Hash 349 Manifest Destiny Hash Hares: Aching Ass, Hot Tub Slut, The Unalicker After checking the morale of the majority, we can all say it was manifestly too long, too shiggy, too dark, too muddy, too wet, too cold, too hilly, too highway, too byway, too upways and downways, too Kentucky and too little flat Ioway, too hard to range, too little flour, too many thorns, too few hashers, too little food, too many missed beer nears, too this, and too that. In short, it was the Whiner’s Hash. NOTE: I will add my own whine and ask for NO MORE POLITICAL HASHES. Since my notes were destroyed by the weather, I will only be able to write from memory. There are those who make hash-story and those who make it up. Suck it up, buttercup. Get over it. Now, here it comes...The wiley hares dashed into the wilderness, as savages are wont. The pilgrims followed and made much progress, blazing trails and taming the land. There was a cemetery run, a tunnel crawl, a beer near with optional golf ball collecting, a three quarter mile run down the interstate with a 30 mph headwind, a mudslide, a hidden beer near, another run uphill on a busy highway in the dark with no shoulder, and about six miles of intervening road and shiggy. Along the way we found a shovel, a ball, a toilet, an exercise mat, and quite a few other things. Who would have thought we could get our Christmas shopping done on trail. Or is it now Ramahanakwanzas shopping? At the beer near, anticipating others’ arrival, .38 Special said, “I think I’ll blow them. It couldn’t hurt.” Enough said. Finally, it all ended and the pack returned to the start, reconvening in The Office. The circle opened and the hares donned the traditional headdress of the original squatters. They drank for shitty trail. Then they drank for crimes that included shitty trail. Someone pointed out that the trail was shitty, so the hares drank. After that, a visitor or two were introduced, but I don’t have notes of who they were (Just Mike from Datin’?). There were also some MIA accusations but, as Got Crabs? said, miss one hash and you’re getting hit with MIA, so we had quite a few MIAs (possibly NHN Dave, More Leggs, Porkless, PMS, and more). Then the hares drank for a shitty trail, I think. Late cummers drank. They included Asscam, Lube My Johnson, Video X, and maybe others. There were a few bogus pack crimes, such as following trail. The hares drank for mismarking the beer near, which everyone missed. Maybe they miss-marked it on purpose. Their intent was not manifest, so it was their destiny to drink. They claimed it was stolen by pale faces but someone said they put it out then took it back. Asscam and Lube My Johnson drank for autohashing. At one point all IRSs and IRS relatives, all Porks, and everyone who did not go through the tunnel drank with the hares or vice versa. That put just about the whole pack in the circle. More Leggs commented about how circle was taking too long about half way through. Gashole did a ziggy zaggy for some offense, possibly for saying something positive about trail. As RA, he also may have drunk for the weather. There were more crimes, wailing, and gnashing of teeth. Analversaries were drunk (see below) along with birth analversaries (Lube and .38 Special). The special celebration was for Neon Saggers, I mean Knockers. She was given a custom polyethylene jacket commemorating her 200th hash with Sin City. She wore it proudly and nothing else, except a smile. Mystic didn’t even wear her plasti-jacket, because it was stolen at the last hash, along with our innocence. Aching Ass received Wile E. after much gnashing of teeth by Wile E. and whining by AA, who claimed to be a victim after having us run the gauntlet. Anal Vice passed out through shear exhaustion from the ordeal, but after casting his vote for AA. One note of appreciation to the hares, in spite of the whining, for doing this hash, since it was last minute volunteerism from what I am told. Your Scribe, Lube My Johnson Analversaries: stroX coX baXwards - 80 Stinky Winkie - 169 Neon Knockers - 200 Hot Tub Slut – 285 Attendees: Aching Ass Anal Vice Asscam Dan NHN Morgan Gas Hole Got Crabs? Hot Tub Slut Hot Wax Me Officer I Repo Shit Lube Me Up Scotty More Leggs Mystic Blow Neon Knockers Open Wide Organ Grinder Pork My Sister Porkless Stinky Winkie stroX coX baXwards The Unalicker Video X Hares Rebuttal: Maybe it's the cheap bourbon, or the feeling that the hares are going to take more beatings, that persuades me to write a hare's rehash of SCH4 #349. Maybe you could tack it onto Lube's version. Anyway, here we go. Politically sensitive hashers can relax as no mention of the Recent Electoral Unpleasantness will invade this rendition of Saturday's hash. My hasher heart is strong and pure. Only the strong survive. Selah. Saturday morning began with a 09:30 am call from BFH. His voice, heavy with emotion, conveyed the message that he wouldn't be able to show up for the 4:00 pm hash later in the day because his grandfather had just died. All prayers to BFH and his family. With mixed emotions I summoned our most reliable hash friend, HTS. Slut, after a short briefing, agreed to meet me at 10:00 at the starting point for the day's hash. Hash blessings on the Slut who always has a BN in his car, ready to go. Not to mention shirts. Over the course of the next 4 hours we prepared for the "Manifest Destiny Thanksgiving Day" hash. Grand Opening called with the happy news of "Sorry honey, rain showers are forecast to begin at 12:00 pm." Indeed, the sky to the west was dark with clouds fat with rain. The course was reviewed and some finer points were worked out. Beer for the BN's was bought and BN's planted by 2:30 pm. The trail was completely live. This was the second to last day of deer season in Campbell County and there were no illegal hunters in the I-275 and Ft. Thomas sewer right-of-way. At least nobody took a shot at HTS as he jogged ahead of me through the woods. The future was looking pretty good as the rain hadn't come on as predicted. Indeed, the sun was even shining. 4:00 pm. A light rain was falling as HTS and I walked over to the AVmobile. He and Mystic had been there since 3:00 pm -- thanks to pain-induced typo's from Stinky. That's okay Stinky -- we all now wish we'd gone along with the typo. Mystic Blow was suffering from flu-like symptoms that didn't dissuade Organ Grinder from getting into the backseat. HTS and I reassured the occupants about the upcoming event, but cautioned them that the pack had to be away by 4:20 pm. Chalk Talk was quick and the hares were away. uNa was grabbed as a captive hare because she had dressed like Pocahontas. uNa wants everyone to know that Pocahontas means "light and easy" in the Algonquin tongue. HTS and I split upon entering the Evergreen Cemetery, which was chosen to give the pack an opportunity for quiet contemplation. uNa, sobbing loudly, was dragged along through a light drizzle of rain to a beautiful point in the cemetery overlooking I-471 and Moock Rd where we met HTS completing his half of the psuedo-circle jerk. We ran down the hill to Moock Rd. HTS and uNa cried out that Waxy lived in the apartments below and her hot tub was surely available. Nonetheless, we ran up the other side of the valley where we waited for uNa. While I was laying a back check, an angry police officer ran out from some shrubbery and got uNa to stop by hanging onto her braids, while HTS beat it on down to the tunnel. I managed to talk the officer out of arresting us by explaining that: 1) We had the utmost respect for his position -- notwithstanding HTS' escape; 2) We were an ex-military running group; 3) We meant no harm and would be out of the area within minutes; and 4) We could leave uNa with him if that's what it would take. He looked over uNa pretty well, said he was tempted but declined as his wife would object to the whole thing. We were then permitted to go on our way. All respect to these Professional Fun-killers. The climb down to the tunnel was uneventful. uNa cried out for a flashlight and said she had claustrophobia but was ignored; no sense encouraging this sort of behavior. The tunnel seemed a lot darker this time and we all agreed the pack would benefit from the resultant darkness. Bonding their way thru the tunnel as it were. We hung around the BN at the end of the tunnel for a few seconds listening to uNa crying back in the darkness and decided to ditch her. No time for the usual de-flouring of an abandoned captive. "Wait for the pack" we cried and ran on. Two hundred yards later, on the side of the freeway, we had a loud discussion about how we had just missed the turn up into the woods. We decided we were now committed to running on the VERY WIDE SHOULDER of the Interstate. "Oh Shit" cried HTS. Looking back, we could see uNa running after us through the steady rain. Game she is. Nothing to do but put our heads down, avoid eye contact with the oncoming traffic, and run on. The one mile jog along the Interstate led to an ATV trail down through the woods and up a long winding driveway into Ft. Thomas. This was fairly uneventful. A red fox calmly watched us from the creekbed and poachers, crouched in their deer blinds, cursed us as we ran by. It was still fairly light as we crested the ridge at the "Cake" Frisch's and dropped down Hawthorne Avenue to run a very muddy trail to the 2nd BN at River Rd. The 200' climb back up into Ft. Thomas was pretty mean and we only did it because we knew the pack would love us for knowing that they deserved this cruelty. Darkness was now falling, the temperature had dropped and the rain had increased. uNa, full of empathy, cried out the pack would all surely die of hypothermia in the woods. We laid 5 lbs of flour and dozens of hare arrows under the streetlights in the run back to the cars along Ft. Thomas Avenue, Grand Avenue and Highland Avenue. I climbed into my van and drove off into the darkness and pouring rain in search of the pack. Arriving at the 2nd BN, I was shocked to see it hadn't been touched. Not a good sign here. Maybe uNa was right. I drove the route back to the end and found Lube and Asscam. I conned them into autohashing the last 3 blocks. Everyone was ahead of them they said. Good thing. One by one the pack straggled in. Without much rejoicing. The chicken and munchies we'd bought didn't prevent the pack from punishing us pretty severely for the whole event. Water down-downs were the main instrument of torture. OG claimed that the rules said a hash should be no more than 5 miles and said that his whiz-bang GPS technology made the trail out to be 8.8 miles. Nonsense, I know for a fact that the trail was only 6.5 miles. Mystic fixed me with a hard look and said quietly, that it was VERY BAD to run along the Interstate. I could only drop my head and slink away. IRS claimed he'd already scouted the tunnel and decided it wasn't worthy. Maybe he's just too tall. Gashole asked why we didn't run the golf course at the end of the tunnel. The shouting was too loud to explain it at the time, but the real reason was that one member of the SCH4 pack, who I'll name in private, has been told to stay off the premises upon threat of arrest. There was some kind of incident one early morning last Fall involving trespass, public intoxication and sex in the pool. Neon Knockers celebrated her 200th hash by the wearing of the ceremonial trash bag. No expense was spared by the Dabberhashers, as usual, although the tailors had put her knockers a little low. IRS' brother, a sullen-looking giant, was introduced. The pack drank for missing the 2nd BN. Autohashing was declared and somehow I had to drink with Lube and Asscam and when one hare drinks.... The tunnel cracked the heretofore excellent relationship between More Leggs and Porkless. She chose the tunnel and he declined. Porkless preferring to go back to the VFW and drink some cheap beers on a barstool and watch some football. Got Crabs also declined the tunnel and ran the back end of the trail but was about 1 hour ahead of the hares. Ha Ha. There were a few MGN's and I forget the rest of the crimes and analversaries. I was then re-introduced to when Sub-Human and I accidentally laid a BN in a creek in Winton Woods next to a dead deer. Now I can bond with Wile E. once again. You know, it's hard to hang something with dildos on a door in your house. People will ask questions that have no good answers. The drive home was fairly exciting. While answering a call from HTS, somebody hit the brakes in front of me to turn into a gas station on US 27. Quick reflexes, ABS brakes, and my BMW driving school lessons won out over the fatigue and down-downs and were all that saved me from a fiery death. HTS probably thought the quaver in my voice was regret at turning down a hot-tubbing at Waxy's. That's it. Only the strong survive. On-Out. AA ed. - Content edited by HTS to keep the karma good and us out of the courts.