Because Life's Too Short To Drink Cheap Beer


Run #712    I'm Not Ashtray  – Steve Reynolds Blvd.    10/7/00


We Who Blindly Follow:  Rat's Ass E Shiggy Pitts ELittle Willie EPalm Palm EJohn Queere EBlown Rubber EDan Oest (1x) ETinoush Moulaei (2x) EShort Stump EGrandma's Johnson EKaptain Krash  E  Cums First  EStink or Swim EToo Quick ESquare Meat EHumper EPull My String ECoffee Bean ENiplets ESize Doesn't Matter   E  Bullshit  E  Wheezy Does It  E



[Hah, I say.  My plot to take over the universe is well underway.  With so few hounds and no volunteers to write the trash, I've found a way to be a force to be reckoned with.  That's right, for the week, I single-handedly became 1/3 of the PH3 mismanagement (Scribe/Beermeister/Hash Cash) - now if only I can do something about Niplets and Pull My String ]


Oh what a glorious day for hashing territory that hasn't been done to death a hare with a checkered reputation gorgeous (yes, I said gorgeous, so sue me) weather and a decent selection of beer, and some snacks, including, more likely than not, Ginger Snaps.  I don't know why.


We met behind some school that's built on a landfill, and at the anointed time of 2:54 pm, we took off into the woods, fully expecting trail to lead us to the top of the monstrous hill which loomed nearby.  Hah!  I say again.


Loitering has it's advantages, as I watched the pack enter the woods and go parallel to the road which led out towards Steve Reynolds (the boulevard, not the person), and wisely followed Bullshit and Short Stump on the path of least resistance.  From what I hear, we missed briars, wombats, poison ivy, rabid squirrels, and a tunnel under the aforementioned Steve Reynolds (the person, not the boulevard).


Bullshit and Short Stump continued their street running, while I went in search of the flour on the backside (huh, huh I said backside) of the tunnel.  True trail then took us along the shores of Tripoli until we reached the halls of Montezuma.


A check, much confusion, hounds scattered across the four winds, another check, even more confusion, then finally flour across Beaver Ruin and down some road.  I, being in supreme physical condition, bolted down said road until I heaved a lung, at which time, the speedy Short Stump, the moderately speedy Shiggy Pitts, and the not-so-speedy Humper all passed me.  A turn into a neighborhood fooled the speedy Stump, and a CB5 got the best of Shiggy Pitts and Humper lo and behold, the pack comes together searching for true trail.  Nipple Boy headed off to the woods, not necessarily but presumably to look for flour, while Little Willie managed to divert his attention away from the lousy, stinkin' Braves game he was listening to on his Walkman long enough to find an easement behind some houses.  And then the distant On-On from Bullshit way up in the distance.


Oh, how to describe what came next Black Sheep meets Southern Comfort, with a little SOB to boot.  The easement turned into a marsh, which gave way to briars, then a swamp, three-foot drop-offs into the best shoe-sucking shiggy you'll ever encounter, a Beaver Dam beer stop (wahoo!), more briars and swamps and shiggy, a few little creek crossings in the middle of the swamp, and finally roads.


And not a drop of beer was spilt through the entire jaunt.


We were quickly On-In at Square Meat's house, just as the flies began to gather around the stench that was us.  A hose was provided for a quick wash-down (woohoo! wet t-shirts), and by the time we were done, Square Meat's backyard resembled the swamp through which we had just traversed.


Once all were in (including Kaptain Krash, et. al), down-downs were ceremoniously begun:  Dan Oest for being virginal;  Bullshit for being only-slightly-too-long-between-hashes;  Humper for wimping out of Dawgy Style's AH4 15-mile hashing marathon;  Shiggy Pitts for not-so-subtly taking over the down-downs;  Coffee Bean for injuring his arm while trying to drink left-handed; Square Meat for oh-so-graciously letting us trash his house;  Little Willie for losing his keys and his mind (by listening to the Braves game on the hash);  John Queere for his Olympian effort at the high hurdles in the woods and failing miserably;  Pull My String for hiding behind the down-down cooler;  Niplets for losing his mug at the beginning of down-downs;  and, of course, I'm Not Ashtray for being the extraordinary hare-du-jour.


And dat be dat.



Scribe:               Rat's Ass