ReHash #259

Rehash # 25?. The hares are FORKing bastards.

By attending the hash, you have all signed in blood (don’t blame me, blame the hares) an agreement to create and propagate hash lore. As temporary hash scribe, I currently hold the sacred responsibility of recording those events, which although they may not have happened, are factual. Hash scribe will remain immune from all prosecution if any stories result in the vilification, arrest, and/or assassination of any harriers.

A rebel yell was released from each of all four wheels of the bronco as a surprised Broken Pole took a late and much harder left turn then expected at the infamous fork off of Rt. 38. He later encountered Hot Lips meandering the paved hillside also looking for the elusive HHH. They thought themselves silly when they realized that they had forgotten to check for the 3 Hs 20 feet off of the road and underneath a car. Hung Man and Alex would pay later for such an infraction.

The accumulation of humanity at the otherwise desolate golf course was soon greeted by what is becoming a much welcomed tradition for IH3. That is, Bubbles and Rrrrrralph emerged from their vehicle carrying a bottle of hard liquor. Their choice for the Dryden reunion was 100 proof blackberry schnapps. The libation, which had sufficient viscosity to float bricks, made its rounds much to the pleasure of all who consumed. Ribbed, a man who never travels without beer, then added to the festivities by providing a keg of Saranac Black and Tan. Pole would not wait for cups to be provided and ran to the Bronco and retrieved a dog bowl, soon to be termed the Puck Bucket by Bubbles.

A minivan then steered into the lot and out stepped two individuals dressed in red skirts and white stockings. Trojan, with his runners legs, did not require any accessories, but Rides for Free completed her ensemble with a magnificent red handbag filled with heart cookies. Trojan passed out chocolate covered strawberries which went quite well with Bubbles and Rrrrrralph’s contribution.

Skull then emerged from the Volvo and gave Women There? a free t-shirt. The gracious reply of Women There? was to start complaining about the size. In agreement with Calvin Climaxes assessment of his behavior, Women There? said in a shrill rising voice "I am a whiner!" Phil McKrackin (a.k.a. The Vibratee) was so enraged that he suggested to the group that we inform the world’s Muslim population that Women There? is the true author of Satanic Verses.

After briefly negotiating with the owner of the golf course, Hung Man released the hounds. Ice immediately made itself known to the shoes and butts of the harriers as the gaggle slid further on the links then they ran. But more ice was to be had, and onto the lake the school of runners went. IH3 appeared as litter, randomly distributed and moving over the ice. As Skull had removed his clothing, Ribbed decided to wed the aforementioned clothing with his knowledge of sailing to create a frozen wind surfer of his feet. He was last seen traveling about at 70 mph eastward across the lake.

The bloodhounds of flour returned to their quest and moved through thick brambles. Austin, Shiner and a few others employed a keen eye and followed Trojan, the great seer of the short-cut, and leisurely strolled across the golf course, as their hearts were warmed with the melodic shouts of obscenities coming from their brethren stuck in the thorns.

Tom, the discoverer of The Nice Rack award, pressed forth sniffing out flour with the skills of a beagle named Molly and the energy of a dog named Dr. Puck. He charged the hill without concern for his recently dislocated shoulder, though stopped half way to eagerly encourage his compatriots to travel upward. Thinking Shiner was traveling too slowly, he jumped on her back and began to prod her on-on with a crop fashioned from a branch. Shiner thought little of this, and took him to the mat and . . . oh I guess I’ll just leave it there. Women There? then took on the charge up the hill, but was disappointed to see Austin already at the top of the hill, wearing a kilt and blue and white face paint. As he mooned the crowd he yelled "You can take away my beer, but you can’t take away my freedom!" English pride swelled up in Alex, and he swiftly knocked poor Austin down the hill. Jill came tumbling after.

IH3, fleet of foot, (The Iliad, anyone) then encountered some nice early season shiggy, some of which grabbed a shoe of poor Naomi. Realizing she had lost a few places in the r-ce to the much desired beer, she picked up her stride. Recognizing her breakaway and realizing that such a hash offense is not to go unmatched, McKrackin spurred on his fellow lazy slow pokes, by offering the challenge, "Git her, hombres!". Ball Wrinkle saddled up, but could not match the strides of our new hasher.

The bloody mop of humanity which was IH3, arrived at the beer, and all were pleased to receive the punishment they so deserved. Alex traded his birth name for Bloody Prick, and Rides for Free and Trojan returned to circulation about six special awards including a new horse’s ass, an autoclaved hashit, and Gi’s shorts. The latter of which should probably take a trip to the autoclave as well. Scott wrangled some odd legal skills to fend of another attempt to name him Double D.

With boundless energy, the troupe took a spirited trip the Dryden Hotel, making numerous moving violations along the way. Skull serenaded the crowd with his monastic singing of songs describing the sexual organs of many species of primates and other arboreal wildlife. Beside the pool table, Mike was seen to be screwing his stick together (Eeks!, a name maybe?) before running the table and taunting the locals with his jointed cue. Hunger then struck the tummy of our new hasher from Colorado and the pursuit of pizza began.

The Chariot was the unlucky recipient of the boisterous collection of runners. Wonderful food was enjoyed in (and outside) the Chariot and no meal would be complete without seeing Skull perform a clothed and dry rendition of the auto butt-chug. The demand for pizza skyrocketed as visions of something more (or less) than sugar-plums danced through the minds of all assembled around Skull.

-Broken Pole

I hope to see all at the wine and cheese fiesta celebrating the return of Butt-Plug, IH3’s most amiable hasher. If we are lucky we’ll get to see the Hamburgian hip typhoon gyro dance! As Butt-Plug would say, "Oh jah, that would be cooool."