Special - 2 writeups for this hash!
Maybe I was a getting a little too sentimental for this, the last MVH3 run of 1996. The weatherpeople had forecast temperatures in the 60's, but I guess they meant later in the afternoon. Quick Drawers laughed at me for wearing shorts, testatment to my gullibility about the weather. My eyes welled up with tears of joy, though, as I arrived at the Huntsman Square parking lot to find about 10 hashers, 60 dogs and 30 children ready to take off on trail. I was so moved by the moment, in fact, that I actually showed up in time to see the Hares leave. Wet 'n' Wild, another perennial latecomer, and Norm! were also there on time.
Contrast this, however, with the vast majority of the rest of the Hash. Somehow, when Slick Slit volunteered to put directions on PUDJAM last week, she left out some critical direction like left or right. I was too distracted by her heavy breathing on the recording to focus on what she was saying, so I had no problem. A number of whining Hashers, however, complained that they were late because of that omission. To them I say, "Hey, if I made it on time shutyermouth and kwityerbitchin'." If you were there, you caught the most heartwarming moment of 1996, when Burnt Sox invited The Little Emperor and Jeremy, two seven-year-olds, to lead Father Abraham with him. Oh, it was so suburban. God, I love this hash.
Quickly, the pack walked from the circle, up to and across Pohick Road, and into the woods surrounding the Spartan Trail at South Run Park. P-Ennis took the early lead here while the rest of the pack chased a long false trail to oblivion. From here we sort of ran around for about half an hour, on bike paths, through woods and along streets. The trail, courtesy of Missing Link and Full Metal Balls, was very well marked, I thought, and there were plenty of false trails and checks designed to keep the pack together. Of course, that didn't work. I only saw Byte Ligtning, for instance, once, when she slowed to mumble something unintelligible to the pack before he ran up a hill. And we all followed.
I took a short cut and came upon Mud Buns and Briar Buns, who had that morning returned from a vacation in Florida. I was overjoyed to see them. Later, there was a split in the path--an option to take a Wimp Trail that was about 15 feet shorter than the Eagle Trail. I rejoined the pack after Foul Balls gave me much needed direction to the trail, but all that exertion had tired me out. I formed an old man's walking club with Harddrive, 'SNot and Blank Check, and we coasted into the finish, a cul-de-sac behind Huntsman Square. The Hares had the grill burning and those gross little sausages ready to cook.
As we got set up, we began to get worried, even amid the perpetual bliss that is the Hash. While Byte left early (good news), several of the Pack still weren't in after what we thought was a fairly short trail. Finally, Sweet Cheeks, protected by her hero Little Guinea, Fire and Ice and the woman who came with Toxic Cock (as if) made it to the finish. Missing Link was bleeding profusely from a Simpson-like cut on his finger--it seems he dropped a beer and cut his finger on the glass. Meanwhile, because the trail wasn't terribly long, Well Hung had lots of extra time to whine about how short the trail was.
Harddrive organized everything so that we could begin the circle. I am just so thankful to have had Harddrive around... he's just made the year so wonderful. We thanked the Hares for what, as always, was a very shitty trail. Organ Grinder, from the Cin City (Cincinnati) H3, was paying us a visit, and weren't we just lucky to have him along! The returners came and came: Wet 'n' Wild, Norm!, Big Bird Turd, Running Bare, Flat Ass and Dr. Pecker. We noted that Running Bare is leaving us for good, and we couldn't be happier about that! Stained Sheets (295), Wanker Aweigh (145), Briar Buns (35) and Little Guinea (5) celebrated anniversaries with our Hash as we commemorated the end of another year of Hashdom.
Then it got ugly, with violations a-plenty. Oh, all those late sign-ins: the Buns, No Shit Einstein, Flat Ass and Over Booked. Yes, Dear and Bullwinke were cited for a total body immersion environmental violation. Buddha was chastized for bringing the Wall Street Journal to the Hash--a status violation. Missing Link was cited for alcohol abuse (see above), and his co-hare was nailed for having dry-cleaning in his Hash vehicle. Foul Balls showed off his new shoes. Well Hung whined. S'Not got forty lashes for false alarms about police coming to squelch our revelry. When we threw in the people with dogs and children, the violators outnumbered the rule followers. Whatever. We drank. Oh, by the way, Buddha again did not bring the Hashit; he says it's his and he likes it.
A whistle check found a number of people whistleless (and anonymous, apparently). The enthusiasm finally died, though, during the silent version of Swing Low, and the R.A. declared the Hash over on account of lack of interest. Only moments later, the real Scribe, Steamer, showed up bitching about the mechanics at his garage. Sigh, the price of buying a new vehicle.
If you're reading this, I can only assume that you survived to the new year. Welcome to another year of hashing, Mount Vernon Style.
ON-ON, Burnt Sox
Steamer's writeup
As I pulled into the Huntsman Square shopping center, the wind was picking up and the sky was overcast. A typical cold humid DC winter day. It complemented the cloudy mood I was in after negotiating with car dealership cretins for a loaner. The fools! They made me 45 minutes late for the sacred MVH3 (and the hares were responsible for the additional 15 minutes with their shitty directions). I pulled into the shopping center and scanned for hash vehicles.
No bag van. Bad sign-- this meant that the hares had already returned, and it was likely that nobody else would return to the start until down-downs were winding down. Fuck it, the Trash MUST GET THROUGH! I stuffed my copies of the Trash into my hash bag, and slung it over my shoulder. I kept about ten copies in hand, and stuck them under the windshield wipers of all vehicles bearing the classic On On sticker (available from the habs, in case you didn't know).
Remnants of the schoolhouse fooled me briefly, since the check appeared at first to be a real one, all marked up with pack markings. Instead, I followed flour up a nearby embankment, and my hunt for cold beer was on!
Several objectives emerged from the murk of my subconscious:-
deliver the Trash to the On In. Hopefully at least one hasher could vouch for this delivery, and save me multiple down-downs in the future.-
make it to the On In before all of the beer was gone. What a disappointment it would be to reach the On In, only to discover no beer left! Besides, if I didn't get in quickly enough, I might not be able to find my way back to the start...-
figure what 'HFNY' meant. I found this abbreviation near the start, and it puzzled me all day. Hope Flatulence Negates Yodeling?
I skillfully avoided being flattened into road pizza at the intersection of Huntsman Blvd, and found trail on up into nearby woods. The pack did an admirable job of marking the checks, and I only took one or two BTs all day.
Now I know how Fat Lady must feel every week. Running trail on your own lends itself to contemplation, and provides its own rewards. You've got time to think, to sort out the cobwebs inherent in the ratrace existence we call the Modern World, to figure out just where you stand in relation to Nature, the Creator, and the muck that just tried to suck the shoe off your foot. You can perform an Environmental at will, and the only people who will say anything are the shocked neighborhood denizens out for their morning walk. I was prepared to tell anyone that interrogated me that I was a Volksmarcher (that way, they would be on the receiving end of any bad press in case I was stopped for trespassing). My hope was that any potential police I encountered would see my backpack and accept this story at face value, and not notice the hash logos that adorn the backpack. Thus, I was prepared for the rigors that would undoubtedly await me on this trail...
The first woods opened out into a typical yuppie neighborhood. I could feel the day's first environmental building insistently in my bladder. It was still way too early to stop, and I was in a race against the clock. I pressed on.
[Wait a minute-- what about 'Heartily Fondling, Not Yacking??? No, that couldn't be it...]
The locals stared in blatant amazement at the sight of me steaming through their quiet neighborhoods. Up past an outdoor basketball court, and along paved trail that ran right through the heart of many different neighborhoods, I had no time to pause to catch breath. Neither rain, nor snow, nor black of night would prevent the Trash from arriving safely at the end.
[Hubbel Focuses, Nearly Yaws?]
A carload of prospective homebuyers inched past me. Obviously, they were put off by the sight of a hasher (or was it a vigorous Volksmarcher?) trundling by at midday on a Saturday. Perhaps we can intimidate real estate agencies into paying us a stipend each week NOT to run in certain neighborhoods. Let's get Mismanagement to take a look at this option-- we could do away with the weekly assessment. I could only wish that I had the Hashit with me, to impress them even more.
[Harriette Filches Nifty Yeast??? Somehow, I think I must be getting closer to this elusive riddle.]
I encountered several Runners on trail. Most of them were 30-ish men and women, invariably wearing radio headsets. Why would anybody distract themselves in such a wankerly way? As if we don't get enough commercial bombardment on a daily basis, can you explain to me why someone would want more of it during a run? It's sort of like bringing your tunes into church, for crying out loud. I didn't waste my precious time trying to recruit these idiots to the hash, but I did flash one just to see if she was in a hypnotic trance (or not). Turns out, she wasn't!
[Hasty Fodder Notions Yesterday? My goodness, this was a real brain
teaser!]
To fill the boredome which eventually set in on this well-marked trail, I took to blowing my whistle at each true trail marking, as though I were in the front of the pack beckoning to the slow-pokes. What I was really hoping for was to hear a return whistle that would provide me with a shortcut to the On In.
Finally I rounded Huntsman Lake, and I started to figure that maybe the On In would be located somewhere near the start. Five minutes later I reached Bear Near, where I met Link, who was trying to corral the rambunctious Beezer. I had reached the end, I was On In, and the Trash made it intact through the vagaries of this hectic morning:
Happy Fucking New Year!!!