SH3
Run #476 – Monday, May 10,2004
Post
Cinco De Mayo BASH Hash
Hares: Stuff
the Clam and KY Poison Jellyfish
The hash marks were all
the same but the difference was that this was a BASH.
Most of the pack had not done one of these so you would hope that the
hares: Stuff the Clam (who had done this in San Diego and RI) and KY (ditto
on Diego) or other bash veterans like Swollen Gaping Festering Hole (RI
and MD) or BigBlackMail (ShiteInfacen, Germany, W(by
God)V, and Boston)
would have let us know that BASH is actually a verb. We bashed knees, ankles, testicles, bumholes, and
baginas so harshly, the hares needed to dispense half-gallon loads of hard
liquor medication when it was all over.
But let’s not rush to
the end like Just Mike 1 and Just Mike 2 do in private. This was a
historic first
for the SH3- on par with the snowshoe hash and the how much beer can you
drink for a dollar hash. Like Ugly
American’s hash attendance, there is just too much in the middle
unaccounted for. Our story begins with the hares telling us “whenever you
are ready to go”.
AssMa,
in his Tour m’Pants outfit, jumped out to lead the pack in the direction of a
law enforcement officer who was overseeing our safety in the rain. RipTorn lead the second wave in bat-outta-hell style –
of which 100dB commented “now you know how I feel when he rides me.”
PissBoy, in a brilliant move to avoid this Mr. MadMax-wanna be,
took a circuit route that quickly got him….a broken F’in chain.
Moping down the hill, he met Stuff the Clam and asked “can you
just tell me where the beer check is and I’ll find them?” to which STC
replied “er… its like…Fink?, Frick?, Frank? Park.
Well, tell you what - just take MY bike.”
Note to self: on a BASH, if
you stump the hare, they have to give you their ride.
Peddles were pounded up
and down many Mount Baker mounts and Beacon Hills scaring all those Monday
evening prick runners along the way. The
hills proved that 100dB was on a man’s bike with a bush magnet as she
singlehandedly destroyed half the neighborhood shrubbery.
And who knows what Just-a-Lil-Prick was riding because when the
R(oad bike) / M(ountain bike) split came up, he chose a THIRD way up the hill.
Not to fear though, KY Poison Jellyfish was sweeping for all
(except those that could not keep up). Mambo
Blow, evidently the only Mexican on the hash who knows what Cinco de Mayo
is, but who speak-a-no-Engleesh, ignored our hares’ instructions that –
“if it starts to get dark you’ve gone too far,” led the pack screaming
into the complete darkness of the I-90 pedophile (sp?) tunnel.
Then…on up into Leschi, we found it:
Fink, Frick, Frank Park – plain as day.
Trickling into the beer
check, AssMa bragged about his 5th consecutive day of
celebrating Mexican independence, while Midget Molester bragged about his
latest contracted disease from his travels in SE Asia (No, it was NOT the Thai
girl…this time). Rough
riders Just-a-Lil-Prick and RipTorn managed to ride their bikes
down the steep steps to the BN and KY proved that she can go down with
the best of them and rode the steps the same (although she was obviously nervous
of the size). Swollen Gaping
Festering Hole, generally not afraid of size, balked today for fear of
soiling the tighty-whiteys. We bet
his laundry would prove this would not be an issue.
A terrible thing
happened as more and more bashers came down those steps.
It seemed we had a deficit. Not
the type of deficit that shortens school years, reduces police forces, cuts your
social security check or other silly shit. This was a BEER deficit.
There were too many of us and not enough of our little friends.
Swollen offered to tap some already-been-processed beer to the
stragglers but, having no takers, we bound off down the hill.
What happened next was
just sheer entertainment on an insane scale:
TwatNot, in overdrive, pounded down a single-track path which
turned at the bottom… but TwatNot …did not. SlipperyFingers, seeing the fallen TwatNot. actually
picked up speed – knowing that she would require momentum to ride over his
person. However, in a rare moment of bimbo chivalry, her bike ground to a halt
in front of him. With mud caked all
over his forehead, TwatNot stood before us and was immediately asked –
“RU OK? Did you hit your head?
With glazed eyes, he responded “No, my head did not hit”.
Good enough! We were ON ON
again.
Our final trek in was
an effortless glide on a short Lake Washington Boulevard shoulder, which
produced a flurry of middle finger salutes from hashers and drivers alike until
we found our ON IN and began our festivities.
AssMa convened the circle and charges ensued:
Late Cummers:
Just Lara and Just Lucas
Too hung over to
communicate with the Beer Committee: Hares
Stuff the Clam and KY Poison Jellyfish who after their own
“check me out, I won the office pool” party the night before (KUDOS) thought that PissBoy was one of those
solicitor calls you ALWAYS get asking how much beer you need.
Birfday:
Stuff the Clam (FU)
One Year Anniversary:
BigBlackMail and BagOPorn who asked us to put our fingers
in their cake again (CHEERS!)
HomoErotic Moment::
Swollen Gaping Festering Hole and Stuff the Clam (you see Swollen
wore this shirt that STC made him, so Swollen wanted to sing him a
song, only STC did not remember how to play the man
Crash Test Dummy:
TwatNot
who managed to
damage neither himself or the bike he was riding (and we’ve seen him damaged!)
I’m not old
you’re old:
Family Jewels for giving a down down to Midget Molester for
being the oldest hasher present after telling everyone how much his back hurt
from the ride
Fashion statement:
AssMa (because you got to look good to feel good, baby)
Mexican fashion
statement:
MamboBlow (cause you got to look Mex to feel Mex, hombre)
After our charges were
done, an announcement came up that was actually something of significance:
The next Rain City Hash House Harriers run will be a $2 DOLLAR HASH!!!!
And there was something about voting thumbs up or thumbs down on whether
it should continue with a new mismanagement or be lost forever like bimbo
virginity. Check the website for
deets.
After the piss was up
declared to be “er…how about Columbia Ale House?!?!”, hats were off, pots
were on the ground, and we swang low until next time.
Disclaimer:
I can’t vouch for the accuracy of anything in this trash apart from the
hares being half-minds, which is
very true.
On, on…Piss Boy