Tinker McVeigh Memorial Swamp Briar Hash (the real write-up)

Run #993, April 18, 2005

Hare:  Dr. WHO

Location:  Tiverton, Eight Rod Farm Management Area.

Weather:  High 50's, clear.

Present:  Tinker, Basket, Async, Oozing, Trail Hoover, Dry Foot Fairy, and Seamus. Visitors: Pud Pirate (Boston H3), Fudgy (Boston H3), FMT (Hartford H3).

Not Present:  Bondo Jovi, Fuwangi Boner, WIPOS, Areola (Week #15).

The Run:

It was a beautiful, clear, balmy spring day, making for completely shitty hash weather. Hashers were instructed to park in a lot off Rt. 77, across from Pond Rd. Dry Foot Fairy arrived first, followed by Follow My Tits from Hartford. They were unable to seize upon the obvious opportunity to exchange sexual favors. Pathetic! WHO appeared from a field to the east. Dr. WHO, that is. Async arrived, then Tinker arrived. Tinker? Tinker?? Yes, Tinker!!! Straight from Logan Airport, right off the plane from Bangkok, and clutching his passport with a death grip, as he was undoubtedly subjected to the full invasive “treatment” by Homeland Security. He must have still been high from the fine Thai yam-yam (smack), as his first priority was to go hashing. He offered gifts and all were happy.

Pud Pirate, a Bahston hasher, arrived. Oozing and Trail Hoover finally showed, dragging a hesitant Fudgy along, also a BH3 hasher who had not hashed in years. What a fine way to return to hashing! Stories from Hashapalooza were shared, and some wore stolen red BH3 hats. Yet none of the five (!) potential virgins promised by the hare were present. Everyone became restless. Giving up on the virgins, they were off. And after a quick check on Rt. 77, they headed east onto an uphill field leading into Eight Rod Farm, an area never before defiled by RIH3. Excellent! No virgins, but at least rare virgin territory! Upon Basket’s late arrival, the pack instinctively picked up the pace.

They arrived at a check on a corner of a corn field. Pud Pirate, Async, and Oozing dispersed to find trail. All found inconsistent marks. Trail circle jerked the leaders clockwise through adjacent fields. Eventually, Oozing, with his finely honed adaptation skills, started to run directly to the opposite corners of each corn field. The trail then bent southward and reached another corn field corner heavily guarded by briars. This allowed the pack to come together, and unfortunately, Basket to catch up. Basket, wearing his “Drugs are our Friends” t-shirt in memory of the Timothy McVeigh thing 10 years ago, obviously took the shirt much too literally, as he was high as a kite on some super-narcotic. To make matters worse (as if possible), he spotted Tinker and became uncontrollably giddy with excitement. Much too excited and doped-up, he took the lead running faster than humanly possible. The rest struggled to keep pace, even Seamus.

They all continued south and reached a small stone wall, again well guarded by briars. Basket, feeling no pain whatsoever, blew right through the briars leaving chunks of flesh and blood. Fudgy, already confused and nervous, said something like, “This is Rhode Island shiggy?” Duh! But it was only to get better. Feeling sick to her stomach, FMT wondered if she should ditch the run and go back to Hartford, yet she bravely continued. Async, Oozing, Trail Hoover, and Fudgy were trying their best to keep up with Basket as trail led through a maze of tall pine trees and onto a dirt road leading into hardwoods.

Pud Pirate, having almost above average intelligence, allowed the other wankers to find the obscure trail. He ran with Tinker who shared some fine sex stories fresh from Thailand. Not wanting to miss any action, Dr. WHO and FMT excitedly listened in as well. The trail led into what could only be described as the Appalachia of Rhode Island, as they encountered run-down shacks that appeared to be inhabited by inbreds. A still for making moonshine was spotted. The silent, abandoned chickens houses made everyone edgy. Trail Hoover swore she heard a banjo playing a terrifyingly familiar tune. Oozing thought he heard someone deep in the woods exclaim, “Squeal like a pig, boy! Haweeee! Haweeeee!” Async wished he brought his compound bow and flesh-ripping, razor-tipped arrows, while wearing nothing but a black commando vest over his ripping peck muscles. The ignorant bunch of hashers ran faster until reaching a check far too deep in these spooky woods.

Basket sounded his horn to bring everyone onto true trail. Right! Led by the venerable Async, they soon reached a field filled with florescent orange clay pigeons (used for skeet shooting). A clay pigeon flew from out of nowhere and hit Async in the head. Another one hit Dry Foot in the head. And then Trail Hoover was assaulted by these flying orange projectiles. A back check 6.9 was discovered (Brilliant!), as well as Basket, hiding behind a wooden box and hurling clay pigeons at his fellow hashers (typical behavior if he was Fuwangi). Basket giggled with wide-eyed excitement. Back on trail, Tinker offered wise advice to the much perplexed and frightened visitors and said, “Always go the opposite direction of Basket.” Dry Foot continued to demonstrate his fine lack of judgment and followed Basket.

Running east then turning north, Basket blazed his way wrecklessly through large fields of briars, leaving more chunks of flesh for the others to follow. Briars led to more briars, and more briars (did I mention briars?). Apparently Dr. WHO took Oozing’s advice to set a briar trail (see #786). The briars gave way to fields of mud and muck. Dry Foot, trying futilely to keep his namesake, found trail and led an incomprehensibly singing Basket “hoo hoo, hoo hoo hoo; hoo hoo, hoo hoo hoo…” into a swampy, stinky marsh. Deep into the mud, muck, and stench, Dry Foot discovered a back check. Seizing the golden opportunity, Basket joined Dry Foot (with Dr. WHO playing along) and suckered most of the wankers deep into the fine Rhode Island shiggy. The stench alone was enough to kill a cow. Only Tinker and Pud Pirate had the presence of mind NOT to follow Basket, et al. and remained on true trail to quickly take the lead. Tinker was the FRB! Holy hellfire sh*t!!

A “W” was reached under a tree (but some thought it was really an upside-down "M"), marking a well-deserved whisky (moonshine) check. Single malt Glenfiddich (Scottish moonshine) was enjoyed with refreshing spicy hot peanuts. Half the pack, quickly losing precious blood from their open wounds, used the alcohol to starve off impending infection and an inevitable need for a tetanus shot. Well, that’s what normal people would have done. Instead, they drank the scotch (moonshine). Basket, still high and uncontrollably giddy over Tinker’s arrival, quickly broke into un-recognizable German song. The visitors drank in nervous silence, savoring the scotch (moonshine), their only source of comfort. The regulars shook their heads in much too well-known disappointment. And the now traumatized Seamus began to eat black mud. After hashing for something like 50 years, Async openly commiserated if he should give up hashing. Hashing just doesn’t get any better than this!

Basket was so severely wounded from the briars, that mere mortals would be unable to walk. However, the potent narcotics (compliments of Fuwangi) urged him to quickly start back on trail. In typical hap-hazard fashion, Basket ignored the marks and short-cutted true trail and led the pack a whopping 200 yards directly to the beer check (Brilliant!). With a “BN” marked on an old, dilapidated, rat-infested barn, Basket and Dry Foot hurriedly (stupidly) ran through the barn and continued on a dirt road. Async, the only “thinking” hasher this evening, easily found the beer in an adjacent barn. 200 yards past the beer check, Basket and Dry Foot finally turned around to join the others. With a terrified group huddled inside the barn, Oozing had the brilliant idea to try to barricade the doors to keep Basket out. Basket, feeling no pain, easily broke through this futile barricade. They gave up and instead savored the fine Imperial Stout and refreshing Dogfish Head IPA offered by the hare.

Expecting a crowd from nearby Newport (yeah, right!) and five promised virgins (yeah, right!), the hare brought enough beer for a small army. They broke into song. The piles of horse manure under their feet inspired a pathetic impromptu version of “Sweet Violets.” Despite being on a farm, no amount of singing could make anyone's rhubarb rise. There was, however, an ode to FMT's pubic hairs. Finishing their beers, they were off. Directed by the hare, they headed east along a dirt road to a bone check (what the f**k’s a bone check?). With the drugs finally wearing off, Basket floundered in the back of the pack. This caused the others, particularly the visitors, to run faster. True trail was north, along a small paved road, passing some houses. The FRB Dry Foot came across an arrow pointing east into an open field. He followed the marks leading into a large excavated hole filled with black muck and probably some toxic waste dump. Nobody except Oozing followed, so they turned around to join the others.

As it got dark, all safely reached the hare’s car in a small lot along Eight Rod Way. Three teenage boys, returning from fishing, rather wanking, in a nearby pond, were inquisitive of the hashers. Basket did not pass up the opportunity to try to recruit (sexually molest) these youthful virgins for the 2015 hash season. Circle was held in a nearby field. As they started “Monks of St. Bernard” Fudgy and Trail Hoover took things too seriously, and actually did turn the green leaves yellow. Tinker, not knowing if he was still hallucinating from the Thai smack, spotted a mysterious boat approaching the circle. They all looked around to determine if they had mistakenly circled in a lake. Perhaps they did – a mystery to be solved.

Comments on the run: Virgin territory (Excellent!), copious shiggy (Fantastic!), Tinker (Unbelievable!), no Bondo and no Fuwangi (Incredible!), a single malt whisky check (Spectacular!), fine beer in a barn full of shit (Terrific!), a clay pigeon 6.9 back check (Extraordinary!), 3 visitors from 2 states (Wow!). Total: +0.69. Another brilliant run by the legendary Dr. WHO. The only negatives: Nobody lost (ala Basket), lack of promised virgins, and horrible hashing weather (see #990 for perfect hashing weather). Nevertheless, it was still a strong contender for Hash of the Year! Hashit: Dry Foot Fairy for his brilliant pre-emptive write-up. And to commemorate the return of Tinker, Dry Foot tried to sing “Irian Jaya.” Pathetic. Down downs for the visitors and Tinker the backslider.

They headed to Li’l Bear Lounge for On-on-on and pizza and beer. FMT went straight home, as she suffered from nausea due to all the blood on trail. Dry Foot and Dr. WHO were mysteriously absent as well. They finally arrived and shared a horrific tale of being apprehended by the DEM police just as they left the management area parking lot. Apparently there had been a recent crack down on area parking lots for rampant homosexual activity. For we’re all queers together, that’s why we go out in pairs (but I digress). Unlike Bondo, Dry Foot’s smart thinking and quick action permitted the law enforcement officer to set them free without incident. Unfortunately, Dry Foot had to perform sexual acts on the officer, and vice versa. Dr. WHO stood by and watched with a big grin. Hashing doesn’t get any better than this!

Everyone was starving from the fine evening’s adventures, and they quickly devoured four large pizzas, leaving nothing for poor Seamus. Song broke out and the other patrons quickly (smartly) disappeared. By now, even Fudgy and Pud Pirate eagerly sang along (it was probably the beer). Trail Hoover, apparently going mad from too many RIH3 hashes, started piecing together verses of “Bang My Balls” in some kind of Hawaiian accent. Basket, already gone mad, joined Trail Hoover in this obscure song. The typical shenanigans ensued.. blah, blah, blah. $10 each (Brilliant!). And another complete waste of an evening concluded, with Tinker regretting ever leaving Thailand.

On On

Dry Foot Fairy