ReHash #155

Sixth Anniversary Live Hash – Aug. 28

"Don’t tell Steve," Tex cries – Details follow

Stealthily – before Dainty Swampthing had arrived, before the religious advisor had begun to drone, even before the money had been extracted – two hares vanished into the Arnot forest. They need not have jumped the gun for we never saw them again. ‘Twas the most wretched live hash in Ithaca history, an impressive feat given the competition. The hashers made up for the bitter disappointment of the run with some impressive post hash festivities including Ithaca’s first coed naked hash.

In order to be the worst live hash ever, one would have to better the 2nd live hash where we caught the hairs in under 10 minutes. Being worse than the third live hash is a wretched achievement as that trail vanished after a few miles never to be seen again. This happened when we caught up with Tex and she dived into the bushes in order to retain her bra – something to which, we now know, she is not overly attached. No matter, the hares set a worse trail. This was, principally, the accomplishment of Dishonerable Discharge, as the hares had split up. The problem was simple, a check mark once every 100 yards in deep woods was not enough. Even so, by spreading out the hash was able to follow the trail through a mile of thorns before abandoning it to slink back to the beer. The severe whining and PMS awards went to skull who took the name of everything in vain.

Trojan, in his wisdom, ignored the hash marks and just ran the road, never seeing a mark. This was odd as the trail supposedly followed the road for a bit. The many body of hashers followed Capt. Weenie, Tod, and the visiting, Dainty Swampthing. After an hour in the bush, Tessa had disappeared (alone to the best of my knowledge) and Cassandra and Bam Bam led a retreat back to the beer. After that hour of thorny meandering the hounds had purpose as they flew toward the kegs.

An hour passed before two confused hares stumbled into camp. We tossed them in a putrid pond and most of us followed them in, willing or not. Miss Shiggy, Amy and Cassandra slinked out of sight to avoid being doused. Homoses then induced the hares to drink the better part of a keg. Amy suggested that hare Lynne be called Pricker for sending us through the prickers but when it was discovered that she had nothing to do with those prickers we baptized her Prickless. We had two new comers whose names escape me, two old time out-of-towners, Longstroke and Dainty, and one visitor, Watergate, the grand mattress of the Boston HHH. A group shower followed in the womens shower.

Dinner, drinking and volleyball followed in our beautiful isolated valley camp. After sunset the dishonorable wood fairy appeared and jumped over the fire repeatedly wearing nothing more than a cape. He (and there was no doubt that this fairy was a he) intoned monotonously, I am the wood fairy.” Dialogue is not the wood fairy’s strength. At lOpm, we began our midnight naked hash. Almost all remaining hashers ran, with the exception of Cassandra – too shy and Longstroke – too drunk. Naked hares were Dainty and Capt. Weenie (showing his namesake). Runners included Homoses and Ms. Shiggy, the wood fairy (droning predictably, I am the wood fairy”), Skull, Tessa, Prickless, Amy, Mike, Watergate, Hot Legs, Bambam and most surprisingly the shy, conservative Tex. (If I missed anyone – it was dark). Tex’s appearance” was the most unexpected though not in the least unpleasant. Like most jocks she looks best disrobed! Flaunt it while you’ve got it… This gang flounced and bounced around the field through the shower and onto the volleyball court for some ball before returning to the fire to laud our absurdity. Most people do this sort of thing in high school and college. We hashers are late bloomers but we still have nice bloomers.

That night many slept under stars. Ms. Shiggy, Homoses and their progony, the Little HoShiggy, grabbed a cabin as did Longstroke and the Grand mattress. Those were more than mere murky moments. In the morning we were greeted by IV-Profin and blueberry pancakes. The final event was a naked plunge in six mile creek by a handful of hashers.

Book review instead of movie review (we haven’t seen a movie in months because of a lack of babysitters):

"Winterdance – the fine madness of running the iditerod" by someone whose name I forget is a the hillarious true story of a man attempting to prepare for the insanity of the iditerod, a cross-Alaska dog sled race. The creative incompetence of the author leads him through a series of absurd misadventures.