As always, I’m trying to do my civic duty by doing a write-up for a run that I didn’t show up for. Why is it that I’m the only responsible one these days? I know I have always been the best hare, but do I have to do EVERYTHING for these guys? I’m already giving Bondo freakin’ brewing lessons for the love of God! But this was a virgin hare, setting trail in relatively virgin territory so I figure I’d better write something. Piecing things together from the police reports, I may not be as accurate as usual, but I’m sure it’ll be better than anything those wanks WHO and Oozing could come up with. Now just let me open up another Bud, and we’ll begin.
The hare showed exceptional intelligence in choosing his own rental apartment as the starting point for his first hash. This meant he could simply run around the block trailing some flour, and be done with setting trail in about fifteen minutes. Then he could break out the smokes and some Buds, and relax. Unfortunately for him, he had picked up Tinker as a co-hare. This poor cripple wasn’t about to let him get away with this, so the virgin was forced to set a real trail through the wilds of Point Judith.
Most of the usual clowns arrived remarkably near the appointed time. And to think that they complain when I set near the Connecticut border! I mean this place was like a zillion miles from exit 6 not 6A. A virgin who had inquired on the website, Just Dan showed up. It turned out he went to school with the hare, and hadn’t even realized it. This reminds me. Why hasn’t this college boy recruited some hot coeds for the hash? Does he really like running around in the woods with freakin’ old men that much? But like Dr WHO, I regress. Also, a visitor, LCB of the SFH3 showed up. Those wanks from the west coast really aren’t very bright, are they? Anyways, everyone except Bondo (who was trying out my Beechwood aging process) was finally there and they were off, about 10 minutes late.
Actually, not everyone was there. Oozing and SESYB, after finding an intact but used condom in Oozing’s sock drawer, had pulled over for a quickie in a pay toilet at a gas station in Wickford. They still managed to catch up with the lame pack by the time the wankers had left the streets and were on the beach. Trail had led to this beach: Captain Roger W. Wanker State Beach, or something like that. The hare had cleverly set trail along the water, forgetting about a little thing we like to call “the Tide”. This is where the water comes up and washes away your freakin’ cooler of Bud Lights and Little Mermaid Beach towel every four or eight or six hours (I forget) or so. All the flour marks (like we believe that the hare really ever put them there in the first place) were washed away, and the hashers had to follow trail marked with dead seals and used condoms for almost a mile to Galilee.
The streets of Galilee were deserted. I guess the locals knew we were coming. But suddenly, over the horizon came a blur of spandex and tire spokes. It was Basket’s boss, and the Cox Cable bike racing team, looking so gay we all had to sit down and laugh. Basket, of course stopped to brown-nose a bit, admiring his boss’s shapely but manly buttocks in their skin tight blue lycra shorts. Anyways, hoping to escape Basket, the rest of the group continued on onto Escape Rd. [Although there were more than a few wolf-whistles and wistful backward glances from WIPOS and Async, I can tell you!]
Well, anyways the group headed east and missed at least one opportunity for shiggy because the hares were such wanks and didn’t mark it so’s you could see that trail led into a most fine salt marsh. But after a while on road, it became clear at the second opportunity that getting wet was the thing to do. They went north into the tidal Gut, wading through polluted muck strewn with empty Bud Lights and used condoms. They started to feel like it was worth the trip. I don’t think so, but then again I wasn’t there!
They ran northward through the salt marsh with discarded tires, fast-food containers and more used condoms spicing up their footwear (Now what kind of enterprising teenage boy can talk his girlfriend into having sex in the middle of a tidal marsh? And they say today’s teenagers have no initiative! But I distress.). They turned back east into Fisherman’s State Park. They ran around a bunch of campers. They disrupted a few barbeques. They went off into the pitiful 0.069 acres of shiggy (skunk cabbage and moistened clay) that the park had to offer. And they went uphill. Only to come upon Tinker and the Beer Check. But, sad to say, the hares had decided to be cute. The wanks! The freakin’ beers were individually hidden in the underbrush. Now this was the biggest f**k-up since I filled the Sam Adams bottles with Bud Light (although my effort was a masterful stroke, and I’m sure has converted most of the RIH3 to the joys of Budweiser, although none of the wankers will admit it, the homos!). They all whined and cried like seven year olds at the Easter Egg Hunt who couldn’t find any with the chocolate-coconut clusters, or whatever. I mean, like there was a beer under every freakin’ bush (along with those used condoms. They’re everywhere these days!), for cryin’ out loud. Get a life!
Allright! I’m getting tired of this too! They all finally found their beers. They all sang a few songs. But when Basket finally reappeared, they all decided to finish up, and headed out south on the ridge, following a trail that was: now let’s get our thesaurus out: boring, stultifying, soporific, mundane, jejune, redundant, irrelevant, humdrum, everyday, placating, specious and underwhelming. In other words a typical RIH3 finish! They ran back to Escape Road, and down Pt Judith Road and back into the regretful neighborhood that had allowed Fuwangi Boner to rent before they could change the zoning laws.
They straggled in and set up shop at the back of the hare’s house. Ratings were pretty good all things considered, mainly because it was his first trail as hare and no one wanted to discourage him. (Dr WHO thoughtfully even gave him a copy of the local tide-tables.) Hashit? Now how am I supposed to know who got Hashit? And who cares, anyways! Well, the website says WIPOS got it; I bet he wasn’t wearing enough layers or something, and maybe got wet for once. Or maybe he stopped to collect some used condoms. Anyways, they finally swung low, and moved inside, while the hare barbequed on the deck. He is some good cook, and made some pretty tasty shish kebob thingies. But, nobody ever expects anyone to show up for their own hashes and in total he only had enough food for maybe three constipated old ladies and a Pekinese. There were some grumbling stomachs on the way home, I can bet. Luckily, exit 6 (not 6A) was on the way home, so I’m sure they stopped off at Mark’s for a quick cheesesteak and a pitcher of Bud. What better way could there be to finish another Monday at the hash!
On On
Raging Queen