A Drinking Club with a Running Problem
From far and near they came. Slowly and discretely they came. Arriving at first in small numbers, then converging in groups and illicit packs on the lawn outside the house known as Chez Floss. They came: unwittingly growing in number, awaiting something they were not quite coherent enough to express at first, something not yet intoxicating but giving the hope of future delirium and sweat indulgent fatigue, like an evening spent on a very good whore, only without the possibility of that annoying itch afterward.
The preparations had been made. Diabolically, Butt Floss had concockted [sic] the event, donning his second or third finest thong, chilling the beer, and scooping up the canine poop in much of the yard surrounding the picnic table. He was more or less about to become almost ready when they came.
And they came. Spike arrived full from brunch, practicing his BEABmanship and questioning the use of a hammer to change the regulator of a gas grill. Doris Dicktoria came in multiple T-shirts, wandering the area, cautiously checking each shirt for trim and functionality before choosing the one he would adventure in. Inspector Speculum came, inspecting the situation carefully, cheerfully before releasing his finely crafted hula hoops into the yard. Just John and and Porcelain Goddess came, with Master Baster following close behind. They came, anticipating what was to come as PG was lured into the plastic loops of Inspector, which she gyrated sensuously around her goddess parts. Country Cock came, asking about virgins, but receiving only a pacificatory beverage. Just Tori came, quietly lamenting over her lack of real hash name but secretly thinking that if she kept real quiet no one might notice. She brought the agile and chipper Front Running Buddy into the curious gathering as a distraction, while Always a Bridesmaid stretched inconspicuously and heretically out of view behind his car. Hot Lips came, bearing horn and bushy mustache. The virgins came cautiously: Virgin Anuj and Virgin Apple, seeking to learn the skills of this grand adventure from their mentor and office-banter target, Country Cock. A Jeep rumbled to a halt, expelling Unidentified Feathered Orifice and Bedside Pole Dancer in patriotic tie-dyed apparel. The flag-bedazzled couple quickly informed the growing horde of a Flag Day fair and of other quaint local traditions, passing cupcakes through the nervous crowd to calm tensions. A Lager Runs Through Her came giddily, bringing Just Jason for a return trek and hurrying to rescue PG from those insidious but finely hand-crafted plastic hoops. Just Shut Up and Drink came, donning the well tanned emperor’s new T-shirt and denying that he would ever be a BLAB. Together they amassed, anticipating the unknown events that were about to unfold.
For moments they stood, not knowing what was to happen, not knowing where to turn, not knowing who stuck their finger in the frosting. Then the rumors come: rumors of a deviant hare who had fled the scene, leaving behind a tell-tail trail of flour and debauchery, rumors of beer hidden in the woods by some oft whispered about relative of the Beaster Bunny. Hushed tones and belches passed from member to member as eyes darted to the watch. The watch was counting down. . .
Then the mood shifted from somber to casual indifference. The party marched out into the wilds, slow at first, but gaining momentum as the hounds caught scent of the errant hare. Small wisps of flour dotted the peaceful hamlet, and there were howls of “on on” and complaints of sore joints as the adventurers forged up the shallow hill of the treacherous sidewalk trail. Surely this was too easy a trail for such a crafty hare. Surely the adventure party could not so easily catch such a wascally creature, and, alas, the hounds had fallen for a simple Flossian ruse, finding themselves victims of a well placed YBF.
Baffled, the hounds wandered the streets, searching desperately for the correct path. Up alley and avenue they searched, here and there, curious natives stretching their necks up from common yard work or peaceful Sunday porch visits to stare in wonder at the jogging explorers.
Then, a cry: someone calling from a stream bed below the very road on which the hounds had so meticulously searched. Flour was found in the rocks that litter the banks of the shallow waters; the hounds had a scent. This hare was crafty, using the water to hide his scent, and using the underbrush along the shore to hide his tracks, but the hounds were equally matched, and not at all dissuaded by the wiles of the hare.
Down the stream they forged, the sounds of “on-on” filling the air. Rounding backyard and embassy, they push on, under the harmoniously echoing bridge of Trumansburg and down the rapids. Over steep falls they climbed, finding remnants of ancient travelers past: those that had sought the rich beer taste and coveted hare piece, only to succumb to the dangers of the wilderness. Just John collected identification and insurance cards of past travelers long lost from the jagged rocks amidst the rapids, promising vaguely in jest to return them to longing family members in distant yards. For miles the hounds pushed on, finding relics of expeditions past: a tattered lawn chair, a forgotten Hot Wheels car, muddied remnants of a wet-T-shirt contest gone awry, toys from small children led astray, the faded plastic tambourine of ancient hippies that wandered too far from a local drug festival, and the bruised and rusted V8 of a car that had long since turned to iron oxide in the harsh waters. On and on, crying “on on” they went on, over rock and tree, battling the slippery influence of brown algae, the sun beating down on the leaves over their heads, but they pressed on.
In a devious attempt to short-cut, Spike and JSUAD, noticing the stream making a wide turn to the south, burst through the bushes at stream’s edge in a valiant attempt to gain some ground on the elusive hare. Seeing the swampy water just off of the stream, JSUAD was forced to turn back, leaving Spike to endure the shiggy alone for brief seconds before coming out on the convenient trail that paralleled the stream. He made some ground, only to find the Beer Near and the hare wallowing in the shade of a reminiscent and vaguely familiar cement bridge: a BN.
Slowly the hounds came down the stream, realizing their opportunity catch a hare on trail had slipped through their algae stained fingers. They gathered back together, commiserating their failure to overcome the hare, sharing PBR, Pringles, and some delicious pudding shots. The chocolate pudding and Baileys did little to console them, so some turned to the more potent vanilla pudding white russians. They were in grave straights; they had failed to catch the hare. . . this time.
As our adventuring harriers downed beer and shots, wallowing in their own cheerful disdain, they started to get a sense that there was something amiss under that fateful bridge. Something was not quite right; something was missing. Unbeknownst to them, the hare had slipped back out into the wild: the deviousness, the trickery, the plain hashtasticness of it all.
Slowly, the hounds put away their empties and stacked their empty pudding cups. The hare must have paid FRB off, for she suddenly put on a display of childish cuteness to distract the hounds from their pursuit, but the distraction could not keep the harriers from their prey. The harriers were soon off in pursuit of the hare.
Up the mountain or very steep paved mound they climbed, gasping at the sudden change in altitude and burping in an attempt to expel unwanted beer weight and lighten their bellies. To their left, stoic stone grave markers of adventurers that had come before peered at them through the tall summer grass as the hounds struggled to the top of the hill. They scattered, desperately searching for signs of the hare, searching for their one chance to catch the elusive bringer of beer.
Wandering to the main street through Trumansburg, they came to a check. The trail went left, and the hound started after, but one lone confused harrier, not believing that the trail would actually head in that direction, carefully avoided traffic and crossed the street, heading errantly into the schoolyard. With little daring and less enthusiasm, he stumbled over his first mark, then his second. With a third mark he howled “on on”, bringing the hounds running behind him.
Across the school yard they ran, rounding the building, when suddenly, unexpectedly, and with very little fanfare, the hare was spotted in the field ahead. JSUAD and Bridesmaid immediately sprinted ahead, followed by Baster, Doris, and a few others. Overathleticism ensued. Harriers performed the heretical four-letter r word. Panic took hold of the hare and he darted away, stopping only to make a sloppy erratic check in a last ditch effort to escape the pursuing hounds. I failed. The hare was not quick enough, and the hounds snagged him.
Joyful and out of breath with their achievement, the hounds then forgot to remove an article of clothing from the hare, and, in their bragging boasts and intricate retelling of the glorious tale to late arriving hounds, who showed great indifference to the noble deed, they had also forgot to strap down and eviscerate him. While their attentions were turned to magnificently woven hash lore, the hare had slipped away.
Disgruntled, the hounds quickly gave chase. Fortunately, Inspector, who had been so unimpressed with the tale that he had actually watched the hare run across the field to the right, informed the pack where the hare had gone. So full with their dispair at losing the hair and not noticing that Inspector had witnessed the escape and had said nothing, the hounds ran after, leaving Bridesmaid and JSUAD to run in the other direction for one of their infamous murky moments.
Across the fields and back into town the hounds chased, turning ’round school bus and old shack until they found themselves running down the main street of Trumansburg, back toward Chez Floss. Was this the end? Had they come all this way only to be led back so soon, without even a sweaty layer of cloth from the missing hare? No, it was not to be. A return (“back check” to some of the old timers) was stumbled upon in front of an embassy.
Still disappointed from their loss of the hare for a second time, the harriers wallowed in confusion, pondering what to do. Morale was getting low: some falling under the spell of despair wanting to abandon the pursuit and go home for a beer, others vowing never to give up the cause. The band of resilient explorers was crumbling, and no one knew exactly what to do. Members started to break rank, straying back to their cars to lick their wounds and wash away their disappointment in cheap beer-flavored beverages. Only a few turned back, determined to track down the hare at all costs.
It was at this point that the strange tale of JSUAD, Inspector, and Spike found its origin. Having been slowed by an injury, Inspector had lagged behind the group a little, unaware of the despair and demoralizing discovery of a return and the ensuing break up of the band. Spike, who had been out running false trails, caught up with Inspector and slowed for some conversation. Just as the two were reaching the library, they noticed JSUAD jogging back along the trail from the embassy, no doubt to tell them of the heart-felt disappointment of the return and the disillusioning disbanding of the adventure party. Spike engaged JSUAD in dialog, trying to get a sense of what had happened on trail. In stunning disinterest to the recap, Inspector glanced casually into the parking lot of the library and uttered “There’s the hare.”
“Oh yeah.” mused Spike, nodding.
With a sprint in the direction of the hare, JSUAD responed, sprinting for the hare, who was hastily setting the last of his marks. The two darted through a small pine woods and disappeared behind a fence in sweaty panting.
The few remnants of the pack who had not abandoned the chase followed ’round the fence, finding a picnic table and a smiling hare and hound. The bold tales of noble hare catching once again ensued, but, this time, the hare had deviously planned numerous distractions. Like a magic bunny from a prestidigitarian’s hat, the hare produced a can of Pringles, a cooler of beer-like substance, a bag of pudding shots, and a friendly family to calm and occupy the hounds. The family, seeming vaguely reminiscent of some long-lost Ithaca hasher, perhaps in the joyful Mouthful of Clam ilk, chatted warmly with the hasher, asking kindly about their adventures and listening to their lore and stories of how the hare was once again caught, nodding and smiling peacefully with interest. Then there appeared Just Anthony, a hasher from long ago, with wife and young child, donning the spirit of kindness and virtue as they joined the conversation, complimenting and questioning the hounds. The hounds were seduced by the kindness of their hosts, lulled into a feeling of welcome, and did not even notice that, again, they failed to remove an article of clothing from the hare, and again, they failed to tie the hare down to something immovable to prevent the hare from escaping.
By the time they had realized that the hare had again slipped through their grasp, he was already long gone. Not even Inspector had seen where he had gone this time. Disenchanted, but still quite pleased with the accommodations and provisions provided by the friendly families, the hounds trudged on, but, alas, only to find them selves back where they had started, at the house known as Chez Floss. They had failed in their mission to catch and actually skin the hare.
The entire group had arrived at Chez Floss, from those who had abandoned the quest early, to those who had seen in through to the bitter end. They raucously half-heartedly celebrated their adventure, telling tales of glory and daring. They drank beer in honor of those that had not come back, or had come back and then left immediately for dinner, like Hot Lips, and they drank for those who had been sorely exhausted on the trek.
Then, alas, the gathering turned bitter. Accusations were cast across the circle of those gathered: who was FRB and who was DFL, who was BEAB and who was BLAB, who murky momented with whom, and who double-dipped in the salsa. Trophies of dishonor were handed out, T-shirts were removed from backs, PG was blamed for several things she did not do, and people were accused of r*cism and of bleeding like pups on trail. The gathering devolved into a free-for-all debaucherous barbecue and naked hot-tub extravaganza, leaving the drunken remains scattered over the grounds of Chez Floss.
Many a folk say that if you visit the Chez Floss today, you can still hear the distant whining of disgruntled hounds, taste the despair and aggravation on the wind of those who had come so close to skinning a hare, and perhaps find the stray bottle cap or decaying tortilla chip among the growing grass. If you travel to Chez Floss, you must remember these valiant and disheartened souls, and, if you ever find yourself in a similar situation, when the hare is just out of your reach, or you simply get distracted by something so god-damned interesting that you forget that the hare is getting away, learn their lesson well.
Fuck the hare.