Labor Day Hash

Run #907. Sept 1, 2003

Hare: Basket Boom Boom

Scribe: Raging Queen of Beers

Location: Burrillville High School

Weather: Rain, 70’s

Present:

RIH3: The Slasher Dr WHO, Fuwangi Boner, BirdBrain, Bondo Jovi, Async, Oozing Syphilitic Dicktaphone, SESYB, Raging Queen of Beers, Just Ted, Mother Goose, Tinker, Short Peck, JBS, Dogmeat, Just Jodi, and the famous Management Squad: Jake, Ben, and Seamus.

Boston: Cums Alone, Eeek, a Bean, Mr Bean, Hung Like a Bean, Fingerlingus, Friar F*ck, Zena,  F*cking Annoying, Shine On HM, Paris Sucks, Pat My Fly, Muffalotta, Mrs Robinson, Nipples Erectus, At Your Cervix.

Newport: Periodic Table Dancer, Diddler on the Roof, Double Penetration Dalmatian, Free Willy, Evil B*tch Ripta, Lil' Debbie, Radioactive Seamen,
Sackless Suction, APC (?Abnormal Panda Cravings) or F**khead.com, ThreeDogs F*cking, Whatthef*ck, F*ck F*ck F*ck, F*ckBowling and WhycanInevergetaF*ck. (At least I think those were their names, so if I’m wrong, sue me!)

Virgins: Just Mollie?, Just Joe?, Some Bleeding Period Piece or something.

Look, I know I messed this up already. If your name isn’t right or isn’t there, just take a freakin’ chill pill or something. Or spam Async, the wank!

Celebrating: Labor Day (and the destruction of the city of Jerusalem:  Sept 1, 69 A.D.)

The Run:

[There are a million stories in the naked city (Glendale). These are just a few from the files of the RIH3. The names have been changed to protect the innocent and because I can’t keep track of them. Oh sure, and I’m supposed to not drink at a hash, right! And Basket even had MGD (not quite Bud, but what an improvement over the usual!) If you don’t like it, do your own freakin’ write-up, dammit!]

The hare screwed things up right from the beginning. He gave accurate d’erections which allowed a crew of Boston and Newport wankers to find their way to the start eventually (and messed up most of the RIH3 regulars who assembled at the Burrillville Middle School by mistake). And then he took things further by not making it to the start himself by the strict RIH3 2 PM start time. This is measured by the geosynchronous 1.5 lb. Atomic Clock that Dr WHO wears on his wrist. (Actually, we think he wears that so’s he gets a little more aerobic exercise when he wanks, but we don’t know for sure.) Promptly at 2 then, the on-time arrivals: WHO, Bird Brain, and Fuwangi led a crew of Mrs. Robinson, Shine On, Evil B*tch RIPTA, Muffalotta, and a few other suckers off into the woods east behind the tennis courts. Ok. Lost again. Following Dr WHO!! (You’d think they’d know by now, the trail always starts behind the freakin’ hockey rink. What morons!) Against all odds, they still found true trail west. Behind the freakin’ hockey rink. Duh! And, before the hare and the rest of the latecummers arrived. They went off into the woods and began to frolic in the totally misnamed Clear River. (I could go on forever about the ecologifical imprecations about this freakin’ body of ‘water’. But I depress.)

Meanwhile, back at the start, the hare arrived along with Async, Oozing, Bondo, SESYB, myself and a bunch of other losers in the second wave. (You know who you are!) The hare gave some instructions (and snuck some flour and chalk to his secret co-hare Periodic Table Dancer, so’s she could really screw things up, I bet!). They finally started out after the lead pack, which by this time had separated into two: a group milling about aimlessly by a fence separating them from the Burrillville Landfill, and Dr WHO and Mrs Robinson, who had crossed the river and were intimately exploring their common interests in some really excellent shiggy leading back to Whipple Road. The water had a brown foul-smelling algae characteristic of high level coliform seepage. And the rain was coming down pretty good, by now. I bet you wanks who didn’t show up are pretty envious at this point, aren’t you!

Meanwhile, in East Providence, WIPOS said to his wife: “Oh, I don’t miss hashing at all! I’d much rather stay here and chastise my teenaged daughter while I help you organize your tea-cozies.” And PW, in Cranston, said: “Oh, I wish those wankers would let me hare , for once! I’m such a great hare. For cryin’ out loud!”

And, up in Boston, Cream Whora, Puff-‘n-Stuff, and Anal Avenger were taking a field trip to Drumlin Farm for the annual Sheep-Shaggin’ Jamboree. O, I don’t think I want to describe any more, thank you very much!

Well by now the second wave caught up with the first, led by me of course, thanks to my excellent woodcraft and almost uncanny skill on trail. Most of us made it out to Whipple Road at various points of egress from the woods (as my freakin’ PChem teacher would say). But Oozing had local knowledge and hopped the fence into the landfill. Even SESYB was too smart to follow him for long, so in a short time, he was alone with his compost. And no easy freakin’ egress for him, I can tell you! Just the way he likes it. And we like it too, when he’s away, I mean!

Meanwhile, back at the start, a whole bunch of wankers from Newport showed up. I guess the bowling alleys were closed for the holidays or something. I think APC, Lil’ Debbie and Radioactive Semen were some of their names, but who can keep track. (I mean they live in freakin’ Newport for cryin’ out loud. That’s even farther from Connecticut than Rhode Island is, I think! And now that I live in Massachusets (it always takes me a while to learn the spelling when I move to a new state), forget it! I think they’re like three or four states away from me.) They went to work right away. I heard they like tried to set up a temporary bowling alley in the Nipmuc Village Longhouse behind the school, but I could be wrong. Anyways, they delayed long enough to be sure that they missed the beer check.

Meanwhile, Dr WHO and Mrs. Robinson had reluctantly burst through the muck, jewelweed and poison ivy and were running back and forth on Whipple Road, trying to catch scent or sound of the pack. Oozing was exploring a gas pocket on the hillside of the landfill with a cigarette lighter. Bondo was trying to control his crippled dog, who was only trying to turn his master to the true trail, for cryin’ out loud! Periodic Table Dancer was putting “X”s all over the place to ensure complete confusion for the followers. This was getting good.

I, of course was in charge of my group and led south on Whipple under 102 to a check which led back into the woods northeast on a railroad grade, and crossed the Victory Highway on Mill Street. A “SC” led into the mill pond and was tempting, but I saw that the hare had somehow acquired a yellow bag with cups and jugs. No way was I letting him out of my sight. WHO and Mrs. Robinson showed up, finally set on the right trail by some Uncle Jed and Granny-types who were re-shingling their porch on Whipple. They discovered a “No Trespassing” sign. That’s like a red flag to a bull for these guys. Off again into some woods. A mill surviving only as a foundation and a single wall was encountered. Trail was followed upstream in the Branch River to the dam. (This water had unusual fluorescent green algae suggestive of the results seen in early experiments with atomic weapons in the 50’s. But at least it didn’t smell so bad.) On the opposite side Async and a few others were milling about at the destitute beer check. The hare was closely tailed now by WHO and me. We may be slow, but we’re dumb. We came up to the beer check. It was immediately apparent that the hare had planned for the usual RIH3 attendance of 4 or 5, and didn’t have enough beer to even raise a fart from the average hasher. What a wank!

Luckily, Fuwangi chose this moment to go downstream rather than up. Bondo was still trying to force his dog to go over to St Teresa’s. Oozing found out what happens when you examine a gas pocket in a landfill with a cigarette lighter. The Newporters encountered mud. They had never seen this before, on the well-paved Aquidneck Island. They should get out more. They spent some time trying to analyze it. They found it didn’t work very well for bowling. By the time they decided to move on, everyone had already left the beer check.

OK then. We left the BC finally, because Oozing arrived. We headed northeast along the river, led by me, of course. The trail was mostly deer-path and some overgrown trails and if the freakin’ water table had been normal, there would have been some fine shiggy, I can tell you. This freakin’ drought is really starting to piss me off. But just about everyone knew that the hare’s house was due east, so no one was about to miss the right turn. The pack came out through a woman’s yard. She watched from the window and says: “I thought you guys were supposed to be running?” What does Basket tell his freakin’ neighbors, anyways? Is he trying to convince them he’s like an athlete or something? Keerist!

Well, we straggled up to the infamous 290 Snake Hill, in a nice drizzle, to find a fine collection of dry wankers and auto-hashers warm in the kitchen, eating all our freakin’ food. (And it had to be the big boys too. Friar F*ck, Free Willy and Tinker, they can sure put away the chow, dammit. If Bondo and WHO’d been there, there wouldn’t have been a scrap left for the pack for sure!) Over the next half-hour most of the crew checked in, and the hare, anxious to avoid his just desserts, called the circle to order.

Well, that’s an exaggeration. The hare had no control whatsoever, and if it hadn’t been for the sheep-like behaviour of Oozing and Bondo and Birdbrain and the Boston Wanks, no one would have paid any attention to the hare. But they did and they gathered. Ratings for the run were interrupted by freakin’ latecomers, arriving against all odds.  Overall, the ratings would have been horrendous. What a freakin’ recycle job! But it had rained. There were rivers crossed. There was mud. There were no bowling venues. Bondo, Oozing and Fuwangi had missed beer at the beer check. Fuwangi was still lost, despite no less than three expeditions to go out and find him. Hooray! Run of the week! Score: 6.9!

Meanwhile, Fuwangi, weak from lack of beer, staggered hopelessly through the woods, a sense of impending doom, of a hovering evil, of the end of all sensibility. But he found a half-smoked Marlboro in the crotch of a poison-ivy bush, lit it and regained his optimism. He somehow knew he would get back! As God was his witness, HE WOULD GET BACK!  (And in fact he DID get back finally, although by that time, we all had lost interest and were not about to let him cut in on the lines to get the little food that was left, I can tell you!)

Hashit went through the usual convoluted sequences, and was given by Oozing variously to Bondo, Async, and At Your Cervix (for actually requesting the sight of Basket’s Ring. Twice!! O, the horror!), but was ultimately given by universal acclaim to Fuwangi. He promptly jumped into the pool. Another Hashit down the tubes!

As I said the ceremony was out of control. So, ultimately when it was declared over, and we Swung Low, everyone breathed a sigh of relief. Finally, we could eat. Finally, we could wear adult incontinence diapers and have a competition to see who could fill them the best. Finally Basket could get naked and jump in the pool Finally we had a chance to compare breasts: Boston v. Newport, with Rhode Island declining because Bondo had a bit of a chill and didn’t want to take his top off! Finally, Basket put his clothes back on! Finally, I could make my excuses and head back to Marlboro MA and hit the Marlboro House O’ Pizza and get myself a large with extra cheese and a pitcher of Bud. Hey, it’s not Mark’s, but it’s home for me now.

On On

The Raging Queen of Beers