ReHash #369

SCH4 #369: May 28, 16:00

Mount Me Faster & Scum Sucking Fecal Feeliac Wedding Hash

Saturday, 28May, 2005, 16:00

Hares: Hot Wax Me Officer, I Repo Shit,
Porks My Sister, The Unalicker

Location: 94 Fischer Lane, Fort Thomas, KY [PMS’s House]

To those who read the last rehash, you might remember about Crabs having a problem getting his car back from the mechanics of the Dark Side. Crabs had called all excited the night before about getting his car back and insisted on coming over to Mansion Hill to give me a ride to the hash today. I called ahead to security to get him in without a problem. When Crabby pulled up at my house I couldn’t help but notice the passenger door was missing. “Just get in and quit bitching,” he said. “And don’t forget your seatbelt,” he added. The wind noise was so loud I could only hear, “Blahhhh, Blahhhh, Blahhhh-de-Blahhh-Blah, fuggin, Blahhhh” all the way to PMS’ house in beautiful almost-Southgate but barely still cake-eating Fort Thomas, Kentucky

We arrived to find PMS’ neighbors putting all their loose shit out in the street to save a few parking spaces for their Boy Scout meetings. We found a spot finally and walked blocks and blocks back to the beginning of today’s adventure. We found most of the usual suspects and quite a few hashers who had been gone so long they were thought to be dead or in prison. They were idling around drinking beers and chatting up some of the newbies. The hares were milling about nervously – for good reason we found later. IRS spent most of the time on a phone calling in today’s trail.

No beer for me just yet. I had work to do because uNa had called earlier in the day to compliment me on my past rehashes and my photography. She went on and on in that southern belle – Michigander voice of hers until the honeysuckle started growing out of my ears. I cried out in pain, “Enough of this shit uNa! What the hell do you want?” She murmured into the phone, “Well, you know Gourmet can’t make it today so could you please take some pitchers darling? And also write the rehash?” I could never withstand a southern accent, so I found myself with a big $$ camera at a hash with the skies threatening rain.

The bride was beautiful in a hand-made lace gown with purple sequins and matching do-me high heels. The groom looked like a cross between a Chippendale dancer and “Dark Helmet” from the movie “Spaceballs.” (I highly recommend that movie.) The parents of the trembling twosome were wearing shirts labeled: FOB, MOB, FOG, and MOG. The last one I understood from Spaceballs. http://www.candy-fans.com/candy/films/spaceballs/

Chalk Talk began and there were loads of new folks, mostly relatives of the eager couple. Introductions were made and IRS started slinging flour on the ground. There were a few new markings, BVC was one and WHAW was another. BVC stood for “Be very very careful” and WHAW meant “Where the hell are we?” The hares galloped for the woods and uNa tripped, fell, and assumed the universal position of a woman in distress. Hot Tub ran to her in response but she got away just in time and followed the other hares into the woods. Father Abraham was sung with a vigor not seen in awhile. The newbies were really getting into it and cars slowed as they passed by.

A hash, like this rehash could go on for as long as the author(s) wish. It isn’t a big deal to make a hash 10 miles long like Gourmet, Crabs and Slut often do. Once you get a head start, the smokers will give up after about 2 miles and anybody over 40 starts walking at 4. The younger hashers will bite on any long stupid back check and then run for miles looking for hash so they’re not a problem either. The only trouble makers are the Orienteers who really aren’t human and the crazy rangers who use logic like, “I know they ran south, but let’s go north 3 miles, cross the Ohio River and wait for them in Cincinnati.” Sometimes they get lucky. I figured since this was a dress-up wedding hash, we’d run a few miles and have a party. I was right about the party anyway.

Well, we ran and ran and ran and ran some more. I’ve scouted, hared, and hashed a lot in Ft. Thomas and the first half didn’t show me anything new, but it was pretty good running and Northern Kentucky is beautiful this time of year. Hell settles in around July and leaves in late September. We ran through backyards, and down streets until we came up in a park with a police officer eating his lunch and talking to HQ on his phone. No problems here. We ran on out the back, down through the woods, and onto another street. Trail led all kinds of crazy ways to the 1^st BN on someone’s deck where the pack was kind enough to wait for Fecal who had been chained to a 14 lb bowling ball. He said the only problem was the chain kept rapping him in the nuts when he ran. Mount Me kept offering to help but he said he had to start getting used to the pain seeing how he was getting married.

We crossed US 27 and ran up Electric Avenue in Southgate and found ourselves going in the back way to Evergreen Cemetery. Some of the wiser hashers immediately thought the asshole hares were making a run for the tunnel under I-471 that was used to such good effect by some ingenious hares last Thanksgiving but it wasn’t to happen. Rain started coming down and I had to run bent over to protect my camera. Vomitt Dog said the camera case would probably be good enough, but when it kept coming down, he said, “You’re probably screwed with that rain, man.” The gown-clad ladies were a lovely site running through the marble but like the rain, it was over too soon. Trail led out of Evergreen and across a deadly section of US 27 back towards the beginning.

We arrived at PMS’ house and beer started flowing. Gashole stripped down in the driveway, struck a few poses, and put on his Sith RA outfit. The pack murmured in disbelief when the word flashed by that this was only halfway. AV shouted, “Awright ya bastad’s let’s GO!” And the pack poured out of the driveway and through an open gate onto the heavily wooded I-471 right-of-way. I wish I’d known about that gate, Slut and I could have used it on a few hashes. Trail led down hill through dense thickets to a nasty tunnel under the freeway. The wily hares had put a Bride and Groom trail choice but the one that led up onto the freeway was supposed to be a joke. As we ran on down the slope, up on the freeway above us, cars blew their horns at and swerved around the half-mind hashers who believe everything they read and have no sense of irony. Eager Beaver jammed up the pack at the beginning of the tunnel but was forced through complaining. I was between some harriette with a gold dress and More Leggs.

More Leggs said, “I’m hanging onto your belt so I hope you don’t mind because I’m not letting go no matter what you say.” Red cool lights were hung from the ceiling of the tunnel here and there. It was pretty damn dark, long, and wet. Claustrophobia reared its head a few times but I forgot all about it when the pack stopped and I ran nose-first into gold-skirt’s rear end. “Just another day at the dog park,” I mumbled through the gold material. She kept giggling and telling someone in front of her, “This guy’s got his nose up my rear,” but she wouldn’t move. We finally got out of the tunnel and into more small dense thickets. Just the kind of thing Quarter Barrel loves. In fact, Quarter Barrel, in an unusual move, ran true trail and snared the hares who’d gotten lost at the top of the hill above the tunnel. Crabs was there too but modestly claimed no credit for the hare snare. “I’m only here to carry Quarter Barrel’s balls,” he said.

Trail then led through lots of quiet neighborhoods, by a Starbucks, and then up a gas pipeline right-of-way that I also wish I’d known about. IRS has got one hell of a mail route. Those who knew, were dispirited thinking about how far we’d have to go to get back to the start. But, soon we ran up into a backyard where the wedding was to take place. Wrong! It was another BN on the longest wedding hash I’d ever been on and P-Head and Catwoman’s was a doozie in Dayton. This host provided homemade cookies, beer, and salami/cheese rollups! Some day the pack is going to experience such luxury, sit down and refuse to move. QB mocked the pack with “QB -->- ” the rest of the way through today’s adventure. A crime, but no one recognized his taunting, mistaking it for a kindness.

Later, after much more abuse, the trail led up into another backyard where the wedding was to really happen. I needled Waxy on the snare. She snarled something under her breath, turned and bit a chunk out of the deck railing and stalked off, hashers moving out of her way.

Much fun was had at the trembling twosome’s expense. Something about pornographic home movies and apartment keys being returned by the pack to Mount Me and Fecal. Quarter Barrel was way too close to the couple for the “Old McHasher” song but since they’d been handcuffed at the beginning of the ceremony, there was no retaliation for QB this day.

Repo pulled a tux out of his fanny pack and got dressed, Gashole put his RA outfit back on for the second time, and the lovely couple was officiously wed in the eyes of the pack. Despite encouragement from the pack, actual consummation of the marriage was postponed for a later time in, perhaps, more suitable surroundings.

We loaded up into vehicles and rode back to PMS’ house where the tired pack performed a tame circle and nobody got hurt or offended.

Crimes: In an effort to “get on with things” and present his wedding cake, Repo declared an amnesty on crimes. In his usual loud voice, he proclaimed that he baked the cake naked and couldn’t find anything to whip the icing.

Hot Tub has dug up a few crimes that while not punished should be noted for future action:

Hare Snare – Because Repo was the only hare who had seen the trail prior to Saturday.

PO made a rare appearance and brought his damn dog, who got into a fight with another dog at the first BN, then kept nosing around the cake and food back at PMS’ house. (Possibly, some of this invective is because the dog kept hogging some of the choicer legs.)

Visitors from Dayton included Ear of the Sperm (their new RA), Jump ‘n Hump (their new GM), Barrel Roll (long-time On-Sec); Quarter Barrel, Gimp, and Eager Beaver.

Analversaries:
Eager Beaver – 40
Mount Me Faster – 55
Aching Ass – 75
Kunt Hunt – 85
Pubic Offender – 85
Butt Digger – 138
Scum Sucking Fecal Feeliac – 170
Hot Tub Slut – 305

Hare Analversary:
Hot Wax Me Officer – 10

Just in time, the hamburgers and dogs were thrown onto the altar postponing the ruin of many livers for another day. The cake was really fine with 3 layers supported by beer cans with two dogs on top, one licking himself while the other watched. I left soon after this, Crabs driving like a maniac on the way down US 27 to Newport. I forgot to fasten my seat belt and fell out somewhere around Monmouth and 8^th Street. I’m not sure if Crabs noticed or cared. We Rangers live a hard life and sentiment is a luxury among us.

I’ll see you all in September.