Okay, the first big question of the day is: should I write this sucker in first person or third person? I was thinking that if I stuck with third person, you wanks would forget that this is reHash from the Hare's perspective (albeit an honest and totally objective position) and assume that all this happened to somebody else. Of course, in first person, I can take a defensive stance, make substantive accusations, and begin the roster of criminals to be dealt with at #39. So, you'll probably see alternation from one to the other - a crime in prose, but admissible for the reHash. And, be forewarned, I may pontificate, obfuscate, placate, advocate, supplicate, hypothecate, adjudicate, and/or vindicate; I certainly intend to communicate; but I will not prevaricate nor will I equivocate. And finally, I promise to truncate this reHash to a concise length, but still give you, gentle reader, something on which to masticate. (How am I doing so far?) (And apologies regarding the inside joke to those who are reading this but did not attend the Hash and wonder what the hell all the -cate words are about. Unfortunately, I haven't the time to educate.)

Second big question of the day: why the hell does the weather suck every time I lay trail? Last time the Hash Gods decreed, "it shall snow horizontally right up until five minutes before the Hash so that Anal Vice has to lay live trail." Today, the Hash Gods were less spiteful - at least it was warm - though they remained constant in their warped senses of humor: "Thor shall unleash his great bolts of lightning and claps of thunder, and there shall be tremendous sheets of rainfall right up until five minutes before the Hash so that Anal Vice has to lay live trail." Actually, I feel rather honored to be the focus of all this attention - after all, it was only 01.March, and how often does Thor grace us this early in the season? One of these days, BFH (Mr. Nice Weather Guy) and I are going to lay trail together to see what sort of weather calamity we can cause. (Watch out, Dayton - 22.March your Hares are Tight Sphincter, BFH, and Anal Vice. With the weather that BFH and I will conjure and the trail (whatever you do, STAY ON THE TRAIL) that Tight Sphincter will devise, there is promise of bedlam beyond our wildest imaginations!)

Of course, by now, everyone knows the third big question of the day, it's on the tip of everyone's tongue: When the fuck is this wanker going to start writing about the Hash, fer Chrissake? Okay, okay, OKAY!

Being the ever-optimistic Hasher that I am, I arrived very early at 12th and Vine, and proceeded to go trotting about the trail, Hash Stick and drywall in hand, thinking that I MIGHT actually pre-lay some YBFs and BCs. After all, it wasn't raining all THAT hard. However, by the time I had run maybe a quarter of the trail, Thor (see prologue) had unleashed all his rage, and chalk marks were being washed away as I laid them. "Back, BACK, to the start, NO pre-laying, NO breaks whatsoever!" So, back to the start I loped, dripping wet, already tired, and nothing to show for the work I'd invested so far.

After hanging around in the Barrelhouse for a while to warm up (and drip on their floor) and buy growlers, I returned to the 12th and Vine car park to find BFH and his new wheels just arriving. (Nice car. Don't you need some FLOUR on those seats?) Close behind BFH was Not Tight Enough, fresh in from EatOne (known amongst those who rusticate as Eaton) and ready to run. Pygmy Hippo Lover and Purple Heart On arrived from Louisville, with the idea that an afternoon jog through Sin City would provide a nice respite on their trip back to Dayton. Red Hott Creamy Fudge pulled into the lot and, in an unsociable manner, parked as far away from all the other Hashers as possible (a modicum of ridicule convinced her to move her car). At some point around here, Mr. Beep Her showed, though I missed seeing him pull up. New to Sin City Hash, but well seasoned Hashers (Welcome!), were Door Mouse and Oozing Toxic Waste. Close behind were our two virgins (not traveling together) Andrew MacIntyre and Tom Wright (Welcome, Welcome!). Tight Sphincter came wheeling in, blowing her horn in an attempt to frighten the already tightly-wound Hare. Vommitt Dog made a grand entrance, proudly displaying his Reggae RrrRrr(ptui) shirt. Then, let's see, I think I'm getting out of order here, but what the hell... We were all stunned and pleased to see Procto Spot, accompanied by our long lost Hashit, Wile E. Coyote. No Balls, not to be outdone by BFH, arrived in his new pick-um-up. Another long lost soul, Easy Rider (sans Power Tool) was close behind (welcome back!), as Stuff That Sucks made a subtle entry, sneaking in from the south end of the lot. Fucking Yeast Infection (FYI) also tried to make a clandestine entrance by sitting in his car - what the hey were ya doin' in there, FYI? And speaking of subtle, Spewing Reptile and Tight Grip strolled in from points unknown, arriving on foot from the southwest. And, the last of the timely arrivals, Organ Grinder made his appearance. (Late cummers - in attempts to be REALLY subtle were Tight Lips and Dog In Drag (sans dog in drag), and, taking the prize subtlety because they had to run trail to find the pack, were Irish Stewl and Schlitz Over Tits. Four o'clock Hash, indeed. That's AFTER daylight savings time starts! And besides, it's 3:59 just to get you wanks there on time.)

At about (approximately) 2:52:45 the rain ceased. At about (approximately) 3:12:30, the impatient Hare distributed Hash Games for the day (fat lotta good that did - hey, I know you Harriers are just as smart as... oh, never mind), presented an eloquent Chalk Talk, did NOT tell everyone to STAY ON TRAIL, asked that the back of the truck be closed before the pack left, and was off like a, like a, um, well, scared rabbit.

Now, there is little to be said of the running of the trail. I could exactly indicate each check and false trail I laid, wonder how the pack was able to locate trail at each check, and suffocate you with details. I won't. Let it suffice to say that by the time I arrived at the Beer Near, I still expected the pack to be coming in the door right behind me - that adrenaline rush and panic that sets in at the outset takes the entire Hash to wear off.

The hyperaesthetic senses aside, there was an abundance of amusement to be found in laying trail downtown - that is, in the pedestrian traffic ambulating past wondering just WHAT the hell is going down. On two occasions - the first only three blocks after the start - I was stopped and asked what I was doing. "Putting flour and chalk on the ground for the Harriers to follow." Unfortunately, I didn't loll about to discuss the finer points of laying trail or the art of Hashing itself - nor did I even ask if the answer was satisfactory in satisfying the query. The alleys and side streets beckoned!

While laying a check (decision point?) at 5th and Vine on Fountain Square, I looked up to see a woman looking at me and grinning from ear to ear in a knowing fashion. "What?," I said, "Are you a Hasher?" The reply was great, "No, but I saw the people who are chasing you about four blocks back." Of course, the mind went into calculation mode... let's see, if she can walk four blocks in, say, ten minutes, and I've been laying trail for over thirty minutes, that would, ahh, carry the two, compute the standard deviation, hmmm, that would put the pack AHEAD of me - OH SHIT!

Now thoroughly convinced that I was about to be overtaken by thirsty Hashers (and not knowing that the pack had decided to take a "break" at Longworth Hall), I redoubled my efforts, laid a false trail north on Vine, then true trail diagonally across the square and up onto the Skywalk. Upon extracting Yellow (not so) Stickies, I realized that I'd omitted Yellow Sticky instructions from chalk talk... oh, what the hell, just write "Yellow Sticky" on the ground by a Hash mark - they're semi-intelligent, they'll figure it out. So, on through the Fifth-Third Bank Building, a check at the stairs down to Walnut, into the 580 Building (where a curious look from the building guard prompted me to bestow upon him a Yellow Sticky and ask him to give it to the next runner he saw - kind of a human Hash mark), then on down and across 6th to Barleycorn's and the Beer Near.

This is where I was convinced that by the time I got to the top of the stairs and looked out the window, that I'd see Harriers swarming from the 580 Building. Not the case. For all you wankers that complained about the beer not being on the tables, poured into glasses, and awaiting your arrival - damn good thing it wasn't, it'd have been warm and stale! And, of course, being the concerned Hare that I was, I wanted the beer to be cold and fresh when you arrived... not to mention keep you at the BN as long as possible.

Finally, I saw Spewing Reptile pop out of the 580 Building, see the Hare arrow pointing toward Barleycorn's, and promptly run across the street and into the alley next door! And, of course, the lemmings followed. Down I went to whistle the pack into the bar and point out the billboard sized BN on the sidewalk. What's a Hare to do?

After getting the beer flowing (the lone barmaid was pitcher shy, obviously, despite my instructions to immediately begin filling pitcher after pitcher upon Hasher arrival), I was off to set the back half of the trail. Tight Sphincter apparently wanted to bid me fare-thee-well, and followed me to the front door. No chance that she just wanted to see where I ran...

Obvioulsy, the pack took all of 3 or 4 minutes to consume all their beer. By time I'd set trail through the Lytle Apartments plaza and was crossing the bridge back over Second Street, the pack was already ON Second Street. This must be what they (whoever they are) call the Second Wind. Or maybe it's just unadulterated panic. Anyway, this Hare hunkered down and crossed the entire bridge in a stooped position, worrying that some over-alert Harrier would just happen to glance up at the bridge and see a Hash Stick going by. Whew, made it across the bridge, laid a check in Lytle Park, hauled ass though a short false trail, and then plotted true trail on-down East Third. The pack might have noticed a distinct lack of long false trails, BCs, and/or YBFs from there on to the On-In. Yeah, that's because there was a distinct lack of long false trails, BCs, and/or YBFs from there to the On-In.

Climbing the bottom half of Monastery, I was convinced I'd be seen from below; running East Court and Reedy, I was convinced I'd be spotted from the footbridge over I-71. Crossing Eggleston, I was certain I'd be seen by the SCBs that blew off Monastery Hill (I'm told by spies that there were some of you). Finally, when I was past the Justice Center, I felt like I'd make it home... so crossed Central Parkway, laid a final check at another alley way, ran on through the alley, and On-Home to the Barrelhouse... Ah, at last, a taste of the Bock! The pack arrived, slowly, but surely, with BFH positively radiant about being first in (was that competitive behavior, BFH?). It was now about (approximately) 5:33:28... the skies opened. Damn good timing if I do say so myself.

Upon our arrival, I don't think our waiter quite had the Hasher mentality... "Okay what does everybody want?" All in unison: "BEER BEER BEER BEER, BEER BEER BEER BEER, (etc.)" It took some convincing that he should just bring as many pints of ANYTHING as he could possibly carry. Since I had to make a choice, we went for the Bock and the Lager (both excellent choices, if I do once again say so myself). I don't think the waiter ever became totally comfortable with the "as many as you can carry" order, but "six or seven of each, and keep ‘em coming" seemed to work.

The Circle was called to order by our Grand Master, Irish Stewl. First of all, I think the On-Sec's Secs (Sex) did a damn good job getting these events recorded - since I seemed to be involved in every friggin' down-down I wasn't able to take notes (for more than one reason) - it's nice to know there are so many other tight and/or anal Hashers!

First off, of course, the Hare (that'd be Anal Vice) drank for a truly astoundingly shitty trail. Being the Hash Trail pundit that I am, I'd tend to agree. (Oh, fer chrissake, shaddup and write.)

We officially welcomed our Virgins, Andrew MacIntyre and Tom Wright, who both seem to have cum of the own accord. (They're both so lonely that they carry in their wallets only pictures of their hands?) Ahem. The musical question, "Why Were They Born So Beautiful" was posed. They answered with their down-downs.

Next, we made proper Sin City Hashers of Door Mouse and Oozing Toxic Waste. Door Mouse's version of chugging a beer is to wear half of it... well, okay, that's the, uh, "rule", but doesn't it almost border on alcohol abuse? Oozing preferred the more traditional style of down-down. Welcome, Door Mouse and Oozing Toxic Waste, to your new Kennel!

Accusations, both sustainable and unfounded, now flew like chickens in a tornado (metaphor police! metaphor police!!). Down-downs were served for the following convictions: Anal Vice for using a Mother Given Name, Vommitt Dog for his rrrRRRrr tee, and Procto Spot for having kidnaped the Hashit for so long. Dirty deeds, all of them!

At this point the Hashit was awarded to Anal Vice (here we go again) for - as noted earlier - not having the beer at the Beer Near waiting, poured into glasses, with straws and little pink umbrellas, each glass labeled for a particular Harrier. While this presentation was underway, Vommitt noticed the shiny, clean (read: NEW) shoes that Door Mouse was wearing. While Anal did his down-down of Bock, Door Mouse did the obligatory from-the-shoe down-down with water (and, of course, used the water to rinse the beer out of her hair). Irish Stewl then ordered up ANOTHER down-down for Anal Vice... "What the Hell - I just did my down-down!" "That was for Door Mouse." "Yeah, okay, who am I to turn down a beer? ...gimme the damn thing." So Anal now did his "official" Hashit down-down, Wile E. helped. (You're on my list, Irish.)

Sin City analversaries were now honored: Irish Stewl celebrated his 30th with Sin City (Irish is our top attendee, but only by ONE, Dog In Drag), Anal Vice celebrated his 25th (as well as his first analversary of Hashing - the P.E.B. was a nice touch, Tight Lips and Dog In Drag - thanks! - not to mention his 5th down-down of the evening), Schlitz Over Tits commemorated his 20th, and Stuff That Sucks observed (HOW many have I run?!) number 10. (Organ Grinder WOULD have celebrated his 10th as well, had he stayed around - you OWE us, Organ!)

With that being the wrap of Hash Business, the Circle was declared closed by Irish. Now the serious affairs of drinking, eating, drinking, singing, and then some drinking were undertaken.

I won't mention that at some point early in the evening the Hare was depantsed (de-pantsed? depants'd? de-pants-ed? I never knew that was so damn hard to spell) by Schlitz Over Tits and Purple Heart On for attempting to make dumbass announcements regarding the Hash Puzzles. (I'm not mentioning it because the Hare probably deserved it - BUT had all you wankers solved your puzzles like you were supposed to... oh, never mind. Next time you get tic-tac-toe. Okay, I guess by that point in the evening, my neurons were firing with little preciseness, so what the hey?) Anyway, the growlers were awarded on a totally random basis - or maybe it was speed. I do want those bottles back someday, but for now, enjoy the beer! (I'm also not mentioning to Schlitz and Purple that Anal has a very good memory and is very patient...)

With that episode behind (so to speak) us, there was more beer to be consumed (the waiter: "you REALLY want TEN more glasses?!"), and many heart-rending melodies to croon. Such tear-jerkers as "I Used to Work in Chicago", "Yogi Lives in Jellystone", and "Monday is a Wanking Day" immediately cum to mind. As one might expect, when such emotion is mixed with such quantities of GOOD beer, there will be Song Fuck-Ups... Zicky-Zacky, Zicky-Zacky, HOY, HOY, HOYs were awarded to Tight Sphincter, Purple Heart On (and I thought Spewing Reptile, as well, although my Secs (Sex) omitted him form the official notes) for their verbal crashes-and-burns.

The party went on into the evening with the remaining Hashers continuing to have a beer or two, and, not that we were sloppy about it, the Barrelhouse Staff doing a lot of mopping of the floor around us! (Now THERE'S a mental image - Hashers and their minimum required maintenance, beer and a mop.) The hangers-on were eventually relegated to a table in the front of the bar (near the door, I think it was a hint) upon the arrival of another large party, where the beer, beer, food, and beer tasted just as good as it had in the back of the bar. Attempts by TS to carry on Hash Business were utter failures (given the noise and the average attention span of 3.4 seconds), but the review of pictures from Mardi Gras proved an amusing success (since the average time required to look at a photograph is 3.4 seconds).

Finally, out into the driving rain we went - some of us homeward bound, some of us (Tight Sphincter, Not Tight Enough, Red Hott Creamy Fudge, Big Fucking Ham, and yours truly) Rhino's bound (simply because Rhino's was the shorter trip, not because we wanted another beer - RIGHT!). Anal is not quite sure why he traded a LARGE person at the bar a Hash tee shirt for a Rhino's tee shirt, but he thinks he got the better end of the deal from a cash value viewpoint, though the jury is still out on the question of the quality of the haberdashery.

As the evening wore later, NTE departed for Pints (or is it Points?) North, aka Centerville, and shortly thereafter, TS, RHCF, BFH, and I were off to the Diner at a dead sprint through the rain - we could SMELL the meatloaf! (See, NTE, told you to stick!) With that under our belts (or elastic wastebands) and just ONE more Guinness, the evening was complete, and there was little left to do but head (did somebody say HEAD?...) home (domisticate) to dream of Hashes past and Hashes future... (The dyslexic, agnostic, insomniac? He lays awake all night wondering if there really is a Dog.)

ON-ON and ON-OUT!
Anal Vice
On-Sec SCH4