A Drinking Club with a Running Problem
The sun rose across the spring-dewed Ithaca morning. The hashers awoke; some to make breakfast for their family, some to quench the thirst of a painful hangover, others to take a pre-hash run, and the rest to engage in activities of only the purest variety. Drinking. Blasphemy. Flagellation. Wanton Acts of Carnality.
Dances with Head awoke with a start, reeling of flashbacks of what he thought was a bad dream. Images of the Three Sacred W’s – whips, whipped cream, weizen echoed in his mind. Was it a nightmare, or an enchanted vision? Only Pussy Pong knew for sure. Upon bargaining for his release, he braved the blinding light of the great star to make his way to Castle Hotlipschwanstein, home of the wily and elusive Down-Down-Devil himself. What fate would await him? What would be his quest?
Hot Lips stirred, his slumber interrupted by his unholy offspring, bearing libations eggs, oatmeal, melon, and Coffee +2. His mind soon whirring like a Pratt and Whitney turbofan, he laid his plan for the day’s main event. Springing to action, he rounded up his Attack Rabbit and Vorpal Sheep, bending them to his nefarious purposes: yard patrol. For he soon knew that many half-minds would be upon his territory, threatening his sacred beer supply and despoilment of his pristine lawn.
Apprehension hung like a fog about Dances With Head as he approached Castle Hotlipschwanstein. “Knowing your fate does not make it any easier,” he thought. He allowed a grimace to show through his steeled visage, wincing from as-yet-undiscovered perineal twinge. An ache, really, burning slightly as though one might slow-roast one’s testicles over the embers of a campfire at dawn. He soon arrived at the Castle, regretting the decision to apply so much Gold Bond.
No sooner had the intrepid Dances debarked his car when he was saluted and thrust a can of beer and a bag of flour. Looking up, he knew his task was already at hand. The two malefactors raised their hoppy delight to the sky, said a slient tribute to Reverend Lickerthizer, and dispatched their dram in an instand. Looking at him with the sly grin of a used-car salesman and the arch tone of supervillian, Hiptlips intoned:
“To the Hash!” And so they were off, setting the course for what was to be a memorable event indeed.
The virtuous, charming, and wise hashers began arriving at the Castle.
So did Pippi Schlongstockings, Cock Smith, Spike, Just KC, Burr Balls, Just Amanda, Liquor Harder, Just Karen, Master Baster, Virgin Tom, Pussy Pong, Freeze Frame, S.S. Thunder Thighs, Virgin John, Virgin Shelly, Just Rebecca, Virgin Justine, Just Sue, Jiffy Lube, Twisted Fister, Unidentified Feathered Orifice, Bedside Pole Dancer, Lil’ Dimmer, Country Cock, Butt Floss, Little Oral Annie, Bürpenstain, JSUAD, Just Eric, and Phil McCrackin, in their own way and due time.
The hash checked themselves out, unconsciously selecting which Virgins were to be fucked the most. Hash Hounds introduced themselves to each other – many times in some cases – and found their running buddies. Some lamented the lack of beer, others commented on the warm day. All seemed to agree that there would be blood. The time was ripe, as the season of rebirth saw a new generation of nascent hashers descend upon the scene, making everyone think about even more sex than usual.
Hotlips strode outide, seeing that Bürpenstain had finally made his arrival. Taking command, he gave the standard chalk-talk, delivered in small words and in simple sentence structure for the partially enfeebled. Whereupon the entirety of the crowd packed into the Accursed Arcane Chariot of the Damned, a jalopy so mighty it towed thirty-three hashers, 6 hash hounds, and the feared Queen of Hotlipschwanstein for three miles along the wilds of rural Trumansburg underbrush, shiggy, and varmints.
No sooner had the Hash Hoopty arrived at the designated start than the pack surged out, already tasting the sweet kiss of the sacred beverage that awaited them in the hinterlands of County Tompkins, beyond the reaches of civilized man and law enforcement officials. Picking up the pace, they soon were loping down the road, urging one another with shouts “On-on!” Several front-running bastards soon separated from the pack, assuring them adequate retribution at the end of the trail. Not long after they had gauranteed themselves a place in the down-down circle, they were alerted of their ignorance of the accursed false trail, marked cleverly next to a mailbox in the ditch.
Quickly reminded of their folly, the FRB’s charged back towards the pack, primed for the journey that was to follow. True trail having been discovered along another road, the pack soon turned into the forest. The nefarious hares watched with sinister amusement as the pack was led into their fiendish web of cross-country carnage. Some of the elder hashers knew a maze of brambles, shiggy, torrents, gas cans, discarded bottles and the dreaded woodland yeti awaited them, separating them from the revered elixirs that promised to restore their already parched livers.
On-on amongst the skunk cabbage, coltswoot, bloodwort, saplings, logs, and blackberry the pack loped. At times walking, at times at a canter, the hashers made their way, calling out to each other, cursing the devilish hares and their trails. Often the trailblazers would count four, five, sometimes six hash marks before discovering the dreaded false trail. But this did not deter them, for the Thirst could not be slaked, could not be deterred, could not be dissuaded by anything except the warpath for their philosopher’s brew.
The hashers soon found themselves along the banks of the languid Taughannock Creek, lapping lugubriously like so much lubricant in a licentious limerick. The trail beckoned. The check upstream turned yielded another false trail, approximately the eighth. As they started to cross, Little Oral Annie suddenly slipped in the torrent, indirectly allowing Hotlips and Dances to get her wet. Much innuedno ensued. LOA was quite pleased though.
On-on the trail continued, following the creek upstream to the west, as is the proper direction for seeking beer. On-on the kilometers ticked off. The hash negotiated its way through a challenging array of false trails, shiggy, pointy things, trees, weeds, mounts, ravines, sticks, stones, hounds, and critters. The sparrows and downy woodpeckers watched with bemusement as the strange, noisy bipeds crashed their way through the underbrush like so many rabid badgers on PCP. “What would cause a mammal to do this,” they wonder? Only Dances with Head knows.
The trail led up and down across a treacherous series of ridges more slippery than the American Gladiators’ Challenge Arena covered in KY and sea urchins. As soon as the pack mounted a swell in the terrain, one trail seemed to delve back into the floodplain. No sooner had the pack seemed to make progress then a new set of obstacles presented themselves. However, a sign! The Route 96 bridge was in sight! Surely that must mean a change of some sort! Virgin Tom, ever the eager beaver with the battle cry “And-On!” surged to the head of the pack, no doubt anticipating a chance to relieve himself and recuperate his spent energies.
Within moments of Tom’s arrival, the prized cache of malty refreshments was discovered. The FRB’s quickly tore into the pack like so many crazed hyenas. Rending the delicate cardboard with an inhuman energy, they soon gorged upon the nectar as a vampire would sup the flesh of an innocent. Choruses of approval rang from under the bridge, beckoning the pack near. Soon they arrived, bearing battle scars of the shiggy that preceded their destination. Blood was discovered, mud was admired, acquaintances forged and renewed. Beer and water was proffered, welcoming each new arrival with a hearty “cheers and well met!” Or something.
After a fashion, Baron von Hotlips once again addressed the half-minds, chastising the guilty for their aqueous overindulgence. Forever burned in the skulls of the unworthy is now the phrase: “Drink ye not fully of the unholy hash water lest ye be depriving deserving fellow half-minds.” With a grunt and a swig, the pack soon turned once again towards trail. The case finished, the last satisfied belches uttered, the harriers soon turned towards the next objective: more beer!
So they went, back down the road towards Ithaca. As the path veered off, they could soon see the remnants of the mighty Halseyville bridge, rent asunder by the demons of neglect, age, and weather. And men with large tools. So they crossed without artificial aid once again, this time sustaining no waterborne tribulations. They followed the stream back into the woods, skirting the omnipresent shiggy, tracing their way along the flour-kissed route towards their final goal. Once again they discovered the joy of negotiating the wilds of T-burg. Along the trail went, criss-crossing only the carefully selcted path. Past abandoned sheds, through hobo camps, alongside signs of civilization.
Suddenly, shouts from downstream! Someone had crossed a ravine near a clearing, discovering a jerry-rigged bench handsomely outfitted with the exalted Hash Cooler. Libations of the houses of Genessee, Miller, and Milwaukee were dispensed to the thirsty crowd, who remarked of the ideal proximity between their beer stops. Some headed down to cool their feet in the waters running below.
Like General George Patton addressing his troops, Hotlips once again took center stage, urging the hashers on towards their ultimate destiny. Somewhat to his consternation, the hash had grown by degrees uncooperative, although not entirely unruly. Although it took several more proddings at his behest, Earl der Hotlips stirred enough of the rabble from their slackery to see to the goal at hand. Final leg: Castle Hotlipschwanstein. The group at once felt the beckoning of Its immense gardens, plentiful wildlife, beckoning pond, roaring fire, and additional quantities of beer.
As if under a spell, the half-minds surged forth towards the end of the course, driven by their shared goal of warmth, camaraderie, beer, and sex, sex, everywhere sex. The ninja zipline was pulled out for the pond, the fire was lit, the beer was opened. Soon articles of clothing were falling away like inhibitions. (Not many, but enough, mind you.) Señor Floss took it upon himself to baptize Just Karen in the sinister, yet tranquil waters of Hotlipschwanstein Manor. True to form, he demonstrated his inimitable style in a sexy black number, as was demonstrated when JK undertook retaliatory measures. Her cries did not dissuade him and into the water she went. Soon others were to follow, happily without the aid of the lewd and indecent.
At last, circle was drawn nigh. Benedictions were given unto the gods of the Hash. The hares were roundly derided and cursed for their trail, for lack of adequate sunlight, shiggy, rocks, length, false trails, water, and general awesomeness. Dances With Head knew what torment lay ahead of him. Quivering, he wondered if he was feeling the lactic acid in his muscles, the built-up stress of sleepless nights in chains, or the beer in his veins. Hotlips but glanced at him with a knowing smile; he too shared this deep, unspoken secret, born of debaucherous nights and sinful traditions.
And so they drank.
So, too did others. The virgins were fucked, but not quite good and proper. John, Shelly, Tom and Justine all were properly welcomed and greeted with full ceremonies and honors. Salutes were given for the over-enthusiastic front-running bastards, the over-relaxed dead-freakin’-lasts! The glorious hash crashes, both terrastrial and aquatic! The cum-latelies, the four-letter words, the same swag, the headgear, the dry lips, and everyone deserving! Beast-or-Eggs were handed out to the crowd unable to attend the epic hash of a fortnight ago.
As the festivities drew to a close, their voices rising with the smoke into the evening sky, ribald hymns of bacchanals past and future poured forth from their throats. The pack, united in a bond of endorphins, ululated exultations to the agents that watch over us – the crow, the brewer, the dove, the lecher, and the eagle.
And so we did go in peace, and we did get a piece, and all was good in the land.
On-and-on-and-on,
~Måaster Båaster