A Drinking Club with a Running Problem
The rains of Ithaca did not deter the brave and intrepid hares Butt Floss and Porcelain Goddess, who mercilessly taunted the hashers through the wilds of downtown Ithaca. Long did they run through the forests of concrete, brick, and oak, misdirecting the harriers with cunning use of checks. Taunting the assembled half-minds, Floss and Goddess eluded the pack through strategic placement of false trails, checks, and back-checks. Fortunately for the hash, they were not able to catch the hares while laying trail.
This did not prevent a gross public infliction of wanton nudity and debauchery, as there were myriad instances of indecent exposure, lewd conduct, and flagrant public drunkenness during the afternoon. No less than six instances of junk-flashing occurred, due in most part to Butt Floss, Minister of Copulation. Doing his best impression of the Republican Mascot, he revolted dozens of onlookers with underwear of pachydermal proportions. It was determined by the herculean efforts of Porcelain Goddess that the trunk was not, in fact, filled by turgid manflesh, much to the disappointment of the assembled females.
Due to the previous aqueous deluge, much of the original trail was eradicated. Sensing doom, Floss left the hash start in a panic,
nervous that down-downs for shi**y trail would ensue. By the time WT and Country Cock arrived, precisely on time by HST standards, Floss had returned to lubricate the thirsty harriers. After determining that the hash would be Live, the hares set out, eager to confuse the gathering of Half-Minds. A drive-by by the local constabulary did not deter the hash; the policeman gave a supportive wave as he passed.
The gathering of half-minds bayed in unison, eager to chase the trail ahead. A good ten minutes passed, allowing ample time to de-soberize and limber up, whilst the hares set what was to be a maze of confusion. On the harriers chased, following along the neighborhoods surrounding Route 13. A confusion of false trail ensued, no doubt preparaed with the help of the Floss Chariot. Fortunately, the hash chased through the Fall Creek neighborhood, sensing the call of the Ithaca Festival. The hashers were at one point greeted by a mohican six year old, urging them on from his perch on a stoop. By twists and turns, short-cutting through private property and city streets, the half-minds barreled down along Cascadilla creek, past Gimme Coffee, eventually heading east towards the old Ithaca Fun plant. Country Cock foiled a back-check to lead the pack towards the sacred Beer Near, just off Fall Creek,
Speculation of the hares’ activities arose, as several used condoms were revealed. Dances with Head ensured that no hasher was lost, gallantly braving the false trails with aplomb. A cache of Miller was uncovered, to the delight of all. As the sun dries grapes in the Tuscan sun, so also did the hash become parched. All did partake of the restorative ambrosia, waxing rhapsodical of trails run, benders underwent, and adventures had. Just Tom won the Bender prize, for 19 consecutive drunken days between finals and graduation. The harriers toasted the departure of the hares as they set off on the second leg of the trail. Just Tom gallantly offered to take the cooler, so the rest of the pack down-downed as much as could by safely taken. Off they went down Lake Street, past the high school and towards Boynton. Cries of dismay could be heard as they encountered an ‘X13″, however
the hash continued undeterred, cantering along the soccer and baseball fields, under Route 13, and into Stewart Park.
The front-running bastards cut a drunken swath through the park, as they ignored quizzical looks from curious onlookers. Passing by the pavilions, the hash continued through the main fairground, skirting the merry-go-round and inflatable moon bounce. The tennis courts paused mid-game, wondering what bunch of crazy people would run through the park in the mid-afternoon head. The trail bent around the lazy loop by the municipal golf course, prompted certain hashers to shortcut towards the next Beer Near. The glistening malty nectar perched jauntily atop of the pile of wood chips, jealously guarded by Goddess and Floss. Steaming like exposed pudenda in February, the pile proved a worthy challenge to those eager to surmount it. One by one, the harriers scrambled up the dendrous refuse to quench their burgeoning thirst. One by one, the cooler’s contents were replaced
with empty cans. Just Tom noticed a wounded can, bruised by Master Baster’s short-cutting tendencies. The bleeding beverage was quickly put of its misery. Bets were taken on the amount of time needed to find Dances with Head and Every Other Dick. Jiffy Lube bravely made inroads towards the festival, but was ultimately unsuccessful in her quest. Toasts were made for her intrepidity, and there was much rejoicing.
Many had to relieve themselves, as a hasher must do. Country Cock provided the best source of amusement, as his devil-may-care attitude had him at one point astride the hill, wedding tackle in hand for any commuter who cared to look. The woodchips gave way without warning, causing much amusement to the high-spirited onlookers. By degrees, the team had their fill of refreshments, and they decided to continue on the final leg of their quest. A decision was agreed upon: The Beer Must Go. Country Cock, Pippi Schlongstocking, Master Baster and Just Tom took up their bubbly burden, and the pack was off again. Down
they went on Willow Avenue, knowing the stench of the treatment plant was soon upon them. Passing through the remnants of the Farmer’s Market, the hashers skirted along the railroad tracks. The quest was soon over, as the pack reconvened with the long-lost Dances and EOD.
Fresh offerings of beer were procured, and the hash toasted each other. Pippi Schlongstocking, WT, Country Cock, Just Tom, Just
LeeAnn, Master Baster, Jiffy Lube, Dances With Head, Every Other Dick toasted each other’s shortcummings. Longcummings were doubly rewarded. Suggestions for a naming of Just Tom were proffered, as he had presented Goddess with a peony. Tiny Penii, Stop and Smell the Penii, and Eat My Peony were among the entries for a name, however the motion was tabled. Multiple punishments were granted for the usual FRBs, DFLs, EABs, LRBs, as were those who flashed, crashed, and hashed. Additional heapings of scorn and sorrow came forth, as we acknowledged we missed those who could not be with us. We therefore
drowned our sorrows in beer, hoping that our brethren would among us again for the Great Ithaca Weekend this coming August 17th. Much wankery thereforth ensued, and it was agreed that those assembled would go in peace, and get a piece.
Hornily Submitted,
BASTER