By Yes Dear

Hash Scribe

WASHINGTON -- House Speaker Newt Gingrich ordered the Capitol Police into riot gear last Saturday to protect his hallowed halls from the crushing on-set on 480 red-dressed hashers.

Unfortunately, the Capitol Police got bored waiting and went home because us wankers got lost en route to Congress.

So went Mount Vernon Hash House Harriers run #529, which not-so-coincidentally was the annual red dress run hared by Burnt Sox, Blank Check, Watergate, and S'Not.

This was one scary bunch that gathered at the Rock, conveniently located by the pit that has since become MCI Arena. I confess to forgetting the directions so after parking in the building I work at downtown, I headed toward MCI arena, figuring it would be easy to find 480 red-dressed hashers.

Not that easy.

I waited by the Metro station. Satan appeared and said the Rock was located at 9^th and G Streets. It isn't. Then Champagne arrived and said it was at 10^th and G. It isn't. We finally just decided to circle the arena, where we eventually found the Rock and some of the weirdest people you're likely to spy in D.C. (Not counting Jesse Helms)

There was Cunning Runt, who strategically cut holes in the butt of her dress to display the on-on located on her panties. But at least she wore panties. Crack Flasher (a she) and Tooth Fairly (a he) wore red-dress thongs. Hers was quite attractive. I didn't spend much time staring at his. Late Cummer was one of many women sporting on-on tatoos between the straps on their sport bras.

No Class, Steamer and numerous other hashers were manning the registration desk while Screws Everybody and Black Box were head tatoo'ers. (For the record, Screws Everybody claims to have been propositioned six times before the run started.)

About a hundred hashers, including a Burnt Sox who sudden had big hair, were on the roof, which did not burn down despite repeated chants of ``The roof is on fire'' from Stained Sheets and Big Bird Turd, who kept a $20 bill under his fishnet stockings.

Apparently before the scribe arrived, Spinal Tap, Hasher Humper, Stained Sheets, Steamer, No Class, and Black Box all posed with a police bus that pulled up. The officers reportedly refused to leave the vehicle. Smart move.

Some hashers were looking a bit worse for wear this red dress. Slick Slit complained that Missing Link has gone from a size 18 dress to a size 1X. Byte was going for the southern gentry look, equipped with a straw hat with white lace. Quite becoming for our favorite 'Ho.

Hareball went for the sequence look while S'Not grew munga breasts, carried an umbrella, and had red socks. Camel Jumper wore a wig, that surprisingly looked quite similar to his actual hair. Although his corduroy dress had to have become brutally hot. Then there was Section 8, quite appropriately attired for this red dress in a dress, who picked up two guys on the Metro ride over. Sleazy rider had a black wig and a silk scarf with flowers. Then we had our corporate types. Like it Off Baby looked like she was headed for the office.

Fly the Friendly Thighs and Sticky Lips were once again joined at the hips, only this time its wasn't hand cuffs keeping them together. Rather, then wore a single dress. I just want to know what they were doing with their hands inside there. They also had bright red wigs, from Nordstrom's of course. We also had tons of Hooter girls and Hooter boy-girls.

The hares were off not so promptly at 3:22 p.m. and Byte gathered the troops for Father Abe. The pack departed about 10 minutes later, running past the fire station and behind the portrait gallery museum. This turned out to be a BT. Imagine 480 people trying to turn around. Then picture them all in dresses. Even the bums were afraid and a chorus of `boos'' were heard from the pack at the back up.

We eventually double backed and crossed the front of museum. Around this time some unknown hasher leapt onto a waiting car and kissed the wind shield. We are a friendly lot.

We turned left at the old Woodies and then headed back toward the other side of the BT on F Street. We turned right on 9^th Street and then right on E Street, causing us to run past the FBI building, which naturally caused wankers to shut that this was the J. Edgar Hoover memorial run.

We turned left at 10^th street and hit Pennsylvania. This is where the pack screwed up big time and added an extra mile to the run. WHFS was having a music festival to the right. We naturally ran that way, regardless of the lack of flour.

This pissed of the band because the audience was watching us and not them, prompting the lead singer to shout, ``You're fucking up my set.''

We want all the way to the Ronald Reagan building at 14^th street before realizing that there was no flour. At this point, I assumed this was a run to honor famous Republicans seeing how the hares brought us past Hoover and Reagan.

But alas, we were off trail. At the Old Post Office, the pack split. The front half continued down Pennsylvania. The middle part, led by Poop Deck in a stunning wig, turned right on 12^th and left on Constitution, finding no flour at all. We continued down Constitution and eventually the packs rejoined at 3^rd Street where Pennsylvania and Constitution merge.

We entered the Capital grounds and were quickly confronted by several Capitol Police Officers who feared we were here to stage a protest. Can't imagine why they couldn't believe 480 people would be out for a stroll in red dresses. Oh well.

After a short BT, the pack was off down Independence to the Volleyball courts by Air & Space. Officer & a Red Neck did a surprisingly nimble impersonation of gymnast on the uneven bars at the play ground we passed. Let's see Mary Lou Retton try a flip on the bars in a dress and wig.

We crossed in front of the picture glass windows in the Air & Space cafeteria, drawing enthusiastic looks of endorsement from the tourists. Byte and Wankers showed how close they were at this point, running with their arms around each other's shoulders. It was quite cute.

We crossed to the L'Enfant train station, where S'Not waved us up the steps. After crossing under the tracks, we ended up in a parking lot across from the Dept. of Transportation, which is where the beer stop was.

Raz, EBBB, Gbof, and Deep Throat get the award for most innovative hashers. Realizing they were off trail, they hailed a cab to the beer stop. Then, because Raz left his boa in the cab, the driver returned to give it back.

A D.C. motorcycle cop had the misfortune of driving past us, prompting Wilburr to ask for a ride. The cop demurred, telling Wilburr to wait right there and he would be back.

Blank Check came to the aide of the scribe, who was having a hard time taking notes because his outfit was too tight. Black Check expanded the arm holes, much to my appreciation.

The pack was off soon after, passing through DOT and a startled security guard. Hard Drive, who looked like a red version of Mickey Mouse in Fantasia, led part of the pack on to true trail. We headed toward 395, right to L'Enfant Plaza, which went under, over and through.

We eventually ended up on the Mall where we headed to the city's favorite symbol, the Washington Monument. Low and behold, Wilburr's police friend was waiting. Wilburr tossed his white boa around the cop's neck and asked for a date. ``You wait at the top of the hill honey,'' was the officer's reply.

We ran past an Indian tribe, tee-pees and all, before heading to Bill's house. Some male hasher complained that his nipples were being chaffed, prompting Dual Airbags to respond that he should have put on Vaseline before the run began.

We ran around the Old Executive Office building, through Lafayette Park, and to the McPherson Square Metro stop, where Milk Money was handing out farecards and telling everyone to exit at Clarendon.

About 200 hashers made it onto the first train. I say it was the first train because Byte was on it and I can't believe anyone runs faster than he does, not even Chew Man Chew who also was sporting a dainty hat.

The tourists on the train really tried to ignore us, but it was too much. Responses from hashers varied from the boring (This is a hash house harrier run) to the moderately funny (We're Gays for Gore) to the fairly original (We're the Marv Albert fan club and we're running to spread the message `Free Marv.'') to the pretty damn good (We're members of Congress and these are your tax dollars at work.) Wankers Aweigh, however, had the better tourist response line. When asked what was going on, he said. ``Heck if I know, I'm just out for a run in my red dress.''

Trail left the metro station and headed along back streets down hill to Bardo's, where the bus, our bags, some suspicious looking food, and a lot of kick-ass beer awaited.

Now not everyone did this trail. Cunning Runt and Dr. Jeckyll led about 15 FRB idiots on a jaunt through the Mall, Georgetown, and Roslyn en route to Bardo's. Apparently, they never turned around when they stopped seeing flour. When they hit the Ellipse, they turned toward the Mall. But they were ahead of the hares, so there was not any flour to be found. They then proceeded in the general direction of the end. ``We were all over the fucking place,'' Ms. Runt told us.

Co-Scribe Scoop reported from the circle: The circle was complete bedlam but here's what I saw:

Steamer was attempting to gain control of the mass of hashers that had gathered around the down-down area. Watergate tried to get everyone's attention by flashing the crowd but unfortunately the only one who seemed to notice was Steamer. The hares, Pay-per-View, Blank Check, Snot, and Burnt Sox were finally brought up for their ceremonial down-down. Steamer then called for nominations for the best-dressed woman.

Suddenly, Mount Vernon's own Wilbur was being dragged into circle. He was looking very saucy in his white boa and red eyelashes but he was beat out by the femme-fatale, Neon, who was dubbed Evita by the crowd. Jealousy reared its ugly head though as he and Byte broke into a cat fight over who was wearing the most stylish hat. The two had to be physically separated as Steamer called for nominations of best-dressed females. There were quite a few harrietts dragged into the middle of the circle. A couple of wholesome, well-bred and well-siliconed Ft. Eustis hashers were nominated among others. The winning jug-o-beer went to Fly the Friendly Thighs and Sticky Lips, They had donned $80 red wigs from Nordstrom and spent the entire run literally attached at the hip and sewn together in one red dress! Just think, with the money they spent on those wigs, thirsty hashers in Bangladesh could have had beer for a year.

That's all we wrote. But we're not ready for On-on. Instead, we not present a special report from Burnt Sox, a red-dressed hare:

Surely, if a grown man puts on a red dress, will he not hash? And just as surely, if a grown man or woman hashing in a red dress runs in the wrong direction, will not hundreds of grown men and women hashing in red dress also run in the wrong

direction?

The Fourth Annual D.C. Red Dress run on September 27, 1997, answered both questions with a drunken mumble. Hashers had been sneaking into town during the last few days of the week, including Prodigy, who stayed with 7 Minutes.

They all came out of the closet on Saturday, at The Rock, a sports-bar in the shadow of the nearly-completed MCI Center in downtown Washington. Think about it: isn't a football uniform as ridiculous as a red dress?

In addition to the 300-plus pre-registrants, another 150-odd hashers showed up at the

door for the run. The Rock is a four-level restaurant, and the Hash took over the top

three levels, including the sun-roof that gave a bird-eye's view to the proceedings below. T-shirts were peddled, tattoos were moistened and applied, and the Hash was reunited. Groups from Hockessin, Nittany Valley, Pittsburgh, Baltimore made

the scene early. As usual, however, Ft. Useless/Tidewater stole the show,

arriving in their patented hash-bus just in time for the start.

We hares, 'SNot, Blank Check, Pay Per View and Burnt Sox, finally emerged to relatively little fanfare and, with flour in hand and a rough idea of where we were going to run, we departed. The Red Dress Hash was on. We trotted around the MCI

Arena and into Chinatown, and made our way toward the Capitol. Live hares in red dresses.

The pack apparently left about three minutes after we did, because I looked over my

shoulder after a few blocks and saw the pack, a red, smelly, oozing, hairy, mass, moving behind us. As much as I've been able to piece together,

however, everyone got lost. I strongly suspect the Lemming syndrome: a few FRBs decided the trail had to go west, directly toward the Washington

Monument, and the rest blithely followed. I heard that the pack ran through a street concert on Pennsylvania Avenue, making more of a scene than the band on stage, before reversing course back to the Capitol and finding flour again. This route added about a mile to the trail, but was probably more fun than our route, which went by a homeless shelter.

One unfortunate group, taking the Speedy, Lost, Incorrect Trail, missed the beer check and ran about three miles out of their way straight to the On-In. These SLITters (featuring Layover, Dr. Jekyll, Cunning Runt, Hairball, and Little Guinea)

Later questioned (that's putting it mildly) whether there had been any flour. I went back the

next day and saw trail, and pack arrows up to the Chinatown gate... only to stop suddenly. I guess that's where the lemming thing started. Bottom line: in the hash you follow flour to beer. If you're running and not on flour STOP.

From the Capitol, where Hasher Humper and Spinal Tap were poised with camcorders, the pack ran along the reflecting pool at that end of the Mall to the Air and Space Museum. From the patio outside the Museum's restaurant, I believe the

pack again mostly overran trail and milled around the National Mall for a bit before coming into the beer check at a parking lot on Sixth Street, S.W.

We hit trail again, and after the customary three-minute head start, the pack was after us again. Give us a break guys: this was a live hare! We got lost but made our way eventually to L'Enfant Plaza, back to the Mall, and toward the defining phallic symbol of the D.C. Red Dress Run: the Washington Monument. By this time, Pay Per View had split off to lay the last half of the trail. As a hare, I stood at the Monument and saw red dresses streaking toward me, about two blocks behind. We headed for the White House, through Lafayette Park, past a trumpet player ("Tip Me"), and into the McPherson Square Metro.

Milk Money and Camille were posted at the Metro to hand out farecards to the pack and to direct them to the Clarendon stop on the Orange Line. As we Hares waited nervously on the platform, we heard whistles inside the station. Salvation on the

tracks: a train is coming, but it's a Blue Line train. At the last minute, we decide to hop on anyway. As the train pulled away, I saw Byte Lightning stumble down the stairs, huffing and puffing in frustration at having missed us. I waved.

We hopped off the train at Rosslyn and ran up the hill to meet Pay Per View and the pack at Bardo, a converted auto dealership that's now a Microbrew/pool hall/movie theater in Arlington, Virginia. Yeah, we end there every year, but where

else are you gonna have 450 hashers in red dresses? (Next year's hares just may have an answer for this question.) More milling around and swilling of beer and munching on perfect hash food. Awards: Neon, the best-dressed man, got a facial and a manicure for the event. Fly The Friendly Thighs and Sticky Lips teamed as strawberry twins

for the best-dressed woman. Big Bird Turd was dishonored as the first overeager wanker to registered for the event. And it was time to swing low and see if you could get lucky.

The D.C. Red Dress Run has now grown to an event of major size, and it's on the verge of metamorphizing into a new being. In the future, look for new and exciting changes, with the old constants (red dresses, beer and FLOUR). Know this: the event would have fallen into useless disrepair without the bevy of volunteers who

pitched in: Black Box, Hasher Humper, Byte Lightning, Steamer, No Class, Ginger, Goofy, Milk Money, Camille, Spinal Tap, Rajun Cajun, Hurls from the Crypt, and the others who gave their time in ways so subtle that I forgot their names.

Thanks also to the Rock and the Bardo for accommodating us, and for the D.C. Police for a

Motorcycle escort on the Mall. And to the Hash Collective, for making this an event to try real

hard to remember the next day.

On-on,

Burnt Sox/Anne Frank

The Roof Is On Fire

Scribes take no responsibility for accuracy of this publication.

Hash Hotline: 202-PUDJAMO, #6 for directions that are updated by Thursday. Or visit the web site at http://patriot.net/~djk/mvh3

Run 532/Oct. 18....... Cunning Runt, Dr. Jekyl

Run 533/Oct. 25. Halloween Run: Blank Check

Run 534/Nov. 1…….. Put It Out

Run 535/Nov. 8…….. Yes Dear, Screw Everybody

Joint Masters:

Mark `Steamer’ Stoffel: 703-516-2176 steamer@patriot.net

Calvin `Byte Lightening’ Brown: 703-590-6794 byteru@aol.com

Stan `Wide Open’ Jozwiak: 703-239-0615

Karen `Scoop’ Reid: 703-836-3839 Scoopwwc@AOL.com

Jaret `Yes Dear’ Seiberg:

301-890-1348 seiberg@tfn.com

Jim `Full Metal Balls’ Fenton: 703-339-5528

Eric `French Toasted’ Geyer: 703-425-0769

Dave `Wankers Aweigh’ Bertagnoli: 703-685-0338

Nancy `Pit Stop’ Geyer 703-719-0157

Tia `Dual Airbags’ Perry: 703-878-7030