PineLake Hash House Harriers

Because Life’s Too Short To Drink Cheap Beer

Confused? Alone? Afraid? Horny? Call the Hareline (770) 455-6952 ext.114

Oh the Horror!! Oh, the Shiggy!!

Run # 650 July 17, 1999

Hares: Slippery When Wet & Niplets

Venue: Arabia Mountain

[Midtown, 2:35 pm.]

"We’re late."

"We’re not late."

"We are too."

"Who cares anyway … Hand Tossed is bringing the beer, so it doesn’t matter if I’m late. Besides, they never leave before 3:00."

[The elementary school near Arabia Mountain, 3:05 pm]

"I can’t believe they left already, the bastards!"

"Told you we were late."

Run, fast, must catch up … ow, ow, cramp, heat, pathetically out of shape.

The trail, marked well with apple blossoms, was easy to follow. Easier to follow were the hashers collapsed on the ground from lack of water.

OK, feeling better … passing a group of walkers. Blew by them like they were standing still. Oh yeah, they were standing still (memorial service for one of the dearly dehydrated departed).

Up and down big slabs of rock. Run rabbit run. Scurry before someone hunt you down and kill you. Slowly catching up with pack of back. Back of pack. No rejoicing in this group. MC Hasher, Tonto, Bumper Bullets, Pull My String, and of course Asspacker yelling for someone to stop his dog.

Water stop!!! That is, if you like to drink lake water. Those who did not drink, swam. Those who did not swim, ran … then ran away from yellowjackets (damn Techies).

What’s this? More big slabs of rock? No, so solly; this time, slabs of big rock. Ahh, now we find peaceful meadow … I think I’ll lie down, rest my head and weary water-deprived body. Plan B: run away from yellowjackets, part deux.

Whoa, hey, can it be … yes! Another water stop! Hooray for the hares! Whoa, hey, can it be … no water! Fuck the FRBs!

Delirium has set in, along with much walking. Hopes of catching the pack have diminished. Stopping to smell the roses.

Beaver discusses the virtues of hashing with PineLake (what? An AH4er who has kind words about the redheaded stepchild hash?). Good man, that Beaver.

Another lake, but this time, no swimming. It butts up against a butt-ugly house, which we skirt around.

Big blur from here … more woods, fewer slabs of rock, no sign of hungover Rock Hudson, is that Wile E. Coyote looking at me longingly and sharpening his knife?

Cross some road, climb heaping big hill of dirt, see BN. Rejoice, we are saved.

A mile later, we find Hand Tossed’s truck but no On-In. No rejoicing, no saving.

Lake Number Drei is the site of our resting place. I pull out my twelve gauge, and put this hash out of my misery. Of course, 4 beers later, and I can’t feel the tips of my fingers much less my misery. Somehow I utter the words "good hash", then lay my head on a nice soft rock and go night-night.

Down-downs were a disaster (go figure with 100 drunk and disorderlies), but I remember a bunch of virgins and first-timers, I remember a speech by that water abuser, 0&5, and I remember doing a private party down-down because Slippery likes me so much.

After running out of beer (we paid $8 to run out of beer!!!!), we headed to Snuffy’s for wings, nachos and a shitload more beer. Absolutely awesome.

Scribe: Rat’s Ass