The Pre-Lube Pub Crawl
Friday, 3 May/1900 hours
They gathered early, this crowd of deviants. The Knights Inn, Frederick was the unofficial starting point for Mt Vernon's better, the pack migrated over and started filling tables, booths, and the bar. Our waitron, Cris, a gum-snapping Frederick chick, would have been better suited for a greasy diner than a real restaurant. Pretty soon Wankers Aweigh, Hot Legs, Dual Air Bags, and Bob (B-O-B) arrived. After dinner and more beer, we were off to stop "4, Bushwaller's.
It was at Bushwaller's that Tore Ass showed up, sporting his trademark grin. I noticed that Hooked On Forensics was enjoying himself; a definite boisterous extroversion was noted, but it would be a long night!
There was a gypsy family on the streetcorner on the way to stop #5. Nasty, nightmare-inducing people that made you want to bathe just having looked at them. The Frederick chamber of commerce never told us about them...
The bouncer at Olde Towne Tavern (stop #5) looked tough, but he turned out to be a kittycat-- Tore Ass convinced him to waive our $1 cover! Things really started to warm up at the O.T.T., with the hasher's already weak inhibitions totally thrown to the wind. I started catching snatches of "dialogue":
But the best part of our brief stay here was the attention two teenage mutant schoolteachers received. GBOF was particularly generous with his attentions, but these chicks were young! Dual Air Bags stated that she had "washed at 7:06 PM, so pleassse EAT ME!" (followed by a very self-satisfied smirk).
Our trek to the Orioles Club (stop #6) featured a cousin of the streetcorner gypsy family carrying a rat on his shoulder. Wankers turned to this guy and shouted "Hey you've got a rat on your shoulder-- KILL IT!"
Inside the smoky interior of the Orioles Club, and we had signed the guest book (I thought Cal Ripken's signature might be in it, but I couldn't find it) Wet & Wild shared: "The rat loved me...he really loved me!" Now we know where Sally Field gets her material! Sweet Cheeks and B-O-B sauntered in about 1/2-hour behind the pack. Dance music was provided by a male-female duet who harmonized pretty effectively, and the dancing was frenetic. Hashers loved the seriously cheapo prices, and the table service was outstanding! LIO,B! locked some guy in the bathroom immediately adjoining the dance floor, and then took a picture of him relieving himself. Does she know how to party, OR WHAT?!? The "relief pitcher's" father brought the bouncer over, outraged that anyone would take pictures of his son urinating. "Urinating? I thought he was taking a dump!" was LIO,B!'s quick retort!
It was a true achievement that we didn't get kicked out of any bars. It was after midnight when we (No Class, Barrel Roll, Slip-Not, and Steamer) departed, striking out for home on foot. Lord, the denizens of late-night Frederick were out in abundance, and the gypsies had friends, and the friends didn't look too friendly. Just when I was really starting to worry about my group's safety, I heard the shout of ON ON from a passing vehicle. It was Tore Ass, More Legs, Hot Legs, and Wankers offering us a ride back to the Knights Inn!!! I never felt such gratitude as I piled into the back of Tore Ass's vehicle. For the next 10 minutes, I did my best to prevent his cycle from becoming a permanent part of my anatomy. As we pulled into the Knights Inn, a hare skittered in front of the truck. The next day, we saw the hare squashed into a hasenpfeffer pancake. Shit, that could have been me...
Saturday
Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I gradually came to the conclusion that it was after sunrise, but you couldn't really tell that from looking outside: it was a chill, breezy morning of overcast above and mud below. It was going to be one of *those* days, and here we were, stuck in Frederick for the Anniversary, oh-man we're-going-to-have-to-run-our-asses-off-AND-get-muddy-before-we-drink cold-beer...hey, WE'VE GOT COLD BEER!!! OH YEAH, WE'RE AT THE ANNIVERSARY!!!
...thus did my Saturday morning begin, full of anticipation for the day ahead. Gently awakening my slumbering bride-to-be, I scratched my noggin for somewhere to get breakfast. We had some health food cookies in the room, so I ate six or seven before No Class looked at them and informed me that they were moldy! What a f'in start to the day (no wonder my mouth tasted like shit). Dr Quest was already moving, and we took off in search of breakfast, finally settling on Roy Roger's. There we found Wankers Aweigh and Hot Legs, looking none the worse for the previous night's pub crawl. A couple of gut-bombs later, I could feel my humanity starting to return. After a quick errand to Wal Mart we returned to the Knights Inn and Lo and Behold! the parking lot was rapidly filling with fresh wankers-- there was Cold Cuts, Hazukashi, Dr D, and Long & Hard from Fort Eustis and Tidewater, Late Comer from Richmond, and ah yes, S'not!!
The beer was cold and tasty, which was good because the sun started peeking through the clouds, and as it passed its zenith, the pack of hashers just seemed to grow and grow. Folks got louder, and the pretty soon the hounds were getting into the act. Beezer has learned to bay; you'd never guess that so much noise could come from such a tiny puppy-- unless you heard it for yourself. Sheri, an as-yet unnamed harriette, approached Tore Ass and gave him a wrinkled, tatty dollar bill, and thanked him for his services. I asked him if he could remember Sheri's name, and he just replied, "Uhhh..." [sounds like an appropriate naming, to me]. Suddenly, Pit Stop paid Tore Ass another dollar, and commented that she "liked the warts." The legend of Tore Ass continues to grow...
By the time Slick Slit kicked things off with Father A, the sun was getting powerful strong. In a blink we were off, cutting across the adjacent truck stop and into a field. Vultures circled in the air, which I didn't think was such a great omen for the start of the hash; perhaps they smelled that squashed bunny from the previous night, but then again maybe they knew something more about this trail...only time would tell!
The pack descended on Historic Frederick once again, this time in search of flour, not beer. Around and around we went, eventually uphill on South St past the Blue Ridge Brewery. Something was written under a parked car, probably a taunt from the hares that we would sip no beer at the brewery this day. Oh, Cruel Hares!!! Soon the trail paralleled the dry creek of Frederick, which must count as the eighth wonder of the world. Yes Dear's dog drank long and deep from several fetid, stagnant puddles despite YD's remonstrations. For Sale Or Rent was observed propositioning a homeless fellow who sat enjoying the sunshine and the sight of FSOR in a bikini top. Old brick warehouses skirted the sides of the trail, which eventually wound past an actual creek with running water, a pasture, a little league field, and finally on through to the welcome sight of Norm! manning the beer check in Roto's truck. The beer check had brought much of the pack together, and the line of hashe!
rs stretched out across the next p
asture, into the woods, and across a road to the East Frederick School for the Criminally Insane. Here, much of the pack wandered aimlessly in search of flour, soon found near a waist-high chainlink fence. RutRo was afraid the fence might not be sturdy enough, but her fears vanished when I tossed over the hashit and my trusty journal, jumped halfway over it, then straddled it, and finally stumbled over to the other side. I checked, and both testicles were intact. Good-- I'd hate to try explaining fresh scars on my scrotum on my wedding day! Looking up, I could see the choice of trail: about a quarter mile of shiggy hills leading to an overpass, or a shortcut across I-70. On over I-70 we went, S'not, No Class, RutRo, Bavarian Bush, et al. I heard sirens just as I crested the embankment on the far side, and S'not reassured me not to worry: "I told them that you were in charge!"-- difficult to deny when you're toting the hashit!
Next the pack was treated to half a dozen or so sloping meadows; not that anyone complained, but just how the fuck are you supposed to find flour in knee-high grass? I cursed the hares yet again, vowing my revenge. The wildflowers were abundant and the grass mashed down by our predecessors as we crossed. Barrel Roll was heard to remark: "Mt Vernon generally likes its trails off-road, but this is more like a death march!" BR, I guess you can expect a down-down for that next time you visit!
Eventually we passed some property where a homeowner who was rich enough for a big new mansion, but not so rich that he could afford someone to wash his windows, was washing his windows. Although he returned my wave from the edge of his property, Dual Air Bags reported that he exhibited unprovoked rude behavior, which simply cannot be condoned. DAB, that asshole owes you an apology! At the top of the next slope we came upon paved road (yuck), and a check with flour leading to what would obviously be the Monocacy River. Mmmm, a swim would've been nice. Heck, that's the direction 7 Minutes, S'not, and Enos took off in, but some primeval instinct of survival turned me away toward the highway and a concrete bridge. No Class later reported seeing a black snake along that shady, shiggy stretch, and the hares reported seeing four or five (they claim to have altered their trail because of this, but I suspect they altered the trail toward the snakes, not away). It was in this!
area that Cheap Slut was heard to
mutter: "It's better to have a bug up your nose than a stick up your ass!"
The bridge, while appearing safe, was long, uphill, and very reflective of the sun, White Lightning: leading the pack afoul, mistaking cow pie for true trail (WL, too much sex is bad for your eyesight!) -Cheap Slut: #69 in a race (was he #69 registered, did he finish 69th, or did he engage in 69 during the race? We'll probably never know...) -Dr Jekyll: peed at the beer check (generally considered more heinous than a simple environmental) -Cold Cuts: marked a hare's arrow without being the hare (that shit may fly at Tidewater, but we take a pretty dim view of counterfeit trail marking at Mt Vernon) -Crossed Hairs, Spread Sheets, and Slip-Not: environmental pollution -Burnt Sox: thievery (state's exhibit A: a No Trespassing sign) -B-O-B: new shoes
I Need A Chiquita received a special award for being #69 registered for the weekend. Enos was awarded furthest to travel, along with More Legs for having wristband #69. Enos's down-down technique of straining beer through his trail sock will be remembered for a long time; especially since his sock looked like something out of S'not's laundry basket.
Organ Grinders were the next group to be recognized. That is, those that responded to the genital questions on the hash registration form in an original way. Spinal Tap, Rambo, Re Entry, and Cheap Slut had all bragged. Sheri foolishly left her registration form unattended in the vicinity of Dual Air Bags-- "I'm shallow, but real wide." Full Metal Balls wanted to know which of his multiple organs would count, and Byte Lightning was declared Winner because he was "still measuring".
Saints be praised, along came Dr D and Duke On In, DFL (or so we thought) because of sex on trail (by acclamation). Finally, Burnt Sox was iced for throwing food, which seemed to stimulate 7 Minutes.
The outgoing Mismanagement was ushered out with applause and a down down from their new engraved vessels. Roto Router, Blank Check, Hard Drive, Poop Deck, Lick It Off, Baby!, Spread Sheets, White Lightning, Dr Jekyll, Wet & Wild, and Short Cummings, we salute you! The incumming Mismangement was then introduced with the theme from Mission Impossible, and we started our year with a down-down, as was befitting.
Then, from out of the shiggy appeared a horrifying spectre, one that struck fear into every heart-- Rambo! Having started out well after the pack, he arrived with mud flying from his soles and a thirst for cold beverage. He had found the right place for that!
Finally, Dual Air Bags, Pink Slip (of Richmond), B-O-B, For Sale Or Rent, Low Blower, and Beetlejuice drank for being sans whistle. Swing Low was sung, and Burnt Sox the new RA paraphrased Tracey Ullman, telling us to "Go the Fuck Home." Maybe we should buy him a cheesy bathrobe and some hot pink curlers to complete his ensemble...
p.s. While waiting for the hash shuttle, several hashers piled their bags together. Pit Stop's pooch Nick (henceforth referred to as Ol' Yeller) peed on these bags. That makes it two weeks in a row for Ol' Yeller (Your Humble Scribe being last week's victim), who may become the first dog to merit the hashit!
Sunday
Let's try this again:
The hash rekindled the fires of the night before as assorted wankers shook off the cobwebs and paid their respects at the registration room. We never ran out of beer & soda at the registration room this weekend, and I just don't know how that could be! It was impressive to see so many hashers standing tall, ready for trail...
Poop Deck's first act of leadership was informing the gathered pack that this would not be a "fat boy's run", but a true MVH3 hash. Anyone even remotely familiar with the trail-setting habits of our wiley hares Missing Link and Dr Jekyll would already know that-- but still, a chorus of audible groans could be heard in response to this news. Gripe as they might, a real trail is what they came for, isn't it? Still others were already comparing shiggy scars from the previous day, with some very rapid cases of PI already coming to the surface.
The hares were away in a puff of flour, and the sun came out yet again to shine on our festive proceedings. All too soon, Burnt Sox commenced his official duties by leading a spendidly animated hangover version of Father A, complete with dry heaves. Pit Stop had Ol' Yeller up on his hind legs, and I checked to make sure my hash bag was well out of sight-- you can't be too careful around Ol' Yeller!
Then we were off, behind the Saturn dealership, over the highway and behind Wal-Mart. All of us, that is, except Quick Drawers and Burnt Sox, who must have been chanting one powerful mantra, because they just took off on their own; fact is, they ran the trail backwards to the beer check! I gues someone has to do this when Link hares...
Meanwhile, the rest of the pack passed behind the carnival which I never saw lit up or operate in any way all weekend. Over some drainage stones, through some industrial parks, and suddenly we were right under a water tower and passing the Francis Scott Key mall. Comfortably taking my time, I had a chance to chat with Stained Sheets: "Steamer, it sucks that you're going to observe and write about all of my fuck-ups! We run at the same speed!"
"Stain, why do you think "bribe" rhymes with "scribe"?" Stained Sheets took off with a burst of energy, and there was no catching up with him. All of a sudden there was the unmistakable, incomprehensible babble of Enos, our friendly and excitable wanker from down under, coming from over my shoulder. For the next mile or so he kept up a constant staccato chatter, I mean it was incredible how much that guy likes to talk. We started to short cut, with me hoping to find someone else to lend an ear to Enos, and Enos merrily chatting away about God knows what...
Crossing a main highway, Stained Sheets approached motioning us to start out in the direction he was heading. A quarter mile later, I still hadn't seen any flour, but at least Stained had caught up with us, and now I had someone to share my misery with! We were headed in the general direction of the Knights Inn, and were bound to pick up the trail. I looked up quickly when I heard a car horn beeping, and it was our hares in Link's new beemer, gloating. It dawned on me that we had probably missed the beer stop.
Speaking of the beer stop, Roto, in his position of beer stop supervisor, had driven the pickup out to the designated area, when a large pack of bikers pulled up in leathers. This aroused Roto's curiosity and just a twinge of anxiety, because they sounded very pissed off and grumbly for no apparent reason. And there Roto stood, his beanie spinning slowly in the morning breeze. Well, the bikers started taking off their jackets, and it looked like maybe there was going to be a rumble; except then, to Roto's amazement, they pulled out orange safety vests and started picking up trash along the shoulder of the road!!! Lucky for them they didn't start any trouble, right Roto?!?
Another half mile, and we ran across Hot Legs, Chu Mi, and Frau Sheets, who had been caught by the hares. Hell, another half mile and we were On In, no worse for wear & tear. The general feeling of the pack was that the only thing we missed with our shortcut was a cool stone quarry.
The Circle
We started, as we always start, with the hares. First timers include Frau Sheets, which of course led to the incrimination of Stained Sheets. Which led to the incrimination of grand masters, which led... Well, it led to the incrimination of everyone! So we drank a down-down to ourselves, and proceeded.
The violators were numerous: Stained Sheets passed the bar, Hot Legs was caught by the hares (she tried to parley this into "I caught the hares' but no one was listening or believing), Burnt Sox (Zen hashing), Alma (for locking her keys in the van), and Cold Cuts and All Hands on Dick for unrecorded infractions.
A renaming for the former Hooked On Forensics ensued; seems his behavior at Friday's pub crawl had many female hashers (and some non-hashers) wondering just what slurry language he was speaking! Since he was full of beverage and slurring his words, he will henceforth be known as French Toasted!
Finally we came to that dearest agenda item of them all: the hashit. I would have dearly loved to have foisted this upon some unsuspecting hasher, and in truth I DID. Tore Ass was hauled out for bringing a fruit juicer, Pit Stop was arraigned on charges that Ol' Yeller peed on a pile of bags for the second week in a row (paybacks are going to be hell on your wardrobe, Pit), and Chu Mi was accused of losing her keys. Yours Truly got the most applause from the assembly, but thinking quickly and following the example of my predecessor Blank Check, I simply handed the beer-filled hashit to Tore Ass, who accepted it without argument. Wouldn't you know it, that pair of anal retentives, the join masters, got involved and told me the hashit was mine for another week.
A chorus of Swing Low, and the hash started packing their bags and saying their farewells. The hard core hung around singing songs and swilling the remainder of the beer. Rambo, how did you know my momma don't wear no drawers? Ding, dong; ding-a-ding-a-dong; ding, dong; ding-a-ding-a-dong...