ReHash #262 - Thursday, November 21, 2002
The Oakley Dokey Loopy Dupey Hyper
By: Lube My Johnson

Let’s see, now where were we? Oh yes, as usual, I arrived late, so late that I thought, “Oh, Great! I’m cumming straight into the circle to participate in crimes.” But wait! As fate had it, I had the great fortune to be put on the slate to pull the number for Fecal, being a hyper. It was an eight (ate). Off he went in his usual gait.

As for us, hitches to the britches, niceties and greetings all around, chuckles and handshakes. Had it been daytime, I’m certain that it would have been a sunny August afternoon, daisies starting to droop and finches calling to us, the lemonade running low in the garden. Rather, it was to be the last smiles for the doomed hares that drizzly, grizzly eve, as the pack would only turn on them with a vengeance.

It was also the last we would see of Butt Digger and Eats It Raw. For anyone interested, these two had the audacity of signing in twice (I still have the roster) then leaving early for a cumpetitive event. Oh, you’re not interested.

Anyway, thus began the loopiest, Littlest Hash House (Hash) in Paxton. As we were getting ready to leave, Gashole bragged that he was going to catch the hare “like the clap” or words to that effect. Apparently, that was why he failed to put any new items on Wiley—“you know, to cut down the weight.” He even greased his little Mandingo to cut the wind drag—at least that was what he told us. What a cumpetitor, that Gashole!

Five minutes came and went. “Let’s get ‘im!” was the hearty cry. We immediately got separated, confused, and forlorn. I found Best Blow and Do You Feel Peter in the curb blubbering about lost trail and “the end of hashing.” After I got them together, we kept Heading south or west or southwest or south southwest. Doggone it, we kept going. Uncharacteristically, Da Gimp went his own way in spite of the lack of trail in front of him.

Our Wiley-less hare took a turn down a little back-angling sidestreet (sounds French or something). I followed trail on my own, blew my whistle many-a-time and no one came. Not even me. Gimp finally followed and we ended up in a little neighborhood with a couple three-ways (checks, no chicks or chilis). At this point, I was blubbering in the curb until Beat It and Blue Balls pulled me out of my funk. We sang songs and talked about the future and about how someday everyone would...well, they got me going again.

Whistling and circle jerking and scurrying about. Oh, the bustle and tumult of hypers, the giddy chase, the sense of steady progress toward sloth and penury. We were determined to find that slippery Fecal, feeling about in the dark, sucking up clues to his whereabouts. Got Crabs even had that manly look of determination on his face again. So did TS. I knew we were going to get out of this thing at that point. And we did, right back through where we had cum. Loop-de-Doop Number Two. Hashers whom I had thought I would never see again sprang out of the shadows, like bats flittering about. So much so that I swatted one of them but ran when I saw that it was just a hasher.

By now, Gashole’s speed plan had not worked, as he was sprawled out on the pavement, huffing for breath. Wiley tugged on him to get up, but couldn’t get a grip on those Lady Remington ankles. But there was Vomit, Best Blow, and Gourmet back in their old form, dashing out ahead. They were going in the wrong direction, but at least they were out there again. The pack was back.

Out we scampered through some parking lots, onto Madison. Then the pack dissolved. Hot Tub, making a mistaken appearance on trail in front of me, quickly lost it as it crossed the street. I dashed across, hoping to end it right there. But luck would not take me as no vehicles came. So I continued onto some railroad tracks, hopped an overnighter to Louisville but jumped off at the next corner and started to smell fresh flour, really fresh.

Some local YOakleys hollered out some directions that did generally prove correct and went back to gnawing bark. But by now I could breathe the flour-dusted air, the acrid smell of scared hare, the putrid smell of my running shoes. Instinctively, I gazed up at the moon and let out a howl. Great claws grew out of my fingers, my snout extended to reveal razor-sharp canines, hair sprung out of my neck. With my elongated ears I could hear his labored breathing, his uncertain pace. Around the corner and there he was behind a darkened warehouse. I pounced with all fours. It was Gimp. It was over for him now. Apparently, the carcass back on trail had, indeed, been all that remained of Fecal and what Gimp had done to him. No wonder he was throwing so little flour; the bag was soggy. I picked out the hair caught in my teeth then rummaged through the flour bag.

At this point, I came to my senses not realizing where I was exactly but knowing that we were looped around with only two options: to either take the pack way out or cross trail and thus loop yet again. Not trusting flour to last that long in such a soggy bag and not wanting to repeat my last hyper hare job when I totally confused the pack, I opted for the cross-haring option. Around a corner, back across Madison, a little hare arrow in the hopes of keeping everyone straight with all the flour patches, and away we went. Unbeknownst to me, it was straight back to the start without any option of veering right or left. I even happened on more trail from an earlier Fecalloop (small herbivore indigenous to Oakley). The circle of renewal (or confusion) was completed. Everyone reappeared, including our prior hares but not the evil cumpetitive twins.

In yet another loopy Oakley dokey moment, we stammered around for the directions to the On-After. We reconvened a couple blocks away at a bar that HTS picked. After much parking fu and bumping about, it was decided that the bar was unsuitable because of the World Dart Championships were taking place there. Seven thousand of the best dart players (looking and smelling like beer-soaked smoky pork rinds) were warming up for the big month of triple eliminations. Miracle Grow caught three darts in his buttocks because he had on those white warm-ups with the big heart and cherubs on them. Good thing he wasn’t wearing his Strawberry Dream Speedos that day. I think it would have limited his options for the future.

Joanne and I played host to a small kitten while decisions were made. The pack spoke: “Hot Tub screwed up. Let’s go to the E.” He denied it in his attorney-esque best. We Headed to another bar, found hospitable digs and dug in. The circle opened.

Crimes:
Shitty Trail (hares: Scum Sucking Fecal Feeliac, Da Gimp, Lube)
Latecummers (Joanne, Lube, Fecal and Gimp (when one hare...), Fourgasm, Baby Ball Barrister
MIAs (Miracle Grow and Tight Sphincter)
Hare Crimes (looping trail—all hares)
Pack Crimes (whistles—Lube so then all hares, Do You Feel Peter) By now Fecal was about to beat me.
Get a Life (25 Got Crabs, 110 Beat It, 120 Gashole, 125 Hot Wax Me Off, 125 Vomit Dog)
Births (Do You Feel Peter 30)

There was a move by Gashole to award Wiley to HTS. However, since that cumpetitor Gashole had not added any accoutrements, he was denied. Ziggy Zaggy.

Baby Ball Barrister complained about getting slapped like “the time he got caught by the gym teacher in the laundry room” while on trail but no one confessed. There were dumb ass announcements. Various notes are too obscure to decipher (e.g., TS—“yummy even without broccoli” was apparently some comment that preceded Got Crabs getting left behind by the waitress).

With that decrescendo ended the loopiest hash this side the Little Miami.

Hashers in attendance:
Baby Ball Barrister
Beat It
Best Blow
Blue Balls
Butt Digger
Dah Gimp
Do You Feel Peter
Eats It Raw
Fourgasm
Gas Hole
Got Crabs?
Gourmet
Hot Tub Slut
Hot Wax Me Off
Joanne NHN Hull
Lube My Johnson
Miracle Grow
Scum Sucking Fecal Feeliac
Tight Sphincter
Vommitt Dog
Wile E. Coyote