A Drinking Club with a Running Problem
It was the best of hashes, it was the worst of hashes. It was an age of shiggy, it was an age of pavement. It was the taste of true brew, it was the taste of swill. It was the joy of beer, the quest to find the coldest.
So it was for the thirsty souls of the Ithaca Hash, as they gathered by the banks of the great and mighty Fall Creek, one balmy August day. They gathered, among other reasons, to honor the return of their out-of-town guest, Fålse Ërëctiøn, who had journeyed many miles from the shores of the river Rhine. He recounted many tales of Valkyries, of Ålpenhorns, of German scheiße videos, and carried eine grosse geflügenschplügen indeed. Having not seen him for so long, Tøøthy Lünkër was indeed impressed with how the years had treated him.
As the brave men and women made their treks from all points, they each wondered what the day had in store for them. There had been rumblings from the pre-trail contingent that it was to be a shiggy trail indeed. Who knew what obstacles they had to conquer? Only Herrs Bütt Fløss, Møüthfül Øf Clåm, and TØFÜ were savvy; the comely scout Pørcelåin Gøddess knew as well, as the privileged one deemed worthy enough to scout trail, by virtue of her proximity. Yet as each harrier tried to wheedle the secrets from her, they were met with but scorn, derision, and flirtation.
With legs a-limbered, and staffs at half mast, the crew arted to circle just as the wily and elusive JSÜÅD arrived, earning him the vaunted BLAB award. After many additional rounds of salutations and catchings-up, Bütt Fløss gathered the restless half-minds together for the chalk-talk. Once business had been settled, Måstër Båstër, clad in his ceremonial crimson robes, drew forward to anoint the brave Herrs and bless the trail. Once Herr Bütt Fløss’ bitching had subsided, the hash was off.
The tone was set quite soon, for FRB Pîppi Schløngstöcking soon found a BC 8 not 100 yards from the outset. Happily, trail was discovered through a patch of field towards the woodsy hills lining the banks of the creek. And so the pack went, meandering up and down the slopes, tripping over roots and jumping fallen timbers. Several times, the hares attempted to throw the pack from the trail, only to have them quickly pointed in the right di-erection. Pîppî Schløngstøcking stopped to hurl invective and potatoes at the passing pack, only to be met with indifference and return fire. Not to be disenheartened, he continued his wayward path, FRB though he is.
At last, a bridge! A bridge in sight! A landmark! Surely, surely something interesting was about to happen. Trail could be spotted, fording the raging torrents of Fall Creek, tumescent – nay, engorged – with the drenching downpour of rains the night before. Gingerly, as if quietly creeping to avoid the wrath of a virgin’s protective father, the pack made their way across the creek. But wait! Høünd Mîn was stuck! Unable to cross the torrents, the poor rat puppy was about to be swept downstream, when the RA gallantly swept her up before she was swept away, despite suffering grievous injuries to his legs and knees. Høünd Årlø fared better, although he rewarded the pack with his own unique form of happiness: Eau de Chien Mouillé.
Having made it safely to the other side, amidst the bemused stares of a cute brunette and her beau-come-lately, the pack was about to press on, when BEER! Sweet, delicious BEER was discovered, perched behind an area rock pile. Harrier Jüst Årøn was the first to discover it, and he alerted the others to its bounty. And thus the pack did rest, and all was right in the hash. Goddess baptized herself in the creek, prompting rumors of a wet t-shirt contest. Alas, it was not to be.
The pack, hardened once more by the beer and the view, decided to press on. So they continued on-up to the Plantations Arboretum, where they soon discovered the joys of the myriad trails that presented themselves. Laughing like the wretched bastard he is, Bütt Fløss perched atop the stone wall overlooking the scene, superciliously surveying the hashers as they scouted out the variegated options. All took their turn foraging trail, each cursing, swearing, and fuming with each progressive False Trail found. Møuthfül øf Clåm, unoccupied with the trail search, instead gallantly provided di-erections to a passing couple in a fashionable Volvo, no doubt drawn to the beauty of the stately matron and her husband within.
Having exhausted all options, the thirsty lot eventually turned towards the water tower, the last refuge of hope. And so they proceeded, meandering aimlessly until coming upon two front runners, Tøøthy Lünkër and Pørcelåin Gøddess, who were amusing themselves with a burro and a pony they found in bondage in a nearby stockade. Having been appropriately chastised, the two harriettes trekked on, with the others close behind. The pack was off across Route 366 and into the experimentation fields, where Cornell grows their radioactive tubers and Money on Trees™.
On-into the woods, where the wild things are… and no sooner than the pack had gained entrance to the woods than FRB JSÜÅD rallied the hash with the allure of…MORE BEER! One by one, the hash caught up, with ÜFØ and Bëdsîde Pøledånçër sweeping the trail for fallen hashers and doggies. Once refreshed, they moved onwards, skirting across Game Farm and heading into the wilds of northern Varna. On-down the trails and farm roads they went, jumping Cyclone fences and sniffing out the laughably plain false trails as they went. A hash view was spotted, and they stopped to take in the fresh, bracing scent of composting manure and wood chips. Having refreshed their senses and renewed their desire to never live in that part of town, the hash continued through much muck and shiggy, coming to the Varna Playground, a delightful mélange of former fridges, decrepit dryers, and other assorted dangerous household detritus.
Amidst the wreckage and litter, Türtle Whåcks discovered a hidden cache of sweet, delicious BEER! Møüthfül and Jüst Shåne soon discovered leftover hot sauce and slightly superannuated mayonnaise, aged to perfection like a fine Stilton. Testing the integrity of the separated food product, Båster splashed some mayo on a discarded dryer. Høünd Årlø set upon it with alacrity, ensuring that none of the delicacy was left for poor Høünd Mîn. The hot sauce was saved, along with a super potato saved from Schløngstøcking’s barrage, for later use and abuse.
All of the sudden, some fair damsels happened upon the Hash whilst out walking their pooches. Virgin Angela and her unknown friend made our acquaintance and stayed to chat, drawn in both by the collective attractiveness of the hashers and the presence of the tasty nectar which they jealously guarded, but graciously offered. After having secured their contact information, the hash decided it best to strike out again, and so they did. After negotiating several more trails of varying treachery, fording streams of questionable integrity, the hash emerged into an oddly familiar clearing. Strangely, the trail ended coincidentally at Pørcelåin Gøddess’ fortress. Upon this revelation, the pack dispersed to collect the trail beer and their cars.
At the on-after, fire and food was soon produced in preparation for the festivities. The hash soon drew together for the closing of the hash.
We welcomed Virgin Delana to the hash, as she had inexplicably not escaped or run screaming into the wilderness, despite all efforts by Herr Bütt Fløss.
FRB awards were duly issued to the likes of Pîppî Schløngstøcking, Jüst Zåck, Måster Båster, and Jüst Shüt Üp Ånd Drînk. Just as enthusiastically did they run trail, so also did they quaff their beverages. ÜFØ and Bëdsîde Pøle Dånçër were thanked graciously for their brave trail-sweeping, each presented with a special beer to commemorate the occasion.
Birthdays were skipped by the RA, as he was amidst a down-down at the time he thought of and forgot the award.
Herrs Bütt Fløss, Møuthfül Øf Clåm, and Tîts Øüt Før Üs were summarily called out for laying quite the sh***y trail, despite all efforts otherwise. Try though they might, they were unable to satisfy the assembled hashers. Møuthfül was unceremoniously urinated on for deserting the hash – pisspot as he is – and it did seem like he enjoyed his special down-down a little too much.
Visitors, Cum-Latelies, and R***rs were invited to join the party, and so Fålse Ërëctiøn, Türtle Whåcks, JSÜÅD, and Tøøthy Lünkër obliged. Sadly, they did not fail to down-down their chosen beverages.
One by one, the remainder of the hash came to the center — Spîke for bobbiting the trail, Jüst Åron for discovering beer (and being a wanker all around), and Cøcksmith for possessing a lethal hound without a hound license.
It is at this point that the circle took an interesting turn, for better or worse. Jüst Shåne and Jüst Zåck were deposed from circle and ostracized to the far reaches of the Cåstle Gøddess whilst the hash engaged in deep, spirited, intense discussion. After much talk, laughter, and trenchant comments on the penis size and masculinity of the banished hashers, they were re-welcomed and instructed to kneel in the circle.
The Religious Advisor, in a fervor befitting Elmer Gantry amidst a testimonial sermon, launched into a passionate canonical tirade, culminating in a rousing, spirited baptismal of cookie crumbs, flour, and beer:
From here on, for blatant losses of trail despite clear visual evidence and general failures of masturbatory performence, Jüst Shåne shall herefrom be known as: BEATS IT BLIND.
From here on, for flagrant fireside flirtation and pincushionings with toothpicks in uncomfortable places, Jüst Zåck shall herefrom be known as: CØCKTAIL FRÅNK.
After a couple abortive attempts to introduce additional minstrelsy to the circle, the RA adjourned the circle, somehow forgetting to secure either a re-hasher or a next hare.
However, O dear hasher, you may find your way to the next hash rather close, by the Airport, on September 9th at 3pm. What a wonderful way to work off the hangover you will doubtless accumulate at the Ithaca Beer Fest in Stewart Park from 4-8pm the previous day!
On-out, in good service and better servicing,
~Måster Båster