January 22, 1999

The run began 3:30ish on a Sunday like any other, unseasonably pleasant for January -- even in Houston. Some of the pack was in the designated parking lot, while several of us (Roller Balls and myself) held out for our chosen start at the end of the road near the bayou. We watched while the hares sent the pack off and they headed toward us; we decided it would be unhashlike to start before they reached us, even though we spied a check under Geek’s car. The surrounding terrain and bayou sucked us into a false trail right away, (Roller and Dickhead continued East anyway), while true trail crossed Hwy 6 beneath the bridge.

We found ourselves in the midst of a curious bunch: a large group of gentlemen from a small gene pool, riding large, overpowered tricycles. It was a bit frightening; I found it difficult to wander very far from the pack to help solve a real stumper of a backcheck. Someone finally braved the "field of bloody ankles" and we were on-on for 15 minutes through the stickery dewberry bushes. I dubbed the plants "evil" as they clung to my thighs like a whiny toddler, and RoadKill commented "but they make nice jam." I will forever recall that statement as the first clever thing I’ve heard him say.

Even the shiggy hounds (Jackson & Willie in particular) were relieved to reach the water check in the neighborhood. As Sticky Lips and I hashed down the concrete trail, I wondered if the brisk wind would cauterize my bleeding wounds. We reached another check at a dead end street, next to some tempting woods. We went in and found both falses that those rascally hares left for us. Once again, the check brought the pack together, and after a blow job/circle jerk combo, we headed down the banks of the bayou over a semi-muddy field towards yet another street.

It was a 2 for 1 on blow jobs in West Houston that day and the hounds we re dripping with it: As we scratched our heads in the shadow of the mosque, we were pleased to follow the sound of a whistle. Only then did we realize that Beer Can Bob was calling trail off of some white trash, (no pun originally intended) stuck to some weeds. Geez, somebody give him another beer!

Well, finally McPisser found trail, or atleast the guys following him did.

The part I remember best is the next section of trail, where I was on the right side of the bayou after the last check. Dumpster Digger and I found flour straight ahead, and we saw Jailbate ahead of us, not calling trail! After verbally abusing Jailbate, I headed down an attractive path that led into the woods. Not only was there flour, it was "Beer Near"! Just as I called it, a sweet little hare dashed across the path in front of me. I looked up just in time for me to see the toilet paper finishing chute and the hares, greeting us with a yummy Eskimo Pie. Awesome effort guys!

As it turns out, January 22 was the 77^th anniversary of the confection. The On-home was a pristine sylvan gathering spot; Testicles dubbed it "perfect for a topless Celtic dance celebration". We said, uh, "OK." He had burdened a tree by posting their rough drafts and a final map of the trail onto it. The document appeared to be a masterpiece to a fellow control-monger: mock ups of trail, complete with distances, number of markings, percentages (I was told there would be no math) of checks with multiple markings, etc. I can’t wait to see if he {TFTM -- your trail too, but I can’t believe it was your idea} does this on his first live hare.

Roller Balls led our circle of 63 rowdy hashers, as Boy George’s whereabouts were unknown or atleast as yet undisclosed. The accused were many, but none too memorable. (I was too busy socializing with my hash friends.)

The on-on-on had beer, French fries, pool tables and general hash gossip. Soon the hares needed to leave to check on their brood, and the night was declared over. I can’t wait for the campout!

On On,

Gaslight