Hares: Curdled Cum, Hot Tub Slut and Best Blow

Mike’s black jaguar idled silently at the curb in front of my mansion in Historic Newport. “How nice of
him not to honk,” I thought. Mike, my virgin for the day, is a neighbor of mine and well understands the
intricacies of courtesy that living in an area that is about 70% rental units. (They honk – we don’t.)
Crabs however, honks like a bastard. I climbed in and we were off on the day’s hashing adventure.

We pulled up to Bechtold Park and Mike looks over and says (MGN)! How do you know him? I told him
“I met (MGN) years ago when I started the SCH4 hash. He was about 300 lbs then and his life was in
ruins. He was sitting on a corner eating Skyline chili when I tripped over his feet as I ran by. I asked him
to join the hash and it has changed his life. He still likes to eat 3-Ways though.” He asked, “Why do they
call him Slut?” “You’ll have to ask him,” I replied.

My virgin got introduced all around and everybody was feeling happy and drinking some brews. (Or did
I get that backwards?) Since Mike was my responsibility, I knew I was walking the trail. Slut gave him a
walker’s map and I gave it a good looking over. Hmm – some of this trail was a little familiar, but how
the heck were they crossing the RR Parkway? We circled up under AV’s whistling and the virgins were
trotted out and shown the marks. The hares were off running north on Plainfield Rd. The introductions
were made, the waiver shouted and we relaxed waiting for our 10 minutes. Crabs asked for my opinion
for some good ranging, but I could only mumble nonsense because I was handicapped by my
foreknowledge of the trail. Tragically, it was only as we started out on the trail that I then learned there
were 2 other walkers, Mystic and YabbaDabbaDoMe. A pensive Mystic agreed to watch over my virgin.

As I ran away from my virgin up Plainfield Road, the bad angel on my left shoulder said in a Russian
accent, “WFuck them. Wcut the trail und shnare the whares.” The good angel on my right shoulder
rejoined, “Thaaaat’s not riiiiight. Thaaaaat’s a crime! You maght as well, carry a Gaarmin, drive a caah
and snare the hares if you’re going to cheat!” Well gang, the good angel won out. A quarter mile up
Plainfield Road the pack stalled at the RR Hwy. I waited about 5 minutes before suggesting that maybe
trail went off to the west. After a little poking around, the pack blew ON-ON! Someone said, “AA’s
right!”

We ran another quarter of a mile through a neighborhood and then across a field into some trees.
Gourmet stopped to shoot some pics of the pack coming towards him. I stopped and took a moment to
admire the scene too. There’s something about girls running across fields towards the camera that
makes for a good pic. I turned and ran down the trail into the trees. I hit a patch of mud and skidded,


almost turning my friggin ankle. “Nice save,” someone commented. This kind of thing is easy once
you’ve stretched your ankle ligaments beyond all normal limits.

Shortly after we got into the trees, I think there was a BN. Then we found how we were going to get
across the highway – through a really nice, big tunnel with water running through the bottom of it. The
pack piled in, me behind a shouting I’m Not Gay and in front of Pickle Licker. About 20 feet into the
tunnel we all stopped dead and I ran my nose up ING’s backside (thanks for bathing today). We started
and stopped like this many times until claustrophobia started rearing its head from a small dark part of
my brain. The tunnel seemed to get smaller and the shouting grew shriller. Finally, the pack moved
down the tunnel. The chemical lights left on the floor of the tunnel were nice but you guys are
contributing to global warming when you leave them there.

Finally, we got out of the tunnel and came up for air along the highway. Again the pack stopped, totally
confused. “How about over there on Deer Cross Parkway?” I said. The FRB’s checked. “He’s right! ONON! He’s a genius!” someone cried. Trail curved up and onto Hunt Rd, then onto Deer Cross Parkway,
through an apartment complex, and back into the woods again. We were running northwest through
some nice woods with really big trees. The pack, led by Eskimo Pie and some other immortal youths,
went charging up a creek bed about 100 yards before they realized they hadn’t seen any marks for
about 90 yards. They came back and circled around me. Their despairing eyes begged for guidance.
They waited silently as I examined some crushed foliage and then pointed to the north. As they passed
me, I heard whispers of “amazing” and “how’s he do it?” We had a little problem climbing up out of the
creek bed and I apologize about the maybe too enthusiastic assistance to a member of the pack. (We
both know who you are.) Once out of the creek, we continued up a sewer right of way to a BN.

I think this was the 2nd BN. We ate pork rinds and drank Old Milwaukee standing sunshine amid the tall
grass of the right of way. We were just about to go when there was a crashing in the bushes and out of
the woods came my virgin, without Mystic and YabbaDabbaDoMe. “Where’d they go?” I asked. “I don’t
know what happened to them but I haven’t seen them for a while.” I didn’t see blood on his hands and I
have known him for a few years, so I figured they were missing for more innocent reasons. Well, now I
was back to walking and had no audience for my hashing genius with preternatural powers act.

As Mike and I walked through the woods, the sounds of the pack died off leaving us surrounded by
angry woodpecker and squirrels. As we kicked through the thistles and nettles, Mike said, “I haven’t
been in woods having fun like this since I was a kid.” “Welcome back. We do this all the time,” I said.
The trail led up into a parking lot of the college campus. There was a YBF up there and the pack was
milling around. I put my hand to my forehead, closed my eyes, and then pointed east. The pack ran out
of the parking lot towards Plainfield Rd. That was where with much blowing of whistles; AV came from
behind us leading about 10 others. They ran on by saying something about a wrong turn before the
tunnel. Trailing behind with them was WIMP. We waved and she hurried a little. We waved and
shouted and she hurried a little more. We waved, shouted, and blew our whistles until she finally broke
into a trot the last 20 yards. We were now about 2 miles into this thing.


We crossed Reed Hartman onto Peppermill Lane. Trail led through a little park to Tramwood Court
where Son of A Nun was waiting, crossbow arrow in hand (I didn’t ask.). We followed trail to Hunt Rd
where a big old farmhouse belonging to the original landowners still sits on the corner. The trail
noodled around to the southeast until we crossed the highway on a railroad bridge next to Blue Ash Rd.
We were now about 3 miles into the trail.

Once over the highway, Mike started looking around a car dealer’s parking lot for the BN that was on his
map. I said, “They’re not going to leave it under a car.” He definitely has his priorities though. We
didn’t find the BN until we’d gone west on along a small street and into some trees along the highway.
Trail went south from here through an industrial area, a hole in the fence giving us access into the park.
Thanks Best Blow for staying after and blowing your whistle to guide us in. The distance on this trail
came in at about 4 miles. If you like numbers, there you go.

I can’t tell you much about the party at the Curdled Cum/Famunda estate, except that there was great
food and beer, and much rejoicing. The crimes were too numerous for me to remember. The bonfire
was just getting started and yellow eyes gleamed at us from the woods as we rolled down the driveway.
(I left early because of my well-known fear of the dark.) My virgin was nice enough to leave with me
since he was driving. I heard reports later that a really good time was had during the midnight hashes.
Thank you for hosting the campout Famunda and Curdled Cum.

Crimes: If someone wants to fill them in go right ahead.

Analversaries: same.

Upcumming Events: same again.

If we could just name someone Devil Dog, or something like it, we could have the AA, BB, CC, and DD
hash. This is Curdled Cum’s Idea.

Also, Crabs is looking to sell his bicycle. I’ve seen it and it is pretty nice. You could probably cheat him
on the price – offer him $400.

ON-ON!

AA