Rehash for SCH4 #456 : Mason, OH - March 3, 2007
Hares:  Hyper Hand Job & Eats It Raw

Attendees:  I don't remember.  I should have ordered my food before the
circle started.

The sun was shining, with stray snowflakes swirling around when I left my
mansion in Historic Newport.  As I drove north on I-71, the clouds grew
darker, lower and began to drop lots of snow.  As usually happens in the
winter on hashing days, when the sun shines bright in Kentucky, it is
usually going to be worse the further north you go.  (In Dayton it is always
rainy or snowy and at least 20 degrees colder than Cincinnati.)

By the time I got to the parking lot of the former College Football Hall of
Fame the flurries were furious (ha-ha).  A small figure behind the steering
wheel of the car next to me turned out to be Beat It.  Fresh from a long
absence, she didn't say where she'd been but said that living above 10,000
feet MSL had done wonders for her running.  She also added that it would be
okay with her if she never tasted yak butter again and she missed her "llama
doll."  Anyway, she looks great.  However, she said I looked "different."
"Different how?  My hair?"  "Well, it's grayer.."  "Dammit!  Not gray -
Silver!"  "Let's call it distinguished. "  "Okay distinguished.  Is it
thinner?"  "No."  "Is my bald spot getting bigger?"  "What bald spot?"
"Good answer.  Well then, what is it?"  "I dunno..maybe you just
look...older" , she finally said.  The rest of the pack trickled in while we
were talking in the front seat of my van and this will probably spark more
sex on trail rumors from hashers jealous and envious of our friendship, good
looks and obvious happiness with the world.

Enough hashers arrived that we finally had enough to huddle outside.  The
smaller, weaker hashers got pushed out to the perimeter where they squealed
and whimpered about not having any beer and how cold they were.  I found
myself nose-to-nose with Eats it Raw who disclaimed any responsibility for
the trail - "I'm just carrying HHJ's flour on this one."

A Marine (named later) secured the parking lot by running around the border
to keep warm I guess (he was wearing shorts).  His buddy (another name I
forget), turned two huge Labrador retrievers loose who encouraged him to
keep running by biting at his heels.  Round and round they went, barking and
howling, the dogs chiming in once in a while too.

After we were darn near frozen by the blowing winds and snow, the hares did
a quick explanation of the marks to the new visitor named John and were off,
running towards the river valley.  Gashole proudly took credit for the
shitty weather.  Ten long freezing minutes later, the pack was off in
pursuit of the hares.  When queried, Butt Digger said her hubby told her it
would be a short trail but admitted he'd lied to her about this kind of
thing before.  Butt Digger went on to brag that her recent 5K time while
walking was 21:53!!  (Eats It Raw later told me that he hadn't the heart to
tell her roller blades were not okay in competitive events.)

The trail led across a wet, squishy field, into a sub-division, and down
onto a muddy path on the river floodplain.  Trail then ran along the Little
Miami River.  Quarter Barrel caught up with us at this point and asked if we
had something to write with - our Sergeant At Arms seems to have forgotten
to bring along something to record the crimes!  Getting a negative response
on his request, he ran down to the river's edge, chased down a goose, pulled
out a feather, trimmed it, and recorded the crimes in his own blood.  Once
down in the valley, the sun came out, and we were all now wearing way to
many clothes.

The first BN was along the river, as was the second.  John and I walked
along, surprising girls peeing in the bushes.  "Gosh they pee a lot," he
said.  I said, "We'll they're under a lot of stress supporting the
military-industrial complex of this capitalist society so they drink a lot
of beer."  John entertained us by talking about the many ruined building
foundations along the river.  Some were from the gunpowder mill across the
river, but the biggest was from a water-powered woolen mill that was built
in the 1930's - just in time for synthetics to take off.  I asked him if
he'd worked as a child laborer in the mill but he only said, "Fuck you" so I
never really found out if he did or didn't.  This spot was where the 2nd BN
was stashed.  We had a long passionate conversation about life, art,
traveling, etc. etc. with the DFL crowd while standing on a big concrete
wall overlooking the river.  XXX, overcome with emotion of the vista, tried
to leap into the swollen waters, but we finally wrestled her back to the
bank, gave her a beer, and made her put her clothes back on. 

Shitty trail eventually led back uphill.  Looks like all those folks who are
moving out into the country are hard at work cutting trees down, building
wide trails through the woods down to the river, planting a lot of grass,
and putting in big lights to keep the wildness away.  Once on top of the
hill, trail led fairly directly back to the beginning, John and I walking
with the DFL club (Divorced & Free at Last), giving and receiving lots of
advice about failed relationships.  (I learned from overheard conversation
that a woman can seduce any man if she can just stay awake till 3 am
listening to his complaints.)

The On-In and Circle were at Tabby's on Kings Mills Road.  They know who we
are and don't mind if a few songs are sung and beers spilled.  They put us
in the usual place and the circle opened.  What a lot of beer here - whew.
I don't remember all the crimes - QB forgot his pen, I'm Not Gay for
something - maybe that big Afro wig which looked a heck of a lot better
later on Serving Semen.  Elvis and Floffer snared the hares by running 300
yards direct to where the trail came back up out of the river valley.  They
only had to wait 40 minutes for this snare.  Gas Hole announced that he is
playing Jesus in a play somewhere and invited us all to see if he really can
turn water into wine.  (I prophesize that on that day, there will be
earthquakes, a solar eclipse, bloody rain, and frogs will fall from the
sky.)  Someone from the DFL club proudly announced that she was getting a
hysterectomy and her vagina "snapperized" but nobody could find her rehab
sign-up sheet.  A harriette mumbled that she could have had her vagina for
the asking because she hasn't used hers in a long, long time.

The marine who ran laps before the start, was named Eskimo Pie (I think).
His mother was an Eskimo or something.  The new guy John told the pack that
he was from Bugger Hole, West Virginia.  My ears popped when the whole pack
sucked in their breath at that one.  Their eyes were bugging out.  A long
silence followed which was finally broken by Gashole asking in a shaky
whisper, "Where'd you say you were from stranger?"  "I SAID I AM FROM BUGGER
HOLE," he repeated.  It was quiet again for a few seconds then the pack
bayed in unison:  "BUGGER HOLE!!  BUGGER HOLE!!  WE'LL CALL HIM BUGGER
HOLE!!  OH MY GOD! BUGGER HOLE!!"  I don't think they even voted on this.
(This is almost as fast a naming as the time that girl said she was from
Fuckme, Florida.)

Maybe because of the increasing daylight, springtime is when hasher's who
are seriously "humping the American Dream" (Hunter S. Thompson) look to give
it a break and find some distractions.  This is probably why I found Gimp
crammed into a small booth with three harriettes (who'd skipped the run and
showed up just for the Gimp) eating my missing nachos.  I can only blame the
season.

I'd drank enough beer and had enough fun.  The bar had seated some
unfortunate family with a crying baby in our area and it was obviously time
to make way for the future.  I pushed through the crowds and watched Elvis
spilling yet another beer on another pool table, found my new Ferrari, and
drove back down out of the hinterlands to my palatial mansion in Newport
where I had bad dreams about possible knee surgery complications.

ON-ON

AA

Call on God, but row away from the rocks. - Hunter S. Thompson