Hash #577 -- Big Game...Big Rain
July 21, 2003
Hares: Everyday Asshole, Over Exposed
Hash Mismanagement: Grand Master: Everyday Asshole; Joint Masters: Roadkill & Polly; Hash Cash: Horn O' Plenty; Trailmaster: Decoy; Hash Horn: Girlie Boy
So there we were – 21 lost souls huddled in
the hot summer wind in front of the Holiday Inn in Denver/Reamstown PA –
Swamp Thing and Darth doing their best to convince some of the new-boot
bimbos that the “real hash action” was between the sheets in a room they’d
rented at the hotel, Bad was doing his impersonation of George Bush
looking for Weapons of Mass Destruction, and Bluster & Princess were
keeping their distance from the rest of us. A circle ensued followed
by a stern warning from our Grand Master that we were to “stay together in
a pack, dammit!”, implying that disobeying his directive would result in
some dead hashers, lost new boots, and big ol’ country-sized butt whuppin
(not necessarily in that order).
….And we’re off, crossing Rt. 272 and causing our own certain brand of traffic mayhem, winding up in some fields, scaring away a small herd of cows, leaving the H5 folk in our dust, and eventually reaching the first beer-check at the top of a sloping hill. After much discussion of things that we’ve at one time stuck in our own asses, a cry for help went up from the winsome yet alluring Princess. The hash’s crack medical team investigated, and found that Princess’ bellybutton ring was apparently colliding with the top of her lycra shorts and causing considerable chafing. A vote was taken, and we decided to surgically remove her shorts. Before we could get our thumbs hooked around the waistband, Bluster intervened and convinced Princess that the key to a long and happy marriage was to take the road less traveled and cover the ring with medical tape, while leaving the shorts in tact. What a party-pooper that Bluster is – plus he made Everyday cry.
Although we were loathe to leave free beer behind, more free beer
was promised to those who bravely ventured on, and the pack was once again
off, bounding through woods and shiggy, losing and then re-finding the
trail several times, each time casting aspersions upon the characters of
our hares, and wishing them a slow and painful death (or at least 5
minutes alone with a naked Marilyn Manson). A check or so later, we
stumbled upon the hare’s (unlocked) car pulled off behind an elementary
school. An attractive young lady minding two rugrats beckoned me
forward. Fool that I was, I thought I had hit paydirt and snared a
“Yummy Mummy”, but it was only OE’s wife telling us to look for her
husband in the woods. Sure ‘nuf, there was OE, having sprinted two
coolers of beer, soda and water across the baseball field to his wooded
beer check hiding place. He gasped for air, and swore as none of us
had bit on the last 30 yards of shiggy before the beer check. Having
had my lot to drink, I headed back over to Mrs. OE and tried to arrange a
little liaison with her later --Once you’ve been with a Decoy, you don’t
go back! -- she declined telling me that her “needs” were being
fulfilled. I later shared this news with OE, and he promised to find
the son of a bitch who was fulfilling his wife’s needs and beat the crap
out of him.
At this point, the pack was instructed to walk (don’t run) to the next stop on our tour d’ Reamstown, and we were led down the garden path past a ferocious schnauzer and introduced to “Dr. Death” himself, Mr. Vernon Boose. The entire pack assembled in a non-descript breezeway where we were given the instructions for our next hash task – enter the Den of Death. Before letting us in, Mr. Boose instructed us to look, but not touch. I glanced over at Darth who seemed quite crestfallen by these instructions, but he complied by sheepishly extricating his hands from the ass of the bimbo in front of him.
Upon entering the hermitically controlled room, a
collective and reverential “HOLY FUCK” was emitted from the pack. It
seems that the mild-mannered Mr. Boose has some sort of blood lust, and
has shot and had taxidermied just about every species of wild game that
once walked the North American continent. From the 12 ft. grizzly
bear to the tiny fawn to the bison and elk (of whom he could only fit the
head into the room) we walked around in stunned silence. I’m not
sure whether that silence was inspired by sheer reverence for the beauty
of the animals, or some sort of trepidation as we realized that there was
one animal who frequents the woods, streams and fields that had not yet
been added to Mr. Boose’s collection --- the rare North American Reading
Hasher (Porcus Drinkus Pukus). Bad Semen decided to do his best
Dudley Moore impersonation, and slurred out a “You must have hated that
moose!”. Vern didn’t quite get that joke and pulled out a
gun that looked like should have been mounted on the Battleship
Missouri. We were escorted out of the room, and after a quick
headcount confirmed that no one had been added to Dr. Death’s collection,
we were off again in search of flour.
Back onto the streets, chased by locals down through some fields and past an ancient golf driving range to yet ANOTHER beer check, the pack started to get a bit frisky. I’m not sure if it was the cold wind that harkened an impending thunderstorm, or if it was the fact that we’d been out 1-1/2 hours and we were really fucking hungry! Bad Semen, Bluster, Just Randy and I decided to brave a black hole under the PA Turnpike – and although there was plenty of flour, and no apparent false trail marking, the trail for some reason stopped. Call it “hare whimsy”, or call it just “shitty trail” --- Either way, we were on the wrong side of the Turnpike, and that bad wind was blowing in some black clouds.
Instead of following us, the rest of the pack had made the wise decision to run AWAY from the turnpike and found the spot of the initial outdoor Apres. Of course by the time I got there, my dry bag was soaking, and the rain was coming down in sheets. All hashers accounted for except for one “minor” problem: hasher “Just Amanda” who had joined us from Florida was nowhere to be found, and judging by her size, there’s a damn good possibility that the storm might have washed her away. As OE and I discussed this dilemma, his cellphone suddenly rang – it was Amanda who reported that she was safe in a trailer park. ….Hmmm….for some reason that sentence just doesn’t sound right…. Let me try it again. “She was safe..in a trailer park.” Yep, there’s still something wrong with that, but I don’t want to dwell.
Bad Semen made the gracious gesture to host the Apres at his house, and we were off from the slums of Reamstown through the driving rain to Bad’s den of inequity in neighboring Rheinholds. Everyday and I discussed it, and we’re not sure exactly who slipped something into Bad’s drink that would make him offer to have 21 soaking wet sweaty people slog up his house, but hey, not my problem.
Over pizza and some tasty Sierra Nevada, we conducted hash
bidness, with our special guest Religious Advisor, Tour De Puke from
H5. Tour did a fine job, making sure to drink several down-down’s
himself (sure it sucks to be an honest and capable R.A., but we wouldn’t
know anything about that at Reading, would we?). New boots, FRBs,
LRBs, Out-of-Towners, and Hares all drank. “Just Doreen” foolishly
admitted that she had recently had a birthday, and was made to
drink. A naming was proffered by yours truly, so therefore let it be
known that “Just Amanda” shall henceforth be known as Trailer
Trash, and let all who hash with her gaze in awe at her abilities to
safely traverse the wilds of a trailer park her virginity still largely
intact.
The lightning, thunder, and rain continued to rule the night, but the hashers were undaunted by the weather – soon the hot-tub was full of bimbos and assholes and a carafe of Sierra Nevada made its way around the tub. Bad Semen scuttered around serving us like he was the actual hare (again – thanks to whomever slipped him the drugs), offering us more beer, frosty mugs, dry towels and the occasional handjob. At some point a few of the ladies’ swimsuits went missing although I have no idea how that could have happened….
As the storm abated, so did the hash and we were all soon off in search of our respective homes. A big ol’ hash thank you to OE, Everyday Asshole, and our special-guest Apres provider, Bad Semen.
SHITTY TRAIL…SHITTY APRES….SHITTY HASH!
ON-ON
Decoy
A Word From The ON-Sex:
Christ on a cracker! I leave you people for 4 months of Hash Paternity Leave and you go out and recruit new members? Between the new boots and the no-named 2nd or 3rd timers, it looks like two trends had emerged: 1) The vaunted and much-awaited Reading Hash Youth Movement had commenced; and 2) The much-anticipated bimbo revival is upon us, praise Allah (Willow is sure to be at the next hash after reading that line!).
Interview With The Grand Master
We recently caught up with Reading's Grand Master, Everyday Asshole at the local Methadone Clinic...Here are his thoughts on hashing:
On Sec: So, how was Inter-America’s Hash, you sick old fuck?
Everyday: Who you callin’ “old”, sonny? As far as Inter-Americas hash, I really can’t recall, but I did get a fancy tatoo, and a raging case of the clap. Nice guy that I am, I gave it to my wife for her birthday.
On Sec: I’ve heard rumors that PA Interhash in 2006 will be held in Reading….can you confirm that?
Everyday: 2006? Hell, that’s 3 years away, I don’t even plan 1 week away! But you’re right, rumor has it that Reading is on the short list to be the next host– mainly because of NFB, Girlie, Willow and Horn. (Get it?…”short list”).
On Sec: Yeah, that’s real funny. Don’t give up your day job.
Everyday: PA Interhash was started last year by the lovely folks at Tittsburgh. In 2004, PA Interhash will be jointly hosted by State College and Eeerie, so if we can put together a good presentation next year, we might get to host 2006!
On Sec: What’s in it for me?
Everyday: Lots of drunken naked bimbos coming to Reading and acting like complete ho’s.
On Sec: SIGN ME UP!
Everyday: In order to pull this together, we’ll get a small committee together sometime in the next few months to determine whether we have the resources or interest to host this event, but it would be a great opportunity for Reading to show the rest of the PA hashers what total pigs we really are, and (in the process) fill our coffers with other hashers’ money.
On Sec: Getting back to the naked women you mentioned…
Ask Dr.
Scheisskopf: And now let’s
spend a few minutes with our hash advice columnist – the answer man…Dr.
Scheisskopf!
Dear Dr. Scheisskopf: No one ever seems to show up for the hashes that I hare – do you think it has something to do with the fact that I’m a cheap bastard, or is it my stinky crotch? –Restless in Reading
Dear Restless: Simple answer – no one likes you – not even your mother. The only reason we hang out with you at the hash is because you paid your dues. If you want to attract people to your hash, think about timing – don’t wrap it around the weekend of one of those gay Type-A events, and don’t have your Apres at your mommy’s house, ya cheap bastard!
Dear Dr. Scheisskopf: What the hell happened to the Reading Hash Telephone Hotline? I call, but all I get is some Verizon recording that tells me that I’m ugly and I dress real funny. – Languid in Lancaster
Dear Languid: Well first of all, you are ugly, but I don’t blame you – I blame your mother (and so should you!). With regard to the phone line – get with the times man! It’s the 21st Century and we’re done with all that answering machine bullshit, we’re on email now. To get on the hash email list, simply send a note to readinghash@hotmail.com. The telephone gig was costing us big bucks each month, and the mismanagement determined that we were getting more mileage out of the email alerts. Plus all that cash we save can now be used to pay for lap dances for the Grand Master.
Dear Dr. Scheisskopf: I want to dress up like a woman and run through the streets – is this an indication of some kind of deep-set psychoses, or am I normal?—Curious in Cumru Township
Dear Curious: What’s with the psuedo-psychobabble? Unless you’re a trained psychologist like myself, I don’t think you should be throwing around terms like “Psychoses” unless you want me to open up a can of whup-ass all over you! As for your homosexual tendencies, I suggest you try running the DC Red Dress Hash on October 4th. Here’s the link: http://dchashing.net/RedDress2003/. If you’re lucky, maybe there are some other Reading Hashers who might join you.
Dear Dr. Scheisskopf: I often have these dreams where I’m hashing …At one point, I head down a false trail and come upon an old man who is pitching horseshoes into the sewer and belching soap bubbles. Does this mean anything, or is it just some crazy flashback to the 70’s? -- In The Buff in Bechtelsville
Dear Buff: My clinical determination is that you’re fuckin nuts! But…your whole feeling of “nakedness” indicates to me that you’re feeling a bit disappointed in your current collection of hash haberdashery. I advise that you get in contact with one of the Reading Hash Mismanagement and get your hands on one of the limited edition Rolling Rock / Reading Hash T-Shirts.
