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ReHash # 232 So Osama be in Landen, eh? It were the dadburned longest hash this side the Euphrates. Wot in tarnation ever possessed our hares to torture us with the BinLaden Death March? Were it the dadburned way we’re always ta pickin on that wanker PO? Maybe it twere some patriotical act to support the posse chasin those dry gulching bastards from Afganystand and them parts. Mebbe it twere nuthin but a mirage. In any case, we’s finished ‘n now you’re gonna hear about it all over again…. Osama Be In Landen Hash OrHow I Learned to Stop Whining and Start Loving to Follow the FRBs There I was, late driving to the Hash, when I spied our hares giving the chalk talk. Cave checks? Land Mine Aheads? Wot next—an Englishman claiming to be from Paris with a bad song repertoire? Yes, but it gets much worse. Pecker Checker arrived after me as Osama himself with bullet hole in the forehead, white robes, beard, and arthritic ankles. Many had various accoutrements with camouflage. Best Blow had camouflage tape on his forehead. I suspected another attempt to hide one of his numerous shaving accidents. MiniMe even had camo. Both Wile E., a veteran of chasing varmints, and Homer, a veteran of siring them, were not in attendance, so I brought out the Drink Devil in bin Laden mufti. He looked about for our primary and secondary Hash Shits and saw none. With that, he spoke, “Before this day is through there shall be judgment on this failure to keep the ways of the Hash. A pox on those who would fail to obey the law.” Smoke puffed up from his head rag and flames shot from his eyes. Well okay, maybe not flames, but certainly a glint of sunlight or something. The hares threw down a faux prayer rug, got on their knees, and bowed in homage to the Drink Devil, then spurned him, turning their buttocks toward him, ostensibly to face the East. The ground shook at that moment. A truck was going by, but really, I think it was the DD himself. Away they fled before they could be turned to pillars of salt. Anal Vice and Hot Tub Slut led us in Father Abraham, this time starting with the right instead of the left. Everyone reading this should note that there were no down-downs for this error. Immediately afterward about a dozen hashers prehashed to the Skyline to return beer rentals. Osama even went, which probably made someone’s three way seem a little more exciting for once. Hot Wax Me Off engaged in competitive behavior by winning a tic-tac-toe game, but did not realize she won until she was told. All those hours of watching Hollywood Squares did pay off. We departed generally behind the Kroger after much confusion because there was virtually no marking. We apparently were embarking on a famine-themed hash, since the use of flour was kept to exactly three teaspoons total for the day. We picked up trail and headed toward Montgomery Road. No one died as we milled about the heavy traffic, gazing at the double X indicating what was apparently a check, since it was not chalk-talked. However, the locals were alarmed and sounded the klaxons to call out their militias. Osama himself was able to slip away after a brief encounter with a patrolman. No wonder we cannot catch that slippery fiend. Mad Max, our visiting Englishman (or Kiwi or Kazak) discovered what appeared to be prelaid trail on the far side of the road, since it was not part of the trail. North up Montgomery Road, we hit Deerfield Park (or some such place), by-passed a goose poopery labeled as a mine field, and headed to the bike trail. There was another strange marking of hash after a YBF. Crime. First they blow something up, now they mark trail after YBFs and double X marks. What next, new shoes or competitive clothing? I just hoped that PO would not expose himself, as he is becoming more prone to do. Coming out of it into a subdivision on Carriage Gate Lane or some appropriately smarmy name to that effect, we hit our first BiN on a tailgate surreptitiously labeled as a “water stop” to relieve the locals’ concerns. Fudge Tracker, carrying the ignominious FRBC (FRB crutch), sneaked off in search of HTS, who had bypassed the BiN, but he returned. Golden Showers was apparently lost off trail some time before and never made it in to sip the “water” with us. Others may have been missing, but my notes and memory fail me on this point. The rest of our tattered band of Talibanoids was able to assemble around the well and tell tall tales of evading the posses or being caught and escaping to tell of such encounters. No air strikes or Anacondas, so we tightened our belts for phase two of the Death March. After sufficiently provisioning, we again set off to find scant trail, double X marks, or faint flour-like dusty spots on junction boxes and in the grass when there was sufficient sidewalk (duly noted by Mystic). They still had a couple of teaspoons of the white stuff (Opium? No, Hamadi, flour!), so we knew it was gonna be a long day’s hash. About eight leagues later, we chanced upon one dusty spot that appeared to be flour on a road apple left by a horse from the nearby boarding stable. It reminded us Al-Quaida boys of the days before bunkers, Kalashnikovs, or Toyota trucks loaded with twelve of our best friends, when life was simple—just riding a donkey to the third wife to beat her for not producing a son or wearing only a full face veil. Ah! those were the days. As Osama and the Drink Devil lay in the nearby grass daydreaming, the Drink Devil spake. “Heed thee, scoop up the road apple so impudently marked with flour dust and carry it unto PO as the third and final Hash Shit which he shall carry until the thousandth hash.” Actually, Pecker Checker had the brilliant idea, so we got a bucket and carried it along to the next picture check. It was on a pond, which was good for us. Snap, snap went the Hash Flash and off we went, of trail that is. We quickly found it again (“that’s what he said”) and departed the pond area. We came out to our first CC (cave check), yielding a sardine can. I gotta stop here: Why, why did you kids not get us anchovies? Why? Is there some kinda conspiracy? Anyway, Fudge Tracker got that one and slipped it down his shorts, at least that would explain why it was warmed up by the time we got to the circle and partook. That comes later. Anyway, we entered a playground—what hash doesn’t—and crossed another ditch with CC. That one also yielded a, yes, sardine can to When Harry Met Chunky. Hares: sardines are like anchovies without the flavor. Opening a can of sardines is like those walnuts you get that are the hardest ones to crack then, when you finally open them, they only have a shriveled up nasty-tasting squib in them. Some hashers can probably relate to similar descriptive experiences. Anchovies. Anchovies! Same for pizza: it ain’t Za without the salty fishes. I think by now we were on hour nine and mile seventy-one of the hash. As we gained speed—with no pesky notional flour hashes to slow us down—Golden suddenly appeared at the head of the pack, just in time for the BiN2. This one was at a residence, so the tailgate “water stop” charade was not as necessary to avoid tank fire or Ranger raids. Instead, we were treated to a second Osama with tent, fire, and ammunition. The first shot took off the stuffed Target Osama’s head. No one could tell me who threw the deadly missile, so I will assume it was Osama himself in failed suicide attack. Fudge took a swipe with a hockey stick at a tennis ball and proved that he does hashes, not g*#@ (that is a four-letter word in my lexicon). Gimp showed up about this time. So did Hot Tub. All Talibanoids were accounted. Pecker Checker pointed out that our hares had dressed Target Osama with a competitive shirt and new shoes (he didn’t have a whistle, either). There was beer and chips at this stop with, for shame, an Elvis bust hidden under the table. Why hide Elvis? With beard and rag hat he could have aped our man Osama pretty well. The DD shuddered that he might be stuffed away until he was placed with Osama. The road apples were transferred to a Ziploc baggie. Then we were again back to the trail. “Would we finish before daybreak?” was the question on all our lips. We now had lots of hare arrows, no flour puffs on the ground, but a new malady appeared. This was a set of markings that we had not had in the chalk talk. Something to the effect of “Gimp Go This Way And Everyone Else Go That.” The hares would drink for this, too. The list of crimes was so long that its length alone was a crime. Chunky was on-in first. Kim NHN was hot on his tail into the Landen Sports Bar. Inside were late comers Sixty Nina and Stinky Winky. Triple X was asking incessantly for Lonnie NHN, the third hare. Gimp shared his special sauce. $3 loaned a couple of pillows. All of us waited for cups. The circle opened on the carpet with late comers TS and FN showing up. The first hare crimes were for double X on checks and hash marks after a YBF in the park area. “Say it isn’t so!” Late comers drank: Chunky, TS, FN, Lube, Stinky, 69a, along with Hot Wax for the competitive tic-tac-toe. Lube did extra duty for headgear (rag). Hare crimes continued with competitive shirt on Target Osama. PO must have anticipated—for once—a great number of down-downs and had conveniently set up a excuse for drinking only water: he had to meet with Mom. More crimes: Lube for leaving to Indy, whistles (TS, FN), mother given name (Bends Over), locking keys (Pecker Checker—get a bike). Analversaries were drunk, see attached. Golden had a challenge drink for everyone who has hashed 50-50, meaning at least 50 each at Dayton and Sin City. This included Gimp, AV, HTS, Mystic, TS. Somehow Mad Max got in there. Mad Max was our Englishman (I think) claiming to be from Paris, as if that were something to admit. He also had a couple songs that were off key or missing words or just off. No need to explain the “mad” Max. Hot Wax Me Off became a Centurion. First MM and Lube hoisted her, but Mystic said she should be on her knees, so there was a compromise and we hung her upside down. However, it appeared that Hot Wax might decorate the carpet with beer and pretzels, so she was returned to standing and drank. AV did not bring her mug, which I think was a crime that did not get drunk. Mad Max led an Alouette instead. The hash learned, after MM corrected us, to say “swinging tits” after the first mention—it’s a Cincy thing, I guess, that we did not know. Those crazy Engliparisians. Private parties were kept to a low roar, but Mystic and FN were caught out. Tight Box showed up late and drank our last beer. More beer was obtained, On On. The crutch for FRB was duly awarded to our new consistent FRB woman Kim. Hares drank for new shoes on Target Osama. Two out of three hares drank from the shoes. The third should have been a waterfall, but what does this scribe know. Mad Max pulled out Gimp, FN, Tight Sphincter, Stinky, Bends Over for not wearing either hash gear or camo. Tight Box escaped with alleged camo underwear. I hope that was a printed pattern and not something else. Down down again. Whew, the circle was getting as long as the trail and so is this rehash. No Wiley so the newest hash shit Shit was again awarded to PO. Third time’s a charm, PO. I suggest bringing the baggy or take your chances we find something fresher on trail. All hares drank. I must say at this point that each time our hare drank, the hash-shit-losing Pubic Offender, he exposed himself as he drank. The Pubic Exposer. The final time he was actually down on his carpet with FN. FN: was it a magic carpet ride for you, too? PO has called me three times to reminisce. The circle was temporarily closed. Anal Vice then made announcements for the Nash Hash. The hares failure to explain what to do with the saltless sardines was recognized by Chunky. They were opened and partially consumed (warm). HTS announced the 1000th run for his running group. Golden announced the closing of the Southern Belle bar in Dayton. With that, this scribe departed the longest hash since the Exodus. Attendees: $3.00 A Minute Anal Vice Baby Ball Barrister Beat It Benz Over Best Blow Blue Balls Chia Pet Me Cum Again Cums After 1st Jerk Dah Gimp Damaged Goods Eats It Raw Fucking Nothing Fudge Tracker Golden Showers Got Crabs? Hot Tub Slut Hot Wax Me Off Humpback Hyper Hand Job John NHN Simmons Lost Lay Lube My Johnson Mad Max Mystic Blow Neon Knockers Off Like A Prom Dress Pecker Checker Pubic Offender Shawn NHN Loftus Sixty Nina Stinky Winkie stroX coX baXwards Tight Box Tight Sphincter When Hairy Met Chunky Who Da Fuck? |