IH3 Trail #496

It’s a miserable day in the neighbourhood
A drizzly day in the neighbourhood
I think i’ll go hash with my neighbour
Howdy neighbour… got a beer?

Well… i hate to be the one to say “i told you something”, but i did tell you something. Bürp was up to his old diabolical trail-setting tricks this past Sunday, leading several hundred hash hounds on a torturous trail through the outback of Cornell.

I showed up in a cold snowy (but only the type of pseudo-snow that comes with Ithaca drizzle) B Lot, looking around for the start of the hash. I found no flour, but i did find Nut Roper and Just Joel experiencing a murky moment in one truck and Just Dan and his trusty dog Jackson experiencing a murky moment in another. I must have interrupted the delicate moment, because, as soon as i got out of my car, Just Joel hurried to put his pants on and Just Dan hurried to put the harness back on Jackson. Nut Roper just sat there smiling.

Then Just Diane showed up and everyone acted normal for a hash on a cold drizzly (but only the type of pseudo-drizzle that comes with freezing Ithaca rain) day.

Then we waited. And we waited. We waited for a hare: any hare, but after a few hours of acting normal, and after deciding that we were starting to get too cold, we decided to head out to look for flour on our own. Little did we know this was all planned by a devious hare. No sooner had Nut Roper called the first “ON ON” then our hare, the infamous Bürpenstain, appeared, bearing flour and a warning that we were heading in the wrong direction.

Then, without warning, a car swooped into B Lot, spitting forth Hot Lips before it tore away down the road. Apparently, Mrs. Lips was in a hurry. That or she didn’t want to be caught hanging around with the Ithaca Hash.

So, off the hash went again, this time with all six hundred hounds (plus or minus a few orders of magnitude). Through the campus, through the greenhouses, into the plantations, and around in circles through what would have been a flower garden had it not been for the cold rainy snowy Ithaca weather, the hashers hashed.

There was a Y followed by a T with an X that way but an O that way. We all knew there was a psi somewhere, but that X over there looked very shiggy, so we followed the T to an O to another Y. We took the Y to the T, hash style. Then we took the X to the T and carried the B out from behind a log, remembering to discharge some P in the bushes to keep the balance of the hash and mark our territory. Yeah… you smart ass little jogger in your fancy white r*** shirt: just keep runnin’ by.

Once were were all drunk and belligerent –well all execpt for Jackson, who seemed to be too delicate to drink real beer substitute, but not delicate enough forego nimbly eating a few greasy potato chips–, and had nothing better to do that watch a large bus, carrying what Hot Lips referred to as attractive older women, trying not to make the sharp corner on Forest Home, we stumbled off.

There was Beebe lake. There was Hot Lips running off on the excuse that his wife was going to perform a drive-by pickup and he had to be there. There was a very steep hill. Then there was a golf course and more beer. Ah… saved by the beer in the kitty-litter container. A chilly Hash Rest was enjoyed by all as we discussed Jackson’s obedience training, Nut Ropers biting habits, and the cure for antifreeze poisoning invented by Bürp’s dad.

Then it was down hill and through the woods on a trail that suspiciously looked like it had been r***d on. Through the woods and over the river (via a suspension bridge) we went, coming suddenly to the “On In”, conveniently placed no where near our cars on this cold an rainy day.

Eh, what the hell; we had substances resembling beer. We even had Icehouse in the bottle –pretty high class, if you ask someone other than me. We punished the hare for setting such a dry warm short trail (the diabolical deceptiveness of it all), we welcomed Just Diane, who started out as only half a virgin but was now fully corrupted by the hash, and we punished all those who ran too fast, ran too slow, showed up too early, showed up too late, or just looked too suspicious to be standing around in the cold, shivering with no beer-like substitute in their system.

Then Country Cock showed up, and we punished him for bobbiting the trail, even though he ran the entire thing and still was unable to catch up with us. Then we punished him again because he wore headgear into the circle.

No awards were given out, but we though of them sitting safely in our cars somewhere miles away.

Then the hash went in peace, and then there was hot sex, but that shouldn’t be mentioned here in case the censors are reading and some hasher is planning a political career.

—
Spike
Hash List Bitch