Once upon a time there was a hasher named Peter, who lived in a land far, far away across the East River. One day, he decided to bestow his self-proclaimed trail-blazing talents on the kind folk in the land of Brooklyn, known for its festivals of running and drink. Alas, he had not prepared himself for the responsibility of setting a trail for this tight-knit band of hashers who have traveled over the many roads of western Brooklyn and sampled the ales in most of the taverns along the way. To guide him, Peter had only a map and his own memories of many a trail of yesterhash.
It was a cold night, and the hashers gathered in an underground tunnel near the start. Escaping the crowds of the underground commuter people who dwell there, they re-emerged at the surface and set off on the white-flour trail. They went downtown, up the heights, strolled around and then on the promenade, crossed the mighty Atlantic, and were subpoenaed to court (street). Were we being led to the beer den of Sparky? wondered the horde. They had no choice but to follow the marks set out for them. There were several challenges on their journey, as Peter occasionally left them at crossroads with only their legs and their wits to carry them to the next mark. Happily, a few hashers summoned unusually powerful wits and led them on their way. Lo, they ran not toward Sparky's but toward Flatbush, pausing above both the departure and terminal stations of the unfinished transcontinental Atlantic-Pacific underground railroad. From there it was just a short pedestrian transfer to the welcoming house of Mooney.
All arrived in a sudden whiff of sweat, save one lone hasher who, against all warnings, had wandered off trail. What the hell happened to Ewa? wondered all. Hmm, thought Peter, perhaps I shall now send a message to Hotline, the oracle on whom she might call to learn the true way. But then, who did crash through the door but fair Ewa, complaining neither of the horrors of the trail nor of the perplexing Hotline, but of the distasteful beer yet to be drunk. Although the elders tell of how she had once refused to hold her cup before any beer, she now avowed allegiance solely to Saranac. She claimed she would only be able to find fulfillment at the temple of Sparky. Let that be a lesson to future pilgrims. As for the others, they supped from their mugs of contentment and urged Ewa to follow suit -- not wishing to convert her, just hoping she'd cease her protestations.
It was told that our hero, Peter, had been setting the trail aimlessly until he was mysteriously drawn to this most stalwart of standby taverns. Though initially unaware of his fortuitous choice, he quickly learned that neither reservations nor explanations of the unique behavior of hashfolk were needed for this barkeep. All assembled feasted on the local delicacy of cheese and tomato pie. After bestowing proper gifts upon the host, Peter humbly offered a large sum either as coinage or beverage to the safekeeping of the native hash. Whereupon the Venerable Fluffy stepped forward and demanded a fresh jug of beer, despite the fact that his drinking companions were retiring for the evening. This was the latest example of his lordship stealing from both rich and poor to fill his own cup. A couple of hashers, acting only from blind loyalty to their leader, were persuaded to join him in his gluttony.
Peter, disregarding the near loss of one of the hashers, proclaimed the hash the best ever, and before leaving for his journey home, sang this merry song:
(In Old Brooklyn English)
'Twas the night before Christmas,
Da whole house was mella,
Not a creature was stirrin',
Cuz I had a gun unda da pilla.
When up on da roof
I heard somethin' pound,
I sprung to da window,
To scream, "Yo! Keep it down!"
When what to my
Wanderin' eyes should appear,
But da Don of all elfs,
And eight friggin' reindeer!
Wit' slicked back black hair,
And a silk red suit,
Don Christopher wuz here,
And he brought da loot!
Wit' a slap to dare snouts,
And a yank on dare manes,
He cursed and he shouted,
And he called dem by name.
"Yo Tony, Yo Frankie,
Yo Vinny, Yo Vito,
Ay Joey, Ay Paulie,
Ay Pepe, Ay Guido!"
As I drew out my gun
And hid by da bed,
He flew troo da winda
And slapped me 'side da head.
"What da hell you doin'
Pullin' a gun on da Don?
Now all you're getting' is coal,
You friggin' moron!"
Den pointin' a fat finga
Right unda my nose,
He twisted his pinky ring,
And up da chimney he rose.
He sprang to his sleigh,
Obscenities screamin',
Away dey all flew,
Before he troo dem a beatin'.
Den I heard him yell out,
What I did least expect,
"Merry Friggin' Christmas to all
And yous better show some respect!"1
1 This folk song comes from the email tradition of the late 20th century. Variations have been attributed to various ethnic groups, most frequently to the Italians, with the title "Christmas Italian Style". Although Italians have been a prominent group in Brooklyn for centuries, this attribution highlights the tendencies of many contemporary artists to conflate the linguistic as well as other contributions of Italians, particularly Mafiosi, with those of other Brooklynites.
It should also be noted that this popular song has clear origins in the folk song "'Twas Three Days Past Christmas" written by John Cardinal O'Connor for the Brooklyn Holiday Run of the year 1998.
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