SH3
Run #464 – Saturday, November 8, 2003
Anal Erection Run / Beaver Full Moon Extravaganza
Hares: Deck
Dick, Slippery Fingers and P3
You have to worry when
you arrive at a hash and two hares are dressed in traditional Roman style (well,
one a butch Roman goddess and the other a buxom Gladiator) and the third
sporting a large patch of matted pubic hair.
What kind of theme did we have here?
The pack, 36 strong, screamed ‘chaos’!
Little did we know that there was forethought of the grimmest sort:
We were about to embark on the “Vengeful, Intoxicated Live Hare Run”.
After the hares
scowled, spit, and mumbled their way through the chalk talk, Knees Wide Open
took charge of the circle SOLO despite a large number of mismanagement present
(no names will be mentioned but their initials are: Bitch 'N Hoe, Boytano’s HardON, Breasts-on-Trail,
and AssMa. OK,
we’ll take BnH out of this line up because – and I’m sure that she
told only me – she had been drinking since the wee hours of the mornin).
Those OH TOO FAMILIAR (read: ‘worn
out’) questions about bunching, folding and barn-yard pinecones were put to
the new foot prints Wonderboy, Just Peter , Hairless Nut (Seoul
H3), Woody (wood-yee, wood-yee), Just Bill, and Moo Moo Buckaroo.
After a warmup round of ‘My Name is Joe’ and a few Cosmo
jokes, the pack was jonesin’ to leave whether trail was found or not.
As all good hashes do,
this hash served up its first beer check quickly in N. Seattle’s own Death
Valley. A scenic little excavation
pit in the Home Depot Cemetery, Death Valley is obviously strategically placed
to keep Seattle’s European dead from mixing with Seattle’s Asian dead in the
afterlife. Yet this hole retains a
strong hold over the intoxicated living as well. As a chill wind swept over our pop-tops, Festering Drip donned
a fiendish grin and launched into detailed saki-snob chat with CDP.
Round-eyes quickly retreated around Stuff the Clam for friendlier
conversation about Ouzo, puking in Munich, and fjords. Out
of nowhere, Slippery Fingers called to us from above, not to bridge the
growing cultural divide, but to announce that a hare was lost.
A king’s ransom (read: ‘a
beer better than a Rainier’) would go to whoever could find and return Deck
Dick. So, not being idiots, the
pack promptly resumed our tombstone-trot and completely dispersed, and searched
until we were ALL lost.
Night fell and the pack
fled the cemetery for the dim lights of the N. Aurora Badlands where KY
Poison Jellyfish’s expert no-flashlight FRB’ing led further defections
from true trail. After a bridge
(where Numb Nuts was rumored to have gone both ways), a park (where Leif
Garrett You Idiot and Big Black Mail took turns with each other), and
a dark catwalk (where TwatNot was too happy to provide some moonlight),
we found our second beer stop.
Under our protected,
druidic cover we waited for our promised lunar eclipse event – the full Beaver
Moon! We huddled about on that
little bridge…sipping our beers…eyes to the sky…wondering where Where’s
was…pinching each others butts…sipping our beers…wondering if that was the
moon or a street lamp…thinking Where’s will be OK…finishing our
beers…then saw it: the moon in
the same exact spot that it was pre-beer. Granted,
we all went to this show without any read of the reviews. Even still, “Beaver, Damn!” and “Leave it to My
Beaver” were voted to be much finer productions (cost factors being about
equal).
Back on the trail, Monica
Spewinsky led us to the “Great Escher Stair Mind-Fuck” where the pack
began endless up/over/down/through/across motions until Knees Wide Open
broke the viscous cycle and found new flour – apparently just trying to get
away from AssMa’s theories of where we should be.
Gratefully, true trail took us through a finale of thorns, stray wire,
splint spears, and college-puke shiggy to complete the outgoing JGM’s Roman
Colliseum blood fantasy and give them the deep satisfaction of returning some of
the pain we’ve reaped on their sorry heads (Head?
Who Said Head…) in the past year.
On-In we were.
Bloodied up, we told the hares they were no fucking use at all, out’ed Monica
Spewinsky as SNL’s lost ‘Goat Boy’, BOT-whipped Magot for his
B-day, had Raffiki drink for getting evicted (was that why?), and had Spike
toast her ancestors whom we had visited top-side that day.
BUT…the most honorific down down was bestowed to none other than Cosmo. Everyone knows when a situation is at hand:
fire, earthquake, flood, cops driving by the circle.
Cosmo, however, reminded us all that “stop, drop, and roll” is
actually the response if your body is burning - not the response to the police
driving by slowly. Evidently, the
fuzz actually tolerates an adult running club singing songs in the dark.
Sure, the mystery remains how they took Cosmo for an adult but the
point is well taken though. When in
question at all: Cup up, stand
calm, cover any cans, and just talk to the wanks in blue. It works – Cosmo
is two for two!
The Cosmo-Love
lasted all of three minutes (yes, some of us wanks are like that, deal with it)
when he announced that he has been hording our beloved hash shit for months now.
Appropriately, he volunteered to be hash shit escort until then next SH3
circle convenes.
The On, On, On took us
to Greenlake (very cool hood) where some bullshit formalities interfered with
our ongoing quest for inebriation (hares excepted). And there… a new SH3 mismanagement was born:
JGM’s:
BOT and AssMa
Haberdashers:
Slippery Fingers and CDP
Religious Advisor:
Fucking Crazy
Hash Flash:
TwatNot
Beermattress:
Bitch 'N Hoe
Songmeister:
Festering Drip
Hash Cash:
Knees Wide Open
Hash Historian: Where’s
Hare Raiser:
Boytano’s HardON
Hash Trash:
Piss Boy
And after a year of
fine service to the Puget Sound Area Hash Drinking Cummunity, Anahymen
passed off the Happy Hour crown to Pedophilic Pussy Petter (P3) to find
Friday night adventures in the cuming year.
Disclaimer:
I can’t vouch for the accuracy of anything in this trash apart from the
hares being a trio of half-minds, which is very true.
On, on…
Piss Boy