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Posted lately by one of our own dearly-loved and loving half-minds:
“Hashing is a state of mind – a friendship of kindred spirits joined together for the sole purpose of reliving their childhood or fraternity days, releasing the tensions of everyday life, and generally, acting a fool amongst others who will not judge you or measure you by anything more than your sense of humor.”
The Wedding of Panic Button (Harrisburg-Hershey H3) and Siren Cums Loudly (Reading H3)
by Master Baster, RA, Ithaca H3
Dearly Besotted, we are gathered here in the presence of Gispert and the pack to bond these two half-minds in unholy mattress moaning. This day signifies the end of the ability to go to the hash without first wondering what your cellmate – sorry, soul mate – already has planned…
But this day also signifies that you will solve checks together, wait for the other when one of you is DFL, zip up each other’s outfit for Red Dress, support each other through ballbusting hashes, and always lay shitty trail together, hand-in-muddy-hand.
Invocation: Our lager, which art in barrels, hallowed be thy drink. Thy will be drunk, I will be drunk, in circle as in the tavern. Give us this day our foamy head, and forgive our spillage as we forgive those who spill against us.
Lead us not into incarceration, but deliver us from hangovers, for thine is the lager, the IPA, and the stout.
Panic Button – Repeat after me: I, Panic Button, do take this harriette for better or worse, on red wings and in red dresses, on achy feet and bad toes, in smiles and frowns, in good lovin’ and great lovin’, to have and to hash with, on pavement and through shiggy, until death do we part.
Siren Cums Loudly – Repeat after me: I, Siren Cums Loudly, do take this harrier for better or worse, in vomit and shiggy, in homebrewing disasters and remodeling chaos, in strange smells and adventures that start at 3:00AM, through back-to-back games of Tour Duh Franzia and the Beer Mile, to have and to hash with, until death do we part.
The happy couple has decided upon a double ring ceremony – may I please have the rings (Acolyte! handcuffs!) These rings are a symbol of the union between Panic Button and Siren Cums Loudly. In their roundness, they remind them to stick together, and to do a lot of running around in circles, particularly on trail. As these rings join their bodies together, so does this ceremony join their souls together (not to mention wrists and ankles).
[Song: “When It’s Incest Time in Texas,” sung by Type A-Hole]
…By the power invested in me by the state of hysteria, Gispert, and the pack herewith convened, I now pronounced you hasher and bimbo. You may snog the bride.
Oh conditions are vernal, unfit for walrus,
And our three HRs: sepulchrous,
Our sweaters all lack fashion,
let’s go hashin’
let’s go hashin’
let’s go hashin’!
Santas: Wowwie; PG
Raindeer: Bushy, CC, CoCo, Flossil, Jif, Spike, Climbin’ U., V. Kim, Bridesmaid, V. Anise, J. Christen, V. Nora, OCD
The raindeer gathered at the Creeker
The day could have truly been much bleaker
Inside gathered for a glass
They compared their outfits (all of class)
Gathered they outside
(Bushy & Kim: Late? Woe betide.)
Off they set, up the slipp’ry mess
Bridesmaid was sent upon a quest
Cock the Elder
Found some flour
And down they went, alas.
The Reverse 7 found the pack ahoo;
So sad! T’was true!
Ithaca’s Superfund site was lacking brew.
Around they went back up the hill
when by the fence
Baster found some underpants!
With mucky muck and scurvy skeeze,
Wowwie caught them ill-at-ease.
On and on and up they coursed
the pavement trail showed no remorse
so down U. Ave. the hashers exerted
and up dear old Ezra’s Lane the hares reversed it.
In leaves by Wait’s last Earthly rest-place
They found a mysterious beer-place
‘Midst painted loafers nailed to a tree
they cheered and caroused and gamboled with glee.
[Spike, from the FRB pack, for a moment was free!)
After a moment to chit-chat and refresh and foment
(Climbin’s moments in Oz were of comment)
we were off ‘cross the course and then up it
to Stewart we ran and then down again, confound it
So a while we went, past stones of times long departed
(for the first of many times, I farted)
through a shot-check, we raced
thanks to the rain,
said the hares, so embarrassed
Now uncovered was the prize, under leaves but no lock
we ascended the rise, to drink with Woodcock
Woodcock was loved, by his grave it was quite clear.
Under trees old and pine, there we enjoyed not beer
– but shots! Tastes of orange and fruit,
t’was to us made quite plain–this trail is a hoot!
Afterwards then it was all down towards the city
Flossil failed to trip PG–though truly this act wasn’t real bad–
I bet you thought I was going to rhyme with sh*tty.
When what to our wondering eyes did appear
Were some brand new chalk marks!
“Huh?” said the raindeer.
The chalk marks were chalk
Not flour, after talk.
The chalk, it would seem
was not red, was not green.
It was white, it was white,
this ain’t right, this ain’t right.
“Ain’t no other hash in town!”
they said with a frown.
But up they went
determined, not spent.
North side of Cascadilla.
Follow pavement? Makes me ill-a.
More arrows? Makes us curious.
Erased true trail? Makes PG furious.
Blanked-out hash mark?
Something’s up, who’s the nark?
Thanks to the hares, not to be outdone
They helped guide us on our brave beer run.
Back amongst the graves we flew
Seeking beer, having fun, stretching out, what a crew!
We found it! We relaxied.
And talked of strange marks and — what’s that taxi?
After a moment to figure that it was no alarm,
it was determined that the guy meant no harm.
A horn! A horn! But hark! But hark!
‘Tis not an angel… could it be ’tis our nark?”
A strange horn sounded
The hash was confounded
So Baster took off (assurance is his function)–
a hasher, of course, just has to have gumption.
So on, so up, towards the source of the clamor
this hasher ran to see what was the matter.
When–who is that? With a shape of a clothespin,
in blue and grey… hey, is that Trojan?
Oh Trojan! Oh Trojan!
You feisty old bastard!
“Just in town,” then, your story, you’ve mastered?
“Well then,” he said, with a twinkle in his eye,
“three drink stops and you’ve all managed to stay dry?
Tell me then, where is the on-in, just ’cause
on a day like today, it’s good to take pause?”
D’erections were given, discreetly and quick
And back to the hash, the messenger flew like Saint Nick.
…by the way, I should add
another tale of things that make Wowwie mad.
I came across once again, amongst the fields of remembrance,
a lovely pair of white and blue men’s underpants.
Wowwie was caught once again, worried about chlamydia
while the rest of us succumbed to a worthy bout of honest hysteria.
Poor Wowwie, she works so hard on her sexy abs,
but now she’s got some gonosyphaherpacrabs.
(Haven’t you ever wanted to rhyme things like that?
It’s okay, I understand–many wanna hit me with a bat).
On back we went, down Stewart and down Buffalo
but an A-to-B? That’s tuff-alo!
But yet, chez Parker House, she has a certain charm
among the pack, there was no alarm.
Soon fire and song and beer did flow
and we saw settle upon the pack a truly healthy glow.
Friendships rekindled, and new songs brought out
tales of braveur, of travel, of adventure they did tout.
Worst sweater? Though indeed that was the idea,
dear Spikey looked like a citizen of the Crimea.
With “bedroom chic” clad for his trunks
and matching hat? These elves have spunk!
Downs-downs came and to songs they danced,
by the way, I love hashes with my penguin pants.
When lo the sunset drew things to a close,
and quite a few wanted to remove their clothes
…I’ll take a moment to contemplate
‘midst what’s in my mug and on my plate
that those of us who inspire and elate
are a part of things that make life great.
I learned one thing this eve that serves to remind us all of fickle fate
For without the vivacity born of this running and ale,
many of us would not know the joy that is trail.
To run with half-minds is sweetness, truly;
we have great times of fun, however unruly.
And here’s to another one — Bushy!
She’s off to Trinidad! We’ll all miss her tushy.
For this reason and all others, may our merry little band
Raise our glasses in toast, to the hash and to a gland.
Dear Trojan, the man, diverter of trails
clever fellow, crafty wanker, enjoyed plenty of ales
is, thanks to strength born of the hash and hard as nails,
beaten cancer, it seems–the strongest of males.
And so now we depart!
Cheers, Trojan! Cheers Gispert!
Cheers to all who have ever known the pleasure
of running trail, of making time, in true and merry measure
for friends! Some are old, some are new–
we are hashers, we are true blue.
We are hashers, through and through
Are we piss-pots? No we’re not!
We will have fun ’til it’s time to rot!
We do well to remember first and foremost, from the 1938 Hash House Harriers charter, that the Hash is conceived in these precepts:
To promote physical fitness among our members
To get rid of weekend hangovers
To acquire a good thirst and to satisfy it in beer
To persuade the older members that they are not as old as they feel
With this in mind, I submit: is this idea unique only to the hash?
Perhaps these precepts conform not only to hashing, but to other worthy activities as well?
Hashing and overachieving may be akin to the invention of, say, babaghanoujj, or chocolate-covered (bacon) or (hot peppers), your choice. Witness the combination of two ingredients that seem so mis-matched and contrary to received knowledge. At first glance, this pairing may seem to defy basic standards of cuisine or comportment in their respective realms.
Yet, upon trying the combination and seeing how well the two elements blend, the beholder may realize the truly satisfying combination wrought by one’s own hand. Or feet. Or liver. And indeed, those of practically any age can enjoy these two things in their own measure, and are encouraged to do so simply by the joy they bestow and the goodness they intrinsically possess.
The hash is a place to have fun, to enjoy the company of others in good spirits, good trail, and good (mostly) beer. It asks naught of participants but hash cash, active participation, and a desire to be active in good humor. It does not ask us to move quickly. It asks us only to find beer and rejoice and be merry. Indeed, smart hares may be advised to reward (or punish) FRBs with long shiggy back-checks, while the rest of the (smart!) half-minds enjoy company of the pack with amiable companionship and down-down-worthy (possibly murky) moments.
With that in mind, a toast:
To the feet and the liver!