Hash 364 April 16, 2005 The Un-Healthy Hash Hares: Hot Tub Slut & Got Crabs? Attendees: I don’t know – I didn’t have the book when I wrote this. I apologize to the pack for the following dribble. I was loudly complaining about there not being any rehashes since November of 2004 and this honor was thrust upon me. I just got to quit drinking so much beer at these damn hashes. Because Three-Way Time showed up on time to pick me up, I wasn’t quite ready to go to the hash. What was she thinking? I promised 3-Way that this time I would run with the pack and not range all over the place as usual. The hares had laid out fairly good directions. The more anal (AV was one of them – I think) hashers couldn’t find McMakin Street and were seen repeatedly driving down McMakin Avenue until they were flagged down and pulled safely into the parking lot by their thirsty brethren. The sun was out, no clouds were in the sky, and a light wind was blowing out of the northeast. Tails were wagging, butts were sniffed, and “How ya doin’?” and “Where ya been?” were heard as the pack milled about waiting for the hares to begin the chalk talk. Chalk Talk was a little more thorough because we had a few virgins and a few San Antonio hashers attending the hash. Crabs and Slut, whose flour bags had very little flour explained the marks and showed us the trash to be left on trail (photos of Quarter Barrel and small globes – it was also earth day I think). Many in the pack murmured “pre-lay” at the sight of the small amounts of flour in their scrotum-sized sacks. Alas, if it only had been pre-laid, this hasher might not have suffered as much. The hares jogged casually off towards the north east and were soon gone from sight. The introductions were made and promptly forgotten. A desultory “Father Abraham” was performed by the pack and the countdown to launch began. Much beer was applied internally to lubricate the muscles and joints. Gas Hole spent a few precious minutes striking Mr. Atlas poses and stretching his calves. He had a competitive event the next morning in Loveland – a half-M…… and he was trying to coerce me into coming along. One of the San Antonio hashers was complaining about the Stroh’s beer that was provided for the pre-hash festivities. We told him that he was lucky he’d pulled that one out of the cooler because there was far worse lurking down below the ice cubes & water. All too soon the pack was off and running to the north east, blowing whistles, and raising all kinds of hell. I followed Gourmet, and Peter? Directly across the street and we immediately found flour behind the first big tree we came to. In an ironic twist, the pack never heard Gourmet’s loud whistle blowing and shouts and their commotion continued off into the distance. I heard later that the hares had laid two long (200-300 yard) YBF’s out that direction. I won’t accuse them of pre-laying because as my Aunt Sally once remarked upon the rumor of sexual impropriety between the deacon and the choir director, “If you don’t see – you can’t say.” That attitude would render useless about 70 of my 75 cable TV channels and my Cincinnati Enquirer would contain nothing but advertisements. We three, we band of brothers, worked well together as we sorted out the trail as it led west, then south along the quiet streets of Mt. Healthy. Pack arrows were laid and we were pretty much guessed correctly as we followed the hares confusing trail. We soon realized that the bastard hares were pretty much running “check to check” with little or mostly no hash marks between the checks. This is a new angle that I won’t forget to use sometime. Things were going too well and I decided to head south to the Ronald Reagan Highway and see if the trail could be shortcut and hares snared. I ran through an apartment complex, cut my leg jumping a fence, and ran along the freeway until I found flour on Park Avenue where it ran south under the freeway. The hares told me later I missed the first BN by about 100 feet. The hares must have been insulting the residents because they actively gave me assistance, shouting things like, “You chasing those two assholes? They went down that street two blocks and went left. If you can wait a minute, I’ll get my baseball bat and my car keys.” Another said, “Those assholes are only about 5 minutes ahead of you.” Visions of non-competitive hare-snaring were swimming before my eyes. Alas, the hares, sensing their impending capture, resorted to some machinations now all-to-common in the national arenas of media and politics. A little child, clutching a new dollar bill in his pudgy fingers, said, “Hey mister, if you turn LEFT on Hamilton Avenue down there, you can probably catch them sons o’ bitches.” I bit and spent 10 minutes running around a Kroger parking lot looking for flour. I breathlessly ran up to a guy sitting across from the last check I’d seen and asked him if he’d seen two guys running with bags in their hands. Too late, I looked down and saw a white cane with a red tip across his lap. Before he could answer, I crept away and ran on straight across Hamilton Avenue to the east where flour was soon found. Trail led to some playground hard up against the noise wall along the Ronald Reagan Hwy. From there, it went along a culvert to the east. How the trail got into the culvert, I don’t know – I had to climb a fence to get to it. Eats it Raw, P-Head, Curdled Cum and Jump caught up with me at this point with the rest of the pack right behind and my story will have to be a little more “fair and balanced” from here on in. We ran along the culvert until it drained into a fairly large concrete-lined ditch that drained north. The hares had set up a table with some crap in the middle of the stream. A clear sign they were pretty cocky about not getting snared. The algae made the concrete slick but no one fell as we carefully strode down the streambed, back under Ronald Reagan Hwy on to the 2nd BN. HHJ had found Wile E. at the 1st BN and was now running with his formerly misplaced love crammed down his pants next to his first love. Butt Digger was trying to figure out how to carry her hash treasure – a globe. The last I’d heard someone say was to not shove it down the back of her drawers. I went ranging off to the west again and soon met up with the pack following trail into a cemetery. Hot Tub Slut flagged me down and gave me a beer from his rolling BN. He was on his way back to pick up the BN’s and had stopped to admire the effects of their devilment. It was a quick run back to the On-In, a bar called “There’s My G-Spot” or something like that. The owner was fairly well done in by some kind of medication-alcohol combination. His girlfriend, who wasn’t in too good of shape herself, said he’d been taking painkillers for a bad back. I remembered when I broke my back and there was nothing like a vicodin and a beer to get you going in the morning. So, I had plenty of sympathy for the guy when he passed out behind the bar. Sympathy or not, never pass up the opportunity for a good photo. Gourmet took his picture. The flash woke him up and he was back to polishing the bar with his cleaning rag. The circle was opened, and here are the crimes from the crappy notes Una gave me: 3$/minute – MIA Best Blow, Gasshole, Tight Sphincter, and 3-Way Time - Competitive tak (?) IRS for tax day, MGN Mother Given Names – Beat It, Y=Pi Aching Ass – missing the 1st BN – you’d have thought all those pack arrows would have been taken into account. Una – late Hares – no SC – slayings (?) Hares – no dogs (?) Hot Wax Me Ossifer – Mother given names Una – Mother given name at BN Una – KIT (?) C-Cum, Up Chuck Fuck, P Head, Jump, Head Wetter - MIA IRS, Best Blow, Y=Pi (who blocked repo) – play basketball on trail Hyper Hand Job – injuring Wile E. Analversaries: Head Wetter – 20 Hyper Hand Job – 70 Kunt Hunt – 80 Got Crabs? – 100 – sorry your mug got dropped and dented – it weren’t me Quarter Barrel – 110 Eats It Raw – 170 Gas Hole – 180 Gourmet – 207 Beat It – 210 Hot Tub Slut – 300 On the last analversary, Hot Tub Slut, shattered his usual cool reserve doing a triple mug waterfall down-down and was seen swilling directly from a full pitcher the rest of the evening, surrounded by sycophants and supplicants. I heard him say something like, “Hell, back in my day, we were so poor we couldn’t afford running shoes, we just painted green stripes on the sides of our feet and ran like crazy.” Announcements were made to future babies being born to the pack, but since the paternity was already established, the pack relaxed and toasts were drunk. The circle was closed and opened again later but I forget what for. Pizza was ordered and for those of you who left before it came, there were $100 bills taped to the lid inside each box when we opened them. IRS’ rent-a-date showed up late and he trotted her around the ring a few times to show her off before he left. I remember he also picked up Goose Bumps, draped her over his shoulders and spun her around the room. By the time the pack figured out you smack a spinning behind with a motion counter to the rotation, it was too late. My day ended when Three-Way Time kicked me out on the side of I-471 and I had to crawl through a hole in the fence to get to my home in Newport. Grand Opening had no sympathy for my disheveled appearance and suspected my explanations. Take care Pack. On-Out. AA