2011-01-22 Re-Hash
Hammond Hill
Hares: Porcelain Goddess, Master Baster
Arriving quite hung over and unnecessarily on time, us Flour City hashers stood around merrily, eating a frozen beer, looking for similar half-minds and finding only fine, upstanding citizens out for some wholesome snow-related Sunday activities. Surely, thought we, these are not our people, and our destination must be elsewhere. Lo and behold, from thence came the Hares and Hounds, and there was much rejoicing.
Peeg gave a chalk-talk with barely colored flour, blending in quite nicely with the snow until Antoine gobbled up the markings. Into the thicket traveled the intrepid hashers, some of whom donned impressive shoe-travel-make-going-easier devices. To me, they looked like some sort of awkward evolutionary step, like the first Davonian sea creatures adapting to hash through snow.
Along the trails went the kennel, dodging ice sheets and cross-country skiers at every turn. Up and up went the trail, and thusly the hashers did follow. After a stint, Master Baster decided to stop marking trail. Coincidentally enough, this was about the time my lungs decided to stop working as well. I’m not quite sure what followed in those harrowing moments, but at some point there was a BN with minty, boozy hot chocolate. And Pringles.
As the alcohol ran dry, along came a creature adept in both skiing and fashion. Sources say it was a shirtless man, but from what I recall, it was a well-insulated gentleman wearing the finest organically-grown, free-range, sustainable sweater vest that only those with Mediterranean ancestry can obtain. Or, perhaps, it was a bear that mastered the art of skiing but has only a passing proficiency in shaving.
Back on trail, up a ravine, re-appropriating the manicured trails for our convenience, we traveled. Honestly, given the distinct lack of oxygen traveling to my thinking-parts (most of it was forcefully re-directed to my more cherished head), coupled with the absence of aforepromised (word creation!) short-cuts from a uncaring hare, I don’t recall much of what happened. Trust me on this – there were paths, it was cold, and Flour City > Ithaca. Then…beer stop! Huzzah!
On home, more trail, etc. The group collected at the local public-use rape den, lit a fire, exploded the celebratory fireworks, passed around some home brew, and cajoled one another for trail mischief. Upon removing the unmentionables (Justs), a jury of their peers decided upon the following nomenclature: Just Nick S., due to excessive racism, will henceforth in the world of hashing be known as Speedy ComesOnUs. Also, Just Eric M., who has the unfortunate displeasure of cumming only once per anum, will henceforth in the world of hashing be known as Saint Dick.
Ithaca, thank you for the hashpitality. If ever you find yourselves in the 585, all things un-organic, non-cruelty-free, full of gluten, anti-vegan, and unsustainable will be presented for your enjoyment.
Until next time,
On-On!
Sheep Date
Flour City Hash House Harriers
Rochester, NY