|Holders of the HashShit: Ramjet & Kaptain Krash|
Yes, We Have No Bananas - Call the Hareline (770) 455-6952 ext.114
|Your 1996-97 Mismuddlement
In Absentia: Sky Pilot
Acting: Down Under
Joint Master Afterbirth
and Mattress: MC Hasher
Hash Cash: Ratís Ass
Hareline: Minnie Brew and
Haberdashery: Dr. Doo Doo
Hashtorian: Back Seat Box
Bier Meister: Breaststroke
Master Scribe: Niplets
of your Mismanagement
WANNA BE A HARE ? : S o , y o u w a n t t o g e t a l l h o t a n d s w e a t y , a n d c o v e r e d w i t h f l o u r t o b o o t ? J u s t f i n d y o u r s e l f a c o - h a r e a n d s i g n u p w i t h e i t h e r M i n n i e B r e w ( 4 0 4 - 3 2 5 - 1 3 7 3 ) o r S l e a z y R i d e r ( 4 0 4 - 9 8 2 - 9 2 6 9 ) .
H A S H T R A S H : If anyone would like to share their artistic abilities, their wit and witticisms, their tall-tale telling talents, or just some ramblings of senility, contact Niplets at 404-378-4104 to schedule your time in the spotlight.
HASH DIRECTORY: I asked nicely. I implored often. I finally screamed until I lost a lung. Now itís too late. The directory is out and if you have changes, additions, or corrections, tough shit.
Run # 561 September 20, 1997
Ahh, the sweet smell of Spring. Ainít life grand. I stopped and hugged a stranger today. By the way, my pedicurist/stock broker sends her regards.
Last Saturday, I ran with 48 wonderful people, and their auras covered the entire light spectrum. It was like being inside a prism.
The day was hot, but not Africa hot. I mean, Tarzan could definitely
have taken this kind of hot. Our hares, Super Duper Pooper Scooper
and Afterbirth promised a good trail, told us to watch for falling stars,
and then we were on our way. I was a little slow leaving due to the
unforeseen Jell-O incident, which actually worked out well, as I was then
able to give a quick chalk-talk to walk-up virgin, Christie Stone.
She asked the usual questions, and with as much dignity and grace I could
muster, I lied through my teeth. Well, she is 17 after all.
When theyíre that young, the truth can only hurt.
So off we went like a herd of turtles, into the woods behind the strip mall, or as I affectionately call it, the scourge of suburbia.
We were quickly greeted by "Action" Jackson Creek, and some lovely trails that parallel it. Well, that and a small alien scout vessel that transported poor 2nd timer Vicki Eberlein off into the cosmos. Not that Goldilocks cared. "Sheís walking, and I want to run Ö Iíll see her at the end."
Hold please Ö I think thereís someone at the door.
Iím back. Damn squirrels.
So anyway, I remember running through the woods a lot, going up this big ass hill, finding the much appreciated Water Stop, and then wandering around the woods some more. And then the spiders attacked. Oh, the carnage. And the sound of men screaming like little girls Ö I still canít sleep at night.
Into the creek we went, whether we needed a bath or not. Personally, I find all that sloshing around quite exhilarating, plus you never know what youíre going to find in your shoes. Ding, ding, ding Ö bonus! Anyhoo, we then crossed Hillcrest Road and jumped right back into the creek. And I do mean jumped, right Pull My String?
We then hit the trails again, until flour taunted us by going across the creek again. But the hares, being the loving, caring, giving, sharing humanitarians that they are, took us across a fallen tree soís not to get our little feetsies all icky again. Of course, some people are just a tad impatient, huh OJ, and decided to jump into the creek. Not that thereís anything wrong with that. But it was a pleasure to see him find the deepest section of creek this side of the M-eye-ss-eye-ss-eye-pp-eye, and finding that swamp water doesnít taste all that bad.
From there, shiggy, trails, more shiggy, and another one of them
dad-blamed hills followed, but were soon forgotten at Water Stop 2:
OK, letís summarize: shopping center, trails, briars, shiggy, a creek. Whatís missing from this PineLake hash Ö apartments, power lines, and railroad tracks. Well, 2 out of 3 ainít bad. After the water stop, the trail briefly skirted the edge of an apartment complex (and just the mentioning of a skirt threw Hired Snatch into a tizzy), only to lead us to the dreaded power lines. I was one of the fortunate ones, able to share the hot trudgery in the company of the lovely ladies Good Head and Minnie Brew.
Hold please Ö the phoneís ringing.
Iím back Ö damn squirrels.
I spied something white, in the shape of a BN, and there was much rejoicing. Well except for virgin Christie, who didnít know what BN meant (OK, so I forgot that part during chalk talk Ö I told you, I was recovering from that unforeseen Jell-O incident). Once we told her, she rejoiced, well, except that she canít drink beer (sheís 17), and we were going to make her chug a Coke, and she had no dry shoes to change into. OK, so she didnít exactly rejoice, but she was damn glad to be near the end.
A short road run led us to SDPPís house, and we frivolitized (yeah, try and look that one up) on his back deck. Down-downs were delayed while search parties tracked down, hunted and killed our DFLs, MC Hasher and Vicki. When all was said and done, Go Blow, Slippery When Wet, Swamp Rat, Penis Flytrap, Dumbell, and Bullshit all drank from the mold encrusted Ugly Mugs. Virgin Christie drank her Coke like a true Zulu warrior, and Ted Gerber was named Byte Me.
All in all, a great hash Ö the On-On was at La Cazuela Mexican Restaurante,
and I got gas.
Scribe: Ratís Assss