Thwarted love, unrequited passion, raw sex, ceremonial death, Princess Slut in black leather or at least a beer check is all the hashers wanted last Monday night. But, nooooo, Whoracle and Motor Mount had other ideas. Perhaps trying to match Naked Hasher’s trail of tears the week before, the SFH3 found themselves running from the 9th and Lincoln start, through Fuscia Dell, out into the Richmond, back into the park, back into the Richmond, returning to the park, up a mountain by Stowe Lake, then out into the Sunset, summitting Moraga Hill and on in.
To be fair, the run wasn’t that bad. However, it’s that time of year when it’s warm and sunny when you start and cold and dark for the finish. Being creatures of repetition, it takes at least until March for most hashers to realize the days are getting shorter and they need to bring flashlights. Among those caught unprepared this week were Burning Bush and Nothing Down Under. With no light, they found it too dangerous to go bush whacking around Stowe Lake, so they tried to row one of the row boats across to the other side. Romantic, yes. Successful, no. I couldn’t tell if the darkness bothered Straight to Hell and Just Dave (still needs to be named!). They both passed me a total of four times so either they were just doing laps or they kept getting lost.
Hand Job For Humanity and Sniff My Box felt no pain through it all, having warmed up with a little rolling, lighting and inhaling off a not quite tobacco leaf. Pink Balls pointed out that the colloquial term for this is to “hot box” a car…hummmmm, very interesting considering those involved. All I can say is that the smoke pouring out of their car when the door opened would have made Cheech Marin stop writing children’s books and Raspukin shave his beard. Wait, he did shave his beard. Nevermind
The right Rev. Itchy took command of the Down Down with his enforcer, the Fist of Steel. Demonstrating the superior intellect which qualified him to be RA, he saw right through a clever scam perpetrated by P On My Head. P had placed second the day before in the Bridge-to-Bridge run and rightly knew she would be drinking for such an egregious act of competitive running. Hoping to avoid the punishment, she brought along Just Sarah, the one woman who ran it faster, winning the whole thing. In the end, they both paid a hefty liquid fine and promised to do worse ( 7:15 miles) next time. Now Wee-Wee did not make the Br-to-Br because it started too early, but that’s not why he received a down-down. You see, he proclaimed that he couldn’t make the Marin Hash either because it started too early- at 1 pm. The Rev. called him a “Cheese Swillin Surrender Monkey” for his excuse. Bitch’s Bitch just suggested he lay off the endless Gerard Depardeu movies that always come on at 2 am. The most disturbing moment of the night came when Three Fingers and his stunt double brother, Mini Three, were called up. Mass confusion broke out in the crowd until, Crabs, once again saved the night by releasing a certified CalTrans press release stating that “You are not as intoxicated as you think, there are actually two of them. And, watch out for the deers on 280.” Not so disturbing was Pocahumpus being called up for going to the Blue Light for an over-priced cosmo and being stopped at the door with no id. One would think that resembling a minor would be the reason she was denied entry, but it turns out that the bouncer bounced her on account of her date, some guy wearing shiny gold pants, a skin tight leather shirt and a bandana. Apparently he felt that if she would consent to being seen with someone that sartorially challenged then she had enough to drink already. For more information on minors and being “denied entry,” please talk with Hind Digger…
While on the topic of denied entry, the real action of the night took place on the fringes of the circle of shame where San Francisco’s finest decided to pay us a visit. No, it wasn’t the cops, but rather semi-homeless, glue sniffing, crank smoking, beaten by their mother hoodlums. They managed to sneak a beer or two before the modern day Captain Renault, Cuming Mutha caught on and rounded up the usual suspects to shoo them away. Morning Missile, Captain Organ and Glory Hole then formed a maginot line that even Wee-Wee scoffed at. Much like kickball at recess in the third grade, Wankee Doodle and Poops in the Pool were not selected, stirring up many painful adolescent memories. But alas, the pen is mightier than the big, brawny, tough guys and I’m happy to report that it was actually M. Diddly Muff Daddy who got the hoodlums out of there by setting a trail of butane lighters and Hash Glow Mugs up to the Muni. After measuring, Chamber Pot announced that this trail was indeed longer than the run Muff Daddy hared many months ago.
Das Poop and Chickless Boner chose this week to return and we were visited from two different continents with a bunch of German guys and the unforgettable Bone Crusher from Wanchai hash in Hong Kong. For those wondering how he received his name, he keeps moving closer and closer to you as he speaks until, like a vice, you are eventually pressed up against the bar and reduced to mere dust.
The On-On-On went exactly like every other On-On-On except that Voyeur did not drive Bloody Good Hand Job home. Beastie Boy left early to practice his DJ scratching for this Weekend’s 1000th run. Nothing But Cock talked about his new friend who has 150 piercings on his genitalia, Itch My Rod mentioned that he knew the guy, Suckle Server announced he wanted to be that guy and I chose to get another beer.
And that, my friends, is all I remember. If anyone tells you any differently, it’s probably the truth.
On-on,
Poops in the Pool
On In!