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Sin City Hash House Harriers & Harriettes ReHash #266.1 (or #266.9, depending on who is counting) - The Implosion Hash Sunday 28 December 2002, 0730 (7:30 a.m.), HEAD First Café "There is a fine line between 'hobby' and 'mental illness'." - Dave Berry [The reader will please excuse the Mother Given Names cited later in these passages. The story cannot be told without such otherwise-criminal usage.] THE WEE HOURS BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP What's that damn noise? BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP Shit. It's my alarm. BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP Fuck. Isn't it Sunday morning?? Why the fuck is my alarm alarming on Sunday morning... BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP ...at 6-effing-10 in the morning! Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Whence this blasted befogged brain?! BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP Huh... whassthis? Why am I on the floor and not in a nice warm, comfy bed?? Damn, I didn't miss the bed again, did I? BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP Okay, eyes, fer shitsake, let's open... gotta find the damn alarm and beat the livin' shit out of it, then finger out what the hey...... BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEE..... There, finally got it. Oh, shitfire, that's right, I'm not even at home! I've spent the night after the Pajama Hash drooling on Beat It's floor (rather than on my on mattress) (thank you for the accommodation, Beat It), cuz... uhhhh.... well, OF COURSE! ...now I remember!! Hash this morning.... excellent!! But, Gawd, we're meeting at WHEN?!! 0-effing-7-effing-30 at the HEAD First.... well, happy-happy-joy-joy, at least Jeff (NHN) said he'd have the bar open and be serving beer. THAT's what this body needs! Welp, best get my arse off the floor, go pee, de-fog with some coffee, and get back into the skankoid Hashing attire... Just who the hell had THIS brilliant idea, anyway?? Okay, Mystic Blow is up and about, so is Beat It. Still in her jammies from last night, Fucking' Nuthin' is so bright-eyed-n-bushy-tailed that she's declared that she's "goin' fuckin' home and fuckin' gettin' a fuckin' shower and fuckin' goin' to fuckin' bed - and maybe I'll see yer fuckin' arses at the fuckin' Apres" (or something to that effect). Yeah, FN, I'll hold my breath... criminny, if *I* laid down again, I'd be out for the duration. Just ONE more slurp of coffee - and, gawd, don't even make me LOOK at that bagel or I'll yakk all over yer arm - and I'll be ready to HEAD out. Only a five or six block walk, but I'm drivin' this time... don't want to expend any unnecessary energy - and, besides, need to have the car closer to Slut's for a quick getaway after the Apres. Now THERE's planning - is this brain on top of things, or WHAT? On-Tower-Place-Garage... THAT's only a two-block walk to the HEAD First. Amazing half-mind, eh?! And how the hey do I get out of this hazy flashback?? Oh, okay... roll over, go back to sleep, and when I wake, it'll all just have been a dream....... Auntie Em!! Auntie Em!!!! Where's Toto??!! THE IMPLOSION Okay, so much for that idea. Now it's 0720ish, it's still Sunday morning, and here we are at the HEAD First Café, and, somehow, I already have a pint of Bass Ale in my quivering hand.... thanks for the loan, Organ Grinder, my liver thanks you from the bottom of my heart (or something like that) - you really DO have a way with Organs. Why are we here so damned early? Well, donchaknow, it's Implosion Day!! The day we bid farewell to (or, rather, watch be converted to a pile of rubble) the old ballpark, Riverfront Stadium, Cinergy (huh?) Field, and the Big Bang (not to mention the Implosion) is scheduled for 0800. Following that, being that this drinking club *does* have a running problem, we're actually going to partake in whatever devious and ghastly diversion Hot Tub Slut and Botham have in their half-minds for us. What IS wrong with this picture?? It's almost time to meander across the street to obtain the ass-close-ass-possible viewing location for the event-of-the-day (second only to the Hash, of course). But before I get to that, by now, I'm sure, your half-mind is curious about who joined us for this morning's festivities. Well, in lexicographic order, those of us who rose (and shined) for the occasion were: Anal Vice, Beat It, Best Blow, Bloody Maxi Pad, Blue Balls, Can't Get It Up, Certified Pubic Accuntant, Dah Gimp, Eager Beaver, Eagle Baby, Fatal Fart (too cold to run!), Golden Showers, Hot Wax Me Off, Hyper Hand Job, Joe NHN (all the way from Cow Town!), John NHN Simmons, Kunt Hunt, Mystic Blow, On Your Knees, Organ Grinder, Pubic Zirconia, Quarter Barrel, Scum Sucking Fecal Feeliac, Stinky Winkie, and The Unalicker. Anyway, as I was saying, 0750ish we HEADed to the corner of Race and Second Streets - near Paul Brown Stadium, basically across the street from the HEAD First - to establish our viewing position. Mystic astutely noted (who connected HER brain this early in the morning?!) that the multitudes of police cars with flashing lights made the scene look more like a Dirty Harry film than that of an impendent implosion. But Harry Callahan never showed. So the three- two- and one-minute warnings were sounded - either that, or the wank in the police car only a few feet from us was showing off how ear-splittingly, brain-explodingly LOUD his siren could blare - to wit: EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE YOWza. I need (NEED) a Hash Whistle like that!! EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE What? Did somebody say something?? All I can hear is EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE And then it began in Earnest (or whomever was in charge of igniting the charges)... from Riverfront Stadium, flashes of bright white light followed by the accompanying earth-shaking cannon shots... BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM Emeril run amok! BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM ...progressing counterclockwise around the standing structure... ...then that hair's breadth microsecond when the half-mind thought, "wait... nothing else is happening!"... ...and, almost instantly then, like a drunk who has lost his legs, the collapse began, neat and orderly, gracefully, following the same progression as the preceding blasts, and the former stadium rolled inward upon itself. To sleep, perchance to dream. Death. Peace at last. Soon all that was to be seen was the huge cloud of billowing dust, mushrooming ever outward in the windless morning from the site of the former stadium. Now, okay, I have to admit, THAT was a reason to get my arse out of bed (or off the floor) at some ridiculous Sunday morning hour! Now, On-Back to the HEAD First to quench the thirst that we'd acquired with all that oooohing and aaaaaaahing, and to get ready for the REAL reason that we're here - "trail", that is... what ever lay in store for us courtesy of Botham and Hot Tub Slut. THE RUN (um, "RUN") aka TRAIL Soon, the dust cloud engulfed our venue, and those of us who stepped outside for a better look are now, I suppose, carrying atomized souvenirs of Riverfront Stadium in our lungs. How nice. (HACK!) Fortunately, this not only bought more thirst-quenching time, but also more pre-run time for the Hares to explain in meticulous, pain-staking detail how the day's outing would work. That's right, dear Hashers, we would not be chasing the Hares in the traditional manner, but would be chasing clues around downtown Sin City. Pairs of Hashers ("teams") would be given hint sheets, and then, following the Hares' trail and strict rules, run from location to location to try to find bits of information about various downtown buildings. And these weren't easy questions! How many bricks and how many wheelbarrows of mortar were used in the construction of this building?, how much does that building weigh to the nearest pound or kilogram?, using only the barometer provided, determine the height of this building.... And beyond that, the "teams" would be timed and the answer sheets scored, with each wrong answer penalizing the "team's" time by one additional minute! Stop me when this sounds cumpetitive. [For everyone's information and amusement, the following attachments append this document: The Guidelines (Attachment 1), Treasure Hunt Sheet 1 aka first half of trail (Attachment 2), Treasure Hunt Sheet 2 aka second half of trail (Attachment 3), and the By-team Results (Attachment 4). We still await the "awards" for Win, Place, and Show, not to mention that for DFL.] As the enveloping dust cloud changed from a darkening pall to a mere August-in-Sin-City-like haze, our Hares called the Circle to order for the purpose of ascertaining that we all cumpletely understood our erections (what's to understand about erections?), and, using a hand-held random-number generator, to match us into "team" pairs - in a totally random fashion, of course. Fortunately, as noted, the cold (high 20s, low 30s?) weather was keeping Fatal Fart off the streets (she graciously "volunteered" to be a Hare Assistant, since there would be more than the usual ("usual" = big fat zero) mental gymnastics involved in the Hash's outcum), so there was an even number of us. If you've already checked the results attachment, you'll know that the entirely and absolutely randomly selected "team" pairs were Anal Vice and Mystic Blow (yeah, THAT was random!), Quarter Barrel and Scum Sucking Fecal Feeliac, Can't Get It Up and Best Blow, Eager Beaver and Joe NHN, The Unalicker and Kunt Hunt, Organ Grinder and Eagle Baby, Dah Gimp and Certified Pubic Accuntant, Hot Wax Me Off and Blue Balls, Stinky Winkie and John NHN Simmons, On Your Knees and Bloody Maxi Pad, Golden Showers and Pubic Zirconia, and Beat It and Hyper Hand Job. Now, to minimize the confusion that would obviously choke the city more certainly that the just-passed cloud of imploded stadium smoke, "teams" would leave the HEAD First in one-minute intervals. Stinky Winkie was on the last "team" to be drawn (um, I mean "randomly generated"), so would time all the other "teams" out the door. A slicker-than-snot-on-a-doorknob operation, eh? And we were off - at one-minute intervals, that is. Mystic Blow and I were the fifth "team" away, and by the time we rounded the first corner (one-half block, mind you) we could still see the fourth "team" away (Organ Grinder and Eagle Baby) wandering aimlessly and staring toward the sky at the tall buildings. Not been in the big city before, eh, boys? Okay, I'll spare you the blow-by-blow (as well as the Best-Blow-by-Best-Blow) details - the attachments are adequate for an understanding of where we went and what we had to discover - but suffice it to say the many "teams" were passing one-another willy-nilly up and down the streets of town, attempting to find not only obscure lintel engravings, sidewalk plaques, cornerstones, and the like, but entire buildings themselves. "A church? A CHURCH?! There AIN'T no steenking CHURCH at THIS intersection!!" ...and five minutes later, on we ran, more confused than ever. If not for that cumpetitive NEED to sprint aimlessly around town seeking these little-known data, it would have been truly a smile just to observe the antics of all the other "teams". Now, as if the quest to this point hadn't been amusing enough (how much can a Hasher take?), our arrival at the Beer Near (the lush Phoenix Café on Walnut Street) found our Hares, our Hare Assistant (looking very chilly), and all prior-arriving "teams" standing outside - nay, not in the warmth of the barroom, but OUTside, staring at the INside through the gaping hole where the front window had been until earlier that morning, and tip-toeing around the shards of glass littering the sidewalk. Yes, kids of all ages, it seems that our Beer Near was a Crime Scene, and we were not to go inside until police arrived to "investigate". Well, given the quantity of Sin City's finest that were seen while we were running the first half of this trail (making sure we didn't jay-walk or jay-run), there should have been an entire company there within seconds - lights flashing and sirens screaming just like in a Dirty Harry film! But no. Twenty-odd (and I do mean odd) minutes later, we're still standing out front of the Phoenix Café, and not a police officer in sight - just a couple of the Phoenix's "usual" Sunday morning customers staggering by wondering at the oddly-dressed crowd and wondering at the broken glass and closed bar ("damn, on-back to the Bay Horse!") - not to mention the kindly stranger with thermoses full of some rum or vodka (or both) based nog-like beverages (give it to Hashers, they'll drink ANYthing!). Additionally, by this time, we were still missing the Quarter Barrel-Scum Sucking Fecal Feeliac and Golden Showers-Pubic Zirconia "teams", so Botham began trotting backwards on trail in search of these lost (or just deeply-in-research?) souls. Soon enough, though, they were spotted, QB and SSFF finally exploring the façade of Provident Bank, and GS and PZ cumming down the block from the totally wrong erection. Do not ask if we were surprised. Still many-odd minutes later, no police had arrived to "investigate" (what's to investigate? - this is a weekly occurrence at the Phoenix!), so the proprietors finally allowed us inside. What can one say about the Phoenix. Walls and ceiling all painted (painted??) tar-and-nicotine brown, cushionless steel bar stools, ceiling fans caked with years of... of.... of, well, "accumulation", for lack of a better word. But at least they had beer. Hudy DeLite, I believe. Well, then, okay, they ALMOST had beer. I didn't know they still brewed ("brewed") that stuff. If nothing else, the Hares and Hare Assistant were provided a place to regroup and organize for the second half of today's run. And by the time the glaziers (two guys with hammers and crowbars in a pick-up truck) arrived to replace (board-up) the window, we were refreshed and ready to once again HEAD out onto the streets of Sin City. Same routine as when we left the HEAD First, Stinky Winkie again calling time as the teams departed. Only, here at the Phoenix, we were cheered-on by the "regular" at the first bar stool (HIS stool, no doubt): "Run, Forrest, RUN!" We expected no less. Confusion and hither-yon-amuck running were, as on the first half of the run, the rules of the road on the second half of the run. But now, well aware of where the On-In was, one wise Hash "team" - that'd be Dah Gimp with only mild objections from Certified Pubic Accuntant - decided the highest-scoring strategy might be to forego all but the most local and obvious questions, and sprint erectly back to the 4th & Plum apartments, home of our Hares, Hot Tub Slut and Botham. And that they did, while the rest of us were entertaining the locals, including some of the maintenance crew at Christ Church who shouted my mother-given name from a window, wanting to know what-the-hey we were all doing running back-and-forth in front of and STARING at their cathedral. (Fortunately, no one else heard that mother-given name.) But back to Gimp and CPA. Since it was a rather short distance as the crow flies (or as the Short Cutting Bastard short cuts) from the luxurious Phoenix Café back to 4th & Plum, the Hares had not yet returned when Gimp and CPA arrived on the stoop. "So," you ax, "what is the significance of this? Is Gimp not ALWAYS off trail? So what if he beat the Hares back to the On-In?!" Well, have some patience, you nincompoop, and I'll tell you. Seems that while the Hares were trotting westbound on the south side of 4th Street en route to said On-In (laying trail all the while, mind you), they spotted Dah Gimp and Certified Pubic Accuntant trotting westbound on the north side of 4th street. Wary of a potential snare, our fast-thinking Hares took refuge behind handy light posts. Okay, they may be quick thinkers, but surely they realized that they're slightly wider than lamp posts?? Well, nevertheless, to the chagrin of Gimp and CPA, the Hares' quasi-stealth worked, and the former duo strolled on past, unaware and oblivious. Ah, the half-minds of true Hashers! THE CIRCLE As at the Beer Near, "teams" straggled On-In for a good half-hour or so. All except for the "team" of Golden Showers, that is, as Pubic Zirconia had to depart soon after the Beer Near for another commitment. Of course, this strongly resembled the BN, so the worry factor remained low. The major notable difference between this venue and the BN (beyond the color of the inside walls) was that all glass plates were in tact. Hmmm, a good thing. Less drafty. So, those that remained (Organ Grinder and Eagle Baby had to scoot for other afternoon obligations, but first swung by on 4th Street in the new Mini-Cooper - a right impressive ride, OG, especially with that foot sticker.) adjourned to the roof for the Circle - scene of many other such notable proceedings (talk about crime scenes!). Now, be forewarned that the details here are sketchy, as neither I nor anyone else was taking notes. I do apologize for the omission of almost all proceedings. I do recall that the Hares drank heartily and frequently for shitty trail, crime scene at the BN, cumpetitve Hash event, and yadda, yadda, yadda - and I think that Hare Aide Fatal Fart also drank. And I do believe that Golden Showers drank for tardy arrival... not bad at all, though, for having done the entire second half of trail by himself with so few incorrect answers! Additionally, Joe NHN drank for his new shoes (and dang proud of those $19.95 new shoes he was!) - we allowed Joe NHN to skate by with a down-down from his cup, as he looked somewhat dismayed (somewhat dismayed? - how about totally overwhelmed and aghast?!) at the proposition of having a beer from his (or Dah Gimp's, for that matter) shoe - guess they don't do that in Cow Town, eh? I also recall that The Unalicker was constantly getting herself into trouble (yeah, I know, so what ELSE is new?), so that she and Kunt Hunt (when ONE "team" partner drinks, ALL "team" partners drink!) were continually in the Circle... just wish I remembered specific instances. In any case, EVERYbody sing!! "...drink your beer, get outta here, and get back in the kitchen!" Further, Certified Pubic Accuntant was called to the middle of the Circle at the behest of several(?) in the group who had attended a Hasher-friendly ice skating event where he was also present. Apparently, CPA had boasted of being a regular Brian Boitano on ice skates, but his very FIRST move on the ice was nothing less than a face plant that resulted in not only a bloody mess on the ice (where is Bloody Maxi Pad when you need him?!), but also a call to the paramedics to stop the bleeding and to extract his nose from the inside of his HEAD (something like sucking the dent out of the hood of a car, I imagine). Okay, well maybe that last part was a tad of an exaggeration. But, nevertheless, since it was pointed out that we've never liked the name Certified Pubic Accuntant all that much anyway, a renaming was in order, and Homo Feeliac (from Hemophiliac) was suggested since he is such a bleeder. Needless to say, the "Ayes" were uproarious, both "in favor" and "opposed", so from this point forward (at least until he does something even MORE outstanding!), Certified Pubic Accuntant shall be known as Homo Feeliac. Congratulations, Homo Feeliac! And, of course, Scum Sucking Fecal Feeliac joined our renamee for his down-down, because, at least for such auspicious occasions, when ONE Feeliac drinks, ALL Feeliacs drink! And certainly no reHash would be complete without axing if there were any nominations for Wile E. Well, yes! ...there were nominations - or, more accurately, was A nomination for Wile E. But first, what has Wile E. acquired since living with Beat It. Why, does he not look resplendent in his new "Beat It" glove?! Beat It beamed with motherly pride, and pointed out that Wile E. had obtained a boner - uh, BONUS, that is (he's had that BONER so long that I am envious!) - flashy new red cape to accentuate his glove. Nice, Beat It, very nice. In any case, the "add something" guideline having been satisfied, WHO might the nominee to inherit Wile E. be? Dare we say... DAH GIMP?! Why, certainly! What other devious half-mind could concoct a ruse so "wily" (that being the key word) as to shortcut the entire second half of trail in hopes of making up in time what would be lost in incorrect answer penalties, convince his "team" mate of the legitimacy and likely ultimate success of the plan - and then in execution, not ONLY fail to achieve the conspiracy's devious goal, but ALSO unwittingly trot past the Hares without snaring or even spying them?! Can you say, "DAH GIMP"? Sure, I knew you could! I don't even need to explain that the "ayes" had it without question, and - despite his own verbal objections, wheedling, blustering, excuse-making, and counter-nominating - Gimp was on his knees (On Your Knees?) in the Circle, welcumming Wile E. back to his open arms. Who says you can't go home, eh, Wile E.? (You know you love Wile E. as much as he loves you, Gimp!) As for the remainder of the Circle, I could go on and on and On-ON. Actually, no I couldn't. Like I said, no notes. And lots of suicidal brain cells. Again, apologies to those whose reHash-deserving down-downs I've omitted, but...... on with the pahrTAY. THE APRES So, off (down the stairs) to Slut's for beer (yes, indeed, we NEEDED more beer!), mimosas, beer, cookies, beer, scrambled eggs, beer, coffee cake, homemade beer (spanks, John NHN - that spicy wheat was damn good!), bacon, beer, and a continual feast of mostly unrelated food items that I can barely recall, though I don't doubt that all major food groups were well represented. And beer. Of course. At some point during the proceedings (proceedings?) ...at some point during the talking, drinking, eating, drinking, conversing, drinking, standing around, drinking, yadda, yadda, yadda, our visitor from Cowlumbus was called into a freshly reopened Circle, as he as way too proud of his sprained middle finger and the sky-blue brace that adorned it. (Prouder than of his $19.95 new shoes? Why, yes, I believe so!) This pride (not to mention the fact that Joe NHN was constantly, if involuntarily, flipping-off everyone in his general vicinity) merited a naming. So, what was it to be? Several suggestions were posed before the group, including Little Stiffy (but Dayton already has a Little Stiffy), Finger Fun, etc., etc., but none rang so true or so well as a randomly blurted Rigid Digit. Once again, the "Ayes" unquestionably had it, both "in favor" and "opposed"! So, from this point forward (or at least until he more astutely impresses us or the folks in Cow Town), Joe shall be known as Rigid Digit! Here's to Rigid Digit... now drink your beer and get out of the Circle (and quit flipping-off everyone). At some other point (later) during the proceedings (said talking, drinking, eating, drinking, conversing, drinking, standing around, drinking, yadda, yadda, yadda, as above), a visitor came tap-tap-tapping on Hot Tub Slut's chamber door. (Once upon a midday bleary, while I pondered, buzzed and weary, / Over many a quaint and curious volume of Hashing lore, / While I sipped beer, nearly dripping, suddenly there came a tapping, / As of some one gently rapping, rapping at Slut's chamber door. / "Tis shome vishitor", I slur-ed, "shtapping at Shlut's shhhamber door." / "Only thish, and nothing more.") Nothing more, indeed. "Cummmm IIIinnnnn", we all chimed (slurred?) in unison, only to be greeting by Officer Newman (or, by that point, Ossifer Nhewmamh), one of Sin City's Finest! "Hiya, want shome ssshampagne?!", chirps Mystic Blow, bottle in hand - the offer is politely denied. "I'm looking for David Nelson," says Officer Newman (who, the point must be made, is a very attractive woman). Now, as everyone realizes that Officer Newman IS, in fact, a police officer (hmmm... clues... *real* Sin City uniform, *real* revolver, *real* night stick, *real* hand cuffs), a silence that could be sliced and served on a platter engulfs the room. Nah, not the least bit awkward. "Are we (hic) being shtoo NOISHY?," someone asks. "No, not at all. I just need to speak with Mr. Nelson, if he's here." At this point, Hot Tub Slut pops out of the kitchen, "HI! Are you here to strip?!" Always the optimist, our Hot Tub Slut... one-track mind, questionable tact, but always the optimist. "No, sir. Can you step out to the hallway?" Now even Hot Tub Slut was puzzled. As Officer Newman and Slut descended the stairs, conversations resumed, but the atmosphere of the moment was somewhat more subdued. Our suddenly-reinstated (and temporary, fortunately) sobriety found amazingly piqued curiosities. "What the hell did Slut and Botham DO on trail??" "Where did they trespass THIS time?!" "Do the cops think the flour is anthrax?! Fuck, I hope they haven't called-out the hazmat team." "Are we being accused of breaking that window at The Phoenix?" "Nah, defacing public property for all those marks on the ground." "Gawd, it MUST be the noise!" All sorts of ideas and scenarios were bandied about while Slut and the police officer were out of the room. But they returned momentarily, Officer Newman now stating, "Now I need to talk to Eileen Hogan." Well, I've never seen an expression change like Hot Wax Me Off's expression changed. I didn't know facial muscles could do that. Nevertheless, Waxy now adjourned the room with the officer, and the two returned again within moments, the situation at hand having been resolved. I will not go into the details of same, but will say that Waxy is the first Hasher *I* know to have had a Missing Person's APB initiated on her behalf. CALL your Mother, Waxy!! Now, with Hot Wax Me Off back in contact with her non-Hashing world (I *hate* when that happens!), Officer Newman departed. She did accept a cookie on the way out, but we couldn't talk her into a beer or a mimosa... some weird "on-duty" rule (guideline)... shheeesh! Having allowed some time to pass for more drinking, laughing conversing, eating, drinking, reHashing the events of only moments ago, laughing, drinking, eating, and drinking - of course (OF COURSE), the Hashers assembled wouldn't, COULDn't, and SHOULDN'T let this episode go sans recognition. "The Circle is OPEN! Hot Wax Me Off (still (or again?) on her cell phone), front and center!!" Now, a Hasher so-long-ago named as Hot Wax Me Off is unlikely to be renamed unless the circumstance or event is SO outlandish, SO deserving, SOOOOO embarrassing... nah, we'll not rename Waxy, just continue the tradition of appending to her name - Wax Off to Hot Wax Me Off to..... what shall it be?? By now, Waxy's expression was one of sheer terror, "OHMIGAWD, what HORRID moniker shall I now have to bear?!" Well, thanks to Hot Tub Slut's steel-trap half-mind, the appendage this time was obvious and utterly fitting... so, from this point forward, until she further amuses us to the point of name-appendage, Hot Wax Me Off shall be known as Hot Wax Me OFFICER... congratulations, Hot Wax Me Officer!! Now, quit shaking and do your down-down! Finally, with that episode under our belts (or elastic waist bands), most Hashers who hadn't already done so decided that they'd had enough for one outing. Yes, even Hashers can take only so much "entertainment". Those remaining gathered their belongings (or MOST of their belongings - see the SCH4 Bulletin Board to reclaim your left-behind items) and sauntered into the afternoon. And, no, Officer Newman had not alerted the entire Sin City police force to stick like glue to anyone exiting our party, so, as far as I know, all trips home (or where ever Hashers destinations were this afternoon in December) were without injury to ego or body. Mystic Blow and I stuck for just ONE more beer, Golden Showers for a nap on the love seat (just HOW he could sleep in that position, I do not know, but sleep soundly he did. How do I know he was sleeping soundly? ...we could HEAR him sleeping soundly, THAT's how.). Finally, the afternoon wore away, the Bengals fell behind (all such things in nature are inevitable), and we were off to points north. Many THANKS to Hot Tub Slut and Botham for an extraordinarily amusing Trail and Apres - ass far ass I know, everyone (except maybe Dah Gimp - how IS Wile E., anyway, Gimp?) enjoyed the Treasure Hunt. So be prepared, the Hares have threatened to do another similar Hash in a year or so... say, maybe at the next implosion? Humbly submitted, as always, for your meticulous review and reverent introspection... On-ON, ON-Out, Anal Vice Sin City Hash House Harriers & Harriettes Attachment 1 Attachment 2 Attachment 3 Attachment 4 |