It was the best of runs, it was the worst of the runs, it was a run of wisdom, it was a run of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief (that the gate would be open), it was the epoch of incredulity (when the gate was closed), it was the season of Light (beer), it was the season of Darkness (on the Edge of Town), it was the spring of hope (that we might learn a new Hash song), it was the winter of despair (that Itch My Rod and Butt Love are leaving us), we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going directly around Lake Merced, we were all going direct the other way- in short, the run was so far like every other run; somehow it got all fucked up and we all got drunk afterwards.

Enough of Dickens around, SFH3 run #999 was for many supposed to be sad, the farewell run for the most likeable couple in the hash, Itch My Rod and Butt Love. This melancholy did not last for long once people realized they don’t actually leave for another 6 weeks and just wanted more time for hashers to stroke their already big… egos and tell them how much they will be missed. As if this was not enough, Escrowtum and sister, Buffy were equally dismayed to finally figure out that Itch My Rod and Butt Love were gay. “Hash males are not known for their looks and with these two off the market, well, it leaves us with only Eat My Pussy to dream about,” they were rumored to have said.

I really can’t comment on the start of the run since there was an inherent flaw in it. No, it wasn’t poor trail, but rather that it began next to a sports bar during Monday Night Football. Unable to resist the power of John Madden’s ever expanding jowls, Hind Digger, Just Christopher and myself suck-cummed to the first couple series of the game. Note: we drank for this later on.

Consequently, Captain Organ had to fill me in on this part of the trail.

So, apparently, there was a gate and an evil Gate Keeper somewhere within the golf course. A group of hashers, following the multi-directional, Westward-Ho, passed through it unobtrusively, making sure to step in the freshly poured cement. However, the evil Gate Keeper, bearing an uncanny resemblance to Pesto Chicken, caught on and shut the gate before all were able to pass through.

“¿What is your name?,” he asked those hashers who remained.

Crabs, speaking for the group answered, “ The San Francisco Hash House Harriers.”

“¿What is your quest?,” replied the gate keeper.

“We seek the keg of beer,” the hashers shouted in unison.

“A focused group you are, but for me to open this gate, you must answer this riddle. ¿What the more you take, the more you leave behind?”

“Why that’s easy,” Pubic Perm chuckled while eyeing the freshly poured cement on the other side of the gate. “It’s footsteps; I wrote my Senior Thesis on the semiotic theory behind such conundrums. Open the gate, you Caddyshack wannabee!”

“Nooooooooooooooo, no, no, young Danny Noonan, the correct response is…… Cheetos. You keep grabbing them out of the bag, they just get all over your face and on the ground and then people look at you funny the rest of the night. Sorry, you must return the way you came.”

With the hashers returning past the Boathouse, I, now, joined the group. Confused and needing a fearless leader to follow, Wankee-Doodle stepped up and announced that we all must follow the trail backwards as the clever Hares have created the ultimate “Rear-Entry Run.”

As we circled behind Lake Merced backwards, Cums Quickly and Butt Nose realized a terrible misfortune had occurred: we had hit the “Beer Near” sign only 10 minutes into the run. Another 200 yards confirmed that the Hares were mounting a serious challenge to the infamous Muff Daddy .69 mile record because there was the beer… Scrotisserie was happy to kick back and call it a day, still claiming he’s recuperating from his “Sahara Desert Challenge/Escape from the al Qaida boot camp” run last year and was quickly joined by Mind the Gap in popping a lid. The rest of the group wouldn’t stand or sit for this so the Hares quickly initiated a moveable beer check, with the Hares taking the keg on the road, stopping whenever they saw a thirsty group of hashers. It should be noted that several hashers including Broken Trojan and Pencil Dick refused to stop at these checks, claiming they wanted a “serious run and besides, they only drink light beer now anyway.”

Despite the chaos along the route, everyone made it back to the down-downs where the right Rev. Itchy presided over the now subdued hashers. With great reverence, the Rev. brought forth a new accessory, picked out by Pocahumpus and Captain Organ--- the Fist of Steel. Perched on a long staff and rumored to have been a design from the unfortunately scrapped Gap fetish line, the Fist brought forth down-down after down-down such that even Xena the Warrior Princess was held remarkably in check by its power. Yeast Infection was the first recipient for his pathetic pick-up line on the newbie Gap girls brought by Pocahumpus. Allegedly, Wankee Doodle then tried his, “I turn 39 tomorrow line” which was received even more poorly. In a crazy coincidence which Agent Mulder and Scully are still investigating, On All Fours and Hangs Loose both reached the half-century mark on the same day. Imagine that….. the report is that they were separated at birth, further confirmed by Cuming Mutha then kissing both of them as he showed off his new haircut. Visitors included Hangs Loose (on his birthday pilgrimage), Pushy Bitch and Xena, who was given a Monday night furlough.

So when all was said and done, we all left content, full, a little wobbly, with only spilled Cheetos (thanks to Motormount’s, Son of Spam) marking the night’s festivities.

These are the events of the SFH3 run #999 as I interpret them (with memory assistance from Sniff My Box). If anyone tells you any differently, it’s probably the truth.

-Poops in the Pool