in his false beard, laughing at the idea of the hashers’ discomfiture. But as he headed back up to the boulevard, he saw the full-figured form of Bondo passing reluctantly by the doors of the all-girls Lincoln School. He was heading south. On Butler Ave.

The group was together again. They easily dispatched a check, recognizing finally that the beer must be in these well-known homosexual meeting areas. Crossing through the playgrounds at Patterson Park, they entered the woods. The brief thaw a few days before followed by some frigid nights had led to near completely smooth ice covering all passable trails. They slid down to Blackstone Pond. They fell. They scrambled up an ice wall moving north at last. They fell. The hare lost his own trail. He fell. Things were certainly looking up. Below the Lincoln School they came to a drainage ditch with a few inches of moving water, and a log to cross. Fuwangi, WHO, and the hare crossed easily, with only minor groin injuries from a knot in the middle of the log. Basket took Seamus, and looked for an alternate route. Bondo looked. He swore profusely. He farted. He fell. Finally, he climbed down into the stream. He then entered a prolonged and quite comical struggle trying to grab his dogs and force them across. Dr WHO and Fuwangi looked on. They did not offer help. Except for gratuitous advice.

Back up hill they ran. They were joined by Basket on Irving Ave, and continued north in the woods along the top of a steep bluff to a small opening in the woods about 50 feet straight up above Gulf Ave and the riverbanks. The beer was found. Finally, the hare came through. Sam Smith Oatmeal Stout! [There is in fact a reason why this group hashes week after week.] As they had their first beer, the hare remarked that the gay population of Providence had been forced from the street below into the woods and streets above the water. This was because the police had taken to patrolling the riverbanks quite aggressively.  They often, in fact, stationed a patrol car right below the beer check. A patrol car arrived as he spoke. It stopped just below the beer check. I mean, RIGHT below! (The drool from Seamus’s jowls would have fallen on the cop’s windshield if it hadn’t been frozen solid.) The dogs started to bark. They were fed some Oatmeal Stout to shut them up. O, the senseless waste!

Finally, the beer was finished. Trail led back out to Grotto, and was promptly ignored as the hashers made their ways back to the cars in small groups. A dull, cold and uneventful two miles later, they gathered at the cars and circled up. Rating the run proved somewhat challenging. It was ultimately decided that the choice of beer and the sight of Bondo in a sewage overflow ditch struggling with a frantic Labrador retriever evenly matched the poor markings and excessive length of pavement. The ice fields and the picture of Usama Bin Laden emerging from someone’s rectum (posted on hallowed ground) pushed the run firmly to a +0.69. Singing was subdued, mostly because the temperature was approaching single digits. [Actually, last week it had been equally cold. But then, their singing had prompted a resident across both a soccer field and a baseball field to shout “Shut Up, you a**holes!” The singing had also incidentally caused a cerebellar stroke, two small heart attacks and a mini-epidemic of fecal incontinence on the third floor of the adjacent Oak Hill Nursing Home. But I digress.] Hashit was probably given to someone. Since your scribe cannot recall, he will firmly maintain that it was given to Basket as usual.

On on on was back at the East Ave Café. This was particularly enjoyable at first because the hare got lost again, and went to the wrong bar. [He went down the block to a Portuguese Fish Place which only serves Bud Light and Pabst. He narrowly escaped molestation at the hands of a couple of 60 year-old Portuguese fishermen who had seen him earlier in the day hanging around a gay park near the river. But I digress.] The young lady who was so impressed by Basket and Fuwangi’s performances as “Dickhead” and “Rubber” (see pictures for last weeks write-up) showed up again, equally drunk. But when it became clear that no prophylactic inflation was to be performed, she lost interest. They tried to keep the price down for Fuwangi, who was still smarting from the $20.00 tab the week before. It was kept down all the way to $18. Of course the management has started charging for malt vinegar use whenever they see this bunch, so that increases the cost somewhat. The evening ended well, and all went home looking forward to the thaw and the muds of spring to come.

On On,

The Slasher Dr Who