A Drinking Club with a Running Problem
The technician in Snee Hall was dozing again. He had quite a boring job –
monitoring the seismograph in the basement. There hadn’t been any activity
in quite some time. But at 19:40 GMT on Dec. 30th, a multitude of small
tremors was detected east of Ithaca, in the area known as Hammond Hill
State Forest. Little did he know that the great shaking of the earth was
caused by a multitude of hashers falling on their asses, sometimes in
synchrony, on the treacherous ice blanketing the ground at Hammond Hill.
No, this was not just a few small patches of ice here and there, but a
complete covering of a 6 inch layer of ice throughout the entire forest.
Yours truly was the first to fall hard, a mere 20 seconds after the hash
began, followed immediately by Toothy. The rest of the pack would soon
follow – multiple times. Unknown to the naïve, the Champ-“pain in the ass”
hash was to be taken literally. But I digress.
The hash started promptly at 2:00 (not). Well, it almost started promptly
as it was pretty darn cold and people were anxious to get started. Just as
chalk talk was about to begin, Porcelain Goddess’s phone rang. It was
Floss calling to say he had just left Trumansburg, and to please wait for
him. He muttered what we first thought were unrelated streams of
consciousness – something about running late because his new “friend” (a
retired Army colonel) was in town, that he was having trouble these days
standing up and saluting, and that those Viagara pills took a lot longer
to work than the commercials implied . . . PG was loathe to divulge such
personal information with the rest of the hash, but after 5 seconds or so
of intense interrogation, she relented. But again, I digress.
Has anyone noticed what a fantastically good-looking group of hashers we
have in Ithaca? This Sunday, in particular, we were graced with beautiful
women: the always cute and classy Jiffy Lube, Just Sue, and Just Chris,
Inspector Speculum’s adorable honey Just Michelle (?), the gorgeous
Toothy, the buff co-hare Liquor Harder, and the blonde bombshell
“just-turned-18-but-not-a
Oh, yes. There were men present, too. Co-hare Master Baster, in an attempt
to overcome his homely features and appear attractive to the harrierettes,
came dressed in a tuxedo and bow tie. Spike also wore a bow tie, and Floss
as well, although his would not be “revealed” until later. And then there
was Alex’s dad (damn!), Inspector, Just Scott, and one other person whose
name I forgot because I wasn’t paying attention knowing that I had NEVER
in 21 years of hashing been invited to write a rehash before. Could it be
that I usually depart the hash for a “family emergency” before the circle
is completed and assignment of the rehash is made? Could it be that I lack
a sense-of-humor so am not capable of creating such literary work? Could
it be that most other hashers had suffered memory loss from the
combination of falling on their heads and too much champagne? Could it be
that the hash was simply desperate? Maybe a combination of
all-of-the-above? But I digress.
Just as the hashers were ready to head for their cars to warm up after
standing around for 40 minutes, Floss pulls up with his “new friend” – the
retired army colonel from St. Louis. Was this a side of Floss that we
hadn’t know about before? Was he undergoing some sort of mid-life crisis?
Was he exploring another side of him that has lain dormant for so many
years? The answer was “no”, Floss was the same person we’ve always known.
And the army colonel turned out to be a gorgeous woman named “Help Me I’m
Wet” who Floss had met at another hash. Speculation was that she must have
suffered some sort of vision loss while in the military.
The hash was about to start. The men had finally checked out all the
women, the dogs (Mindy, Max and Chester) had finally smelled each other’s
assholes, and the women were basking in the knowledge that they were just
about the cutest beings that ever graced Hammond Hill. All of a sudden, a
stunningly beautiful Russian woman in a long, formal red dress and hat
emerged from the forest. Pangs of jealousy shot through the hearts of the
harrierettes! “We’re supposed to be the most beautiful women of the
forest. Who is this foreign woman upstaging us with such a tight ass,
slender body, supple breasts, and dress-to-die-for? “Hi, I’m Doris” said
the lady. Coincidentally, Doris looked like a fellow named Boris who
hashed a few times in the past, but within the close-knit community of
hashers, there are likely to be some family resemblances. But I digress
once more.
The army colonel (Help-Me-I’m-Wet) ordered us to pose for a group photo
before checking for trail, but alas, her CIA-issued spy camera failed to
work (explains a lot, doesn’t it?). The hash finally began with the
aforementioned falls on the ice. True trail was found and led down the
plowed road, then up Star Stanton Road. “This would not be too bad” the
hashers thought. The road provided good footing for the sprightly hashers
who dashed up the hill, checking out numerous false trails leading into
the woods. Yours truly, with 21 years of hashing experience (but did I
mention that he has never been asked to write a rehash?) did not fall for
this ploy, and ventured ever upward, finally leading the pack into the
woods. At this point the trail turned treacherous – icy and full of frozen
holes from previous boot prints. The lead hashers encountered a very
elderly couple on snow shoes. One said to the other (seriously), “Honey,
they are going faster than we are and they don’t even have snow-shoes.”
But, alas, this was the first of many back checks.
The hashers desperately tried to run, but soon most attention was paid to
just standing upright on the frozen snow. The trail wound its way around
the back side of Hammond Hill until we came upon the BN. As appropriate,
champagne was served. As the hashers congregated, the conversation turned
to the lunacy of running on trails of such treachery. “What person in
their right mind would voluntarily run on such trails?” (We hounds, of
course, had no choice but to follow the hares.) As we stood there
drinking, a Cornell professor went running by. Guess that answers our
question. Liquor Harder recognized the professor since he had run by her
once before – as she was peeing along the side of a trail. We don’t think
he recognized her this time with her pants pulled up.
As PG made a premature withdrawal (“to teach a class” she said), the hash
continued through the tundra, eventually making it out to Hammond Hill
Road. This road was covered in ice, which made for many a spectacular fall
as the hash descended back to the cars.
The circle convened in the warming hut once owned by the Cayuga Nature
Center, but since purchased by the Leonards (thanks Anne and Charlie!).
With a roaring fire, the hashers warmed themselves while feasting on
sushi, chili and cornbread, cider, sperm, numerous snacks and champagne.
(This is what you get when you don’t plan the menu.) Many down-downs were
issued for numerous infractions. Toothy spent her circle-time thinking of
many false accusations to trap yours truly into down-downs. But the most
notable event of the circle was the official naming of Just Doris.
Potential and creative names were offered from the guys such as “Roy’s Boy
Toy”, “Hermaphrodite” and “Dancing Doris.” Harrierettes offered up names
such as, “Your Ass Looks Fat in that Dress” (it didn’t), “Your Boobs Look
Fake” and “We’ve Seen Better in Maxim.” But the name that was unanimously
bestowed, and upon which she will be forever known, is “Doris Dicktoria.”
As the hash wound down, Floss revealed his new “penguin floss” to the
crowd which he passed off as a tuxedo (it certainly wasn’t an Emperor
penguin by the looks of it), and announced the next hash on January 13th,
probably in T-burg. Master Baster cursed and cried in pain as he opened
the hot furnace with his unprotected fingers, and then offered the
benediction. And after 21 years, Hot Lips was finally asked to write a
rehash.