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