Ye Olde Hashe Trashe #600

And so it was that the Hash Fathers of the Philadelphia Hash House Harriers, having established a successful and prosperous Hash, looked to extend the word of hashing to those in the unknown western lands. They summoned Uncle Reesus a notable hasher and drunk, and told him to venture west into the hinterlands, spreading beer, cheer, and flour amongst the unwashed and befuddled masses, so that they may become even moreso unwashed and befuddled. So then that in the year of our Lord, Nineteen Hundred, Four & Eighty, did Uncle Reesus pack with him his flour, his bestest beer and victuals and journey to Reading in the County of Berks to establish the Reading Hash House Harriers. And so did Uncle Reesus, then re-constituted as “The Bagwan” create for himself a disorganization unto which he could pass his knowledge of hashing and the religious rites of drinking beer, marking trail, and other appropriate hash customs, and the Hash Fathers were proud. So that in time when the necessary 50 trails had been laid, and 50 circles had been completed, Bagwan begat Weenis Supremis, who begat Bad Semen, who begat Willie (Will he) Stay Slim, who begat Spawn, who begat Dogbreath, who begat Willow, who began Flaming Asshole, who begat No Fucking Brains, who begat Horn O’ Plenty, who begat Swamp Thing, who begat Everyday Asshole.

Now then in the Year of Our Hash, Nineteen, and Year of Our Lord Two Thousand & Four, did Everyday Asshole survey the land and the review the scroll of completed hashes and determine that the westerly winds bore tidings of change. And he called his council of advisors together with the promise of free beer and victuals, and decree unto them:

“For I, Everyday Asshole, being an addled old fool, shall wish to pass my mantle of leadership unto another unworthy hasher. And so, let us celebrate the end of my reign, with a raucous celebration on the 19^th Day of June, nigh a day ‘for the eve of the feast of the Summer Solstice.”

And so it was to be done. And it was good.

The hash mismanagement created haberdashery and appropriate gifts, and ordered cooks to prepare sumptuous victuals, and brewers to brew their finest beers, and the word spread about the land of this festival. And so did the hashers cheer, one huzzah for the reign of Everyday Asshole, and two huzzahs for the end of his reign of terror.

Now then did Everyday Asshole call upon two trusted advisors and former Grand Masters: Dogbreath who had been serving as a hash missionary (not necessary in the missionary position) in the wilds of Minnesota, and No Fucking Brains who…had no fucking brains. He directed them as follows:

“Lay a trail of shiggy, beer, and more shiggy.

Let hashers stumble upon rocks, trees, and flowers,

Let them hash, let them hash for hours.

Let bleed their legs from prickers, bramble, and rock,

So that upon ending, they wish to cut off your cock”

Two more nefarious hares never were met, and aided by nor but a compass, a bad attitude, and a sense of stupidity and misdirection, did these hares set to their task.

And so then the day of the feast day drew nigh, and hashers arrived in droves from the hash kennels of: Summit, Rumson, Harrisburg/Hershey, Reading, Tidewater, Carolina, Philly, Liberty Bell, Ben Franklin Mob, Baghdad, and Pittsburgh. Converge did they upon the outpost of Maple Grove Park in the hamlet of Mohnton. As the hour of noon o’clock approached, so tappeth the grandmaster the first keg of beer, and the hashers rejoiced as the sweet cool golden liquid flowed freely. They raised their sacred drinking vessels to toast one another, to remember hashers who have passed, and welcome new hashers to their midst. And it was good.

After the sun had passed its zenith in the summer sky, two bells sounded, and the pack converged in a circle. Hashers were introduced and welcomed, trail markings were explained and the pack moved off in many directions, some walking, some r*nning, some stumbling from their pre-lewd piss-up induced hangovers. The evil plan of the hares soon was evident, as the first beer check approached. After not more than a mile of road and field, the beer check was (much to the chagrin of the masses, yet much to the joy of the latecomers) back at the starting point. A collective groan emerged from the pack as N.F.B. explained marks for the second part of the trail.

Then, collecting their beers and sacred drinking vessels, did the much maligned pack exeunt. Hashed they through stream, shiggy, and up a mudded road that would have made the Hash Fathers proud, until they reached another beer check. Whence upon arrival did the hashers discover unmanned heavy logging equipment. And so then, drinking resumed, as did mooning of the pack by hashers of Harrisburg (showing arguably their “best” sides).

A great huzzah erupted from the pack when “Cums With The Turf”, our delegate from Rumson, hurled a mud ball near 20 metres that accurately and most appropriately exploded upon the bared ass of one of these exposed hashers. Crushing beer cans upon their heads, and invoking the name of the Gods to pray for a quick passage, so did the hashers exeunt and return to shiggy. Up up did the hashers climb, traversing rock, shiggy fields, weaving through trees and shrubs, and emerging upon a rutted logging road made especially for the stupid amongst the pack.

Presently the hashers returned to low ground, fording a stream, and some of them diverging from true-trail to spread the joy of hashing and beer to an encampment of “Recovering Alcoholics & Narcotics Abusers”.

As the hashers converged upon the pavilion from whence they originated, much drinking resumed. Tales of shiggy, turned ankles, bruised knees, and encounters with wildlife were shared. And then the booming voice of the almighty Everyday Asshole was heard from above the din of the drag races, and as fast and compliant as a herd of sated house cats, the hashers re-formed in a circle for religious ceremonies. Accusations were made, some real, some imagined, and hashers drank the sacred liquid, and it was good. The Grandmaster was quick and brutal with his punishment for those who deigned to disturb the sacred ceremony, and offenders were damned to down-down warm cans of Old Milwaukee.

A naming was proffered by the Grandmaster, and heretofore, let all hashers mind that “Just Jan” from the burgh of Wyomissing shall be known to all that hash, and to all that hare, as “Camel Toe”. Huzzah, Long Live the Grand Master, Huzzah, Long May Camel Toe Hash!

The circle was dismissed, and the cook presented a board of foodstuffs and victuals, while the disc jockey played tunes that set many a foot to dance. This scribe even found himself shaking his moneymaker upon the dance floor to sounds and rhythms that could only be described as composed by Mephistopheles himself.

On into the night celebrated the hashers, and the valleys and hills of Maple Grove rang with the ululations of the hash singers until the hour of the wolf, nigh ‘for the break of a new day. Deterred not by the local constabulary who frequently drove past our celebration, we exploded with the joy of change and looked forward to the future of hashing.

In the morn’, picking through broken drinking vessels, and stumbling over half naked bodies of the hashers overcome by the sleep of hops, malt, yeast and water, what remained of the hash mismanagement looked forlornly to the horizon, searching for the Grandmaster who hath disappeared into the night like a very ghost, and awaiting the rise of the next man (or woman) foolish enough to take the reigns of this sorry group of wankers, sluts, whoremongers, and imbeciles.

Long Live Everyday Asshole, though his evil reign is cometh to an end.

Shittieth Hash.

Shittieth Trail.

Shittieth Apres.

May the Hash go in peace…May the Hash get a piece.

AMEN.

Disrespectfully Submitted:

Decoitous Interruptus, RH3 Trailmaster