And so I hopped into the Soxmobile and drove home, leaving Harddrive alone to wonder about how wise it had been to back his vehicle into the parking lot. And what that greasy kid stuff on the rear window was.

After the Germans threw me out of the hot tub, I dried off enough to throw some clothes on and ran to catch up with the last group walking the mile or so back to the start. As I had said several times during the run, this was all good and fine given that it was 70 degrees, but if it had been cold and rainy there would have been hell to pay! PAY PER VIEW, MUD MUFFIN, FRENCH TOASTED and a few others were part of this most pleasant pack of the day, and it was good.

With the police dispatched and most of the crowd disperse, I was free to relax in HAWAIIAN PUKE'S hot tub, which was just the right temperature, even on an uncommonly warm day as this. Although no one joined me, I appreciated the lewd comments from the Harriettes lining the tub. RUT RO was kind enough to feed me with beers while she discussed Hash business with me. HOLLOW POINT was also nice enough to offer to throw a toaster into the water with me. Since man can in fact live by beer alone, I declined his kind offer. The hot dogs were enough. Eventually, though, BAVARIAN BUSH and ICH LIEBE DICK ordered me out of the hot tub--apparently, they had war games of their own planned.

As business concluded, Alexandria's Finest appeared on schedule, ready to beat back the unruly crowd that had invaded this quaint suburban colony. While DUAL AIR BAGS, SPREAD SHEETS and I poured out the remaining beer to avoid the $250 City fine, POOP DECK carried out the most noble of his JM duties: sweet talking the cops. I wouldn't be surprised if this cop was parked head first in the starting lot later in the afternoon, waiting for wayward Hashers to back in. The officer bragged, "I've seen you guys running around all morning." Fuck you, man. If you saw us, why didn't you tell us about that BT on the bike trail, huh?

We found a bunch of whistless people who helped us sing Sweet Low. The RA, in his infinite wisdom, was especially kind, releasing the crowd after only six verses of the song, leaving us more time to enjoy the unseasonable weather. And to drink more beer on our own time. The Hash-it, as usual, was not in attendance. We had a series of (in this Hasher's asshole) rather technical violations: ICK LIEBE DICK (signing in the wrong place in the book), KIMO-A-WANA-LAYA (doing something with the Dahmer cooler), NO GENITALS (stealing and racing--or is that stealing racing... i can't read this damn sheet), FULL METAL BALLS & MISSING LINK (new cars and racing, or racing their new cars ... i can't read this damn sheet), CORKSCREWED AND SCOOP (new job, though the new job might be with FMB's new car... I can't tell). And a series of whining invectives directed at the Hares: losing the sign-in book, starting at a gay pickup spot, no directions, foreign markings, having a hot tub and a barbeque, and failing to have a water stop on a "hot" day. Uh, yeah.

The already-named generally amused us. PENNIS's hash name is a corruption of his real name, P. Ennis. This was his 500th Hash lifetime, and we all urged him to get a life. First off, to have hashed so many times, and second, to have such an accurate count. BIG BIRD TURD was named because of an amusing little anecdote involving his annoying disposition. We let these two names stand. The Former Little Guinea wasn't so lucky. He enchanted us with a tale about Hamlet and a friend who had named him and the beauty and poetic meter of the Hash, but he talked like the wind, with much fury but signifying nothing. CUNNING RUNT and DUAL AIR BAGS suggested "Little Willie Shakespeare," in honor of his senseless bard epic, but when they failed to summon enough courage to share their suggestion with the crowd, the RA, as usual, reigned supreme. At MVH3, he'll carry the name he earned at the '95 Interamericas Hash: MR. INTERHASH.

Some people have the need to name themselves, and I appreciate Robin Everett, who makes stuff like this easy. She knew good and well it was her sixth run, but she did it anyway. When POOP DECK and I started to convene a little prenaming committee, we noticed that the front of her shirt said, "Face It." That's her name, we decided. As the nominalizing moment approached, and Robin stepped forward, however, we realized that fate had again worn its ragged T-shirt on our behalf. The back of her shirt carried the slogan by which she shall forever be known (throughout the wonderful world of Hashing): SECOND SUCKS.

Returners were the nefarious UNDER A BUCK, the somniloquent TROUSER SNAKE, the callipygean PAY PER VIEW, the stoic PUBLIC ACCESS and the prevaricating TOPLESS SKATEBOARDING NUN. (Sorry--I'm studying for the GRE's.) JIMI HENDRIX and ORAL GINA passed through to say hi. Sunny weather brings out those virgins, huh: BILL (who has a hash name, but somehow ended up with the virgins), PETE, DON, PAT, ANN and JAY. I don't think this includes the three standersby whom STAINED SHEETZ pimped into joining us for warm, cheap, domestic beer in paper cups. Maybe they'll come back. Maybe THEY called the police. Who knows?

I think I've made an executive decision. Virgins don't have hash names. Visitors do. Yeah, I like that distinction. And if someone is stupid enough to visit us more than once, they're a returner. God, I love the potential of abusing absolute authority.

Anniversarians and other applicants to the Get a Life club: QUICK DRAWERS (315 runs), YES, DEAR (50), WIDE OPEN (50), FLY THE FRIENDLY THIGHS (25) AND THADDEUS (5). And, of course, the Hares were honored for their trail. We introduced SEE DICK RUN to the MVH3 version of false trail marking, which of course is a "BT" or three lines... not the X he left on the bike trail. HAWAIIAN PUKE and HOLLOW POINT did a fairly decent job of redeeming themselves from their last disaster, so a tip of the scribe pen to you two.

For all the whining about the trail, or lack thereof, and the unorthodox markings, the pack arrived pretty much as, well, a pack, and only about 50 minutes after we had left. I was really happy, because someone had apparently found my chalk on trail and had brought it in to the finish, where I reclaimed it! I set about drinking beer and hoping against hope that the warm weather would lead to mass female nudity.

After solving a cute little check at the Braddock Road Metro, we were home free. TOXIC COCK did add an extra two blocks to his trail after seeing BEER NEAR, but that's his personal thing. I don't ask, I don't tell. We did have to cross route 1 and run around a playground, but everyone seemed to have made it pretty well through this part of the trail. In fact, after most hasher had crossed Route 1, we stayed together pretty, even if mostly out of fear and frustration. Fear, because some of these neigh- boor-hoods looked a little livelier than the suburban enclaves we usually terrorize. And frustration, because it was hard to follow trail. I think some hash had been prelaid; some of the flour looked like it had come from God's Sweet Sixteen birthday cake.

Eventually, as I said earlier, everyone ended up on the correct side of Route 1. AMKNEESIA was really in trouble: she had to follow pack arrows left by Burnt Sox, and it's always a risk proposition to trust that character. After BYTE LIGHTNING and CUNNING RUNT led the pack at their usual lightning/runt speed along the Mt. Vernon trail, they hit a check just north of Old Town. They veered left, while another phalanx stayed straight on the path, figuring they'd meet up. Both were false trails, but the one to the left was marked with a Big Ol' X. Hash goggles on, they ran over and through that mark. Here's how I reconstruct the lack-of-thought process: I am a Mt. Vernon hasher. I see an X. In some hashes, X means a bad trail. Here it means nothing. Therefore, I must run past it. Faster. Needless to say, the whole pack got lost. Eventually, WIDE OPEN retraced his steps and found that the trail picked up after crossing the GW Parkway perpendicularly.

The pack bunched up again behind an apartment complex abutting Potomac Yards, the now-abandoned site for the new football stadium. TOPLESS found trail over a brush-covered hill, and the pack spilled onto a gray, desolate wasteland. Here's where I lost my chalk,and my ability to leave those pleasant little arrows marking my way. We found the world's smallest check--a circle about three inches in diameter on a road sign in the middle of the rail yard--and that was the last hash I saw until I saw some wayward hasher running along the bridge that ran over Potomac Yards. I ran toward him. I was already lost... at least there was a chance he knew where he was going. DR. STRANGELOVE ran away from him, fearing that he would become even more lost.

STAINED SHEETZ pointed out that the run was so convoluted that everyone had a chance to be the FRB at one point. As the pack coursed through the woods surrounding the Daingerfield sex park, this proved to be the case. Indeed, after Father Abraham, I think our entry into the woods led to premature withdrawals by others in the woods. Not that there's anything wrong with it. As Father A ended, RUT RO tried to salvage her late arrival by sprinting into the circle and holding up the box of chalk for people to take. Nice try, kiddo. A lot of Hashers showed up today--85, by the time we paid all the bills. Really incredible what a warm day in Washington will do for you. POOP DECK, HARD DRIVE, BURNT SOX, BYTE LIGHTNING and DUAL AIR BAGS all took part, in one way or another, with the singing. Burnt Sox called the 490th Mt. Vernon Hash to order with a series of announcements that were drowned out by the planes flying overhead and the moans of ecstasy coming from the bushes and shrubs around us. Actually, just from the shrubs.

A beautiful, unseasonable warm day. Nothing to do but tear myself out of bed and go Hashing. SLICK SLIT was able to fill in on PUDJAM, and while I missed the pants and moans from the weeks before, I glad somehow, someway, the Hash overcame the Hares' tardiness in providing directions. As I pulled into the Daingerfield Marina and Recreational Sex Park, I found a healthy contingent already awaiting the day's activities, and a bunch of dirty old men ogling all that eye-candy in our tight little running pants. Ah, the sounds and smells of summer. This, my friends, was going to be a good day to Hash.

On-on, Burnt Sox. On-on, Burnt Sox.