Information about this, and other fine Metro area hashes, can be found on 212-HASH-NYC as well as http://www.hashhouseharriers.com
JM / RA: Mike Hoffman
JM / Hash Cash: Chris Troise
On-Sex: Punk Ass Bitch
HareRaisers: Kerry McVeigh, Scot Gleason
Choir/BeerMeister: Fluffy
TrailMaster: Back Seat Box
Sergeant At Arms: Crazy Bob
Oh the weather outside was frightful
But the run was so delightful
Tits that could cut glass
But what a blast what a blast what a blast!!!!!!
A hearty chilly bunch met underneath the frozen cajones of General Sherman’s horse across the Plaza hotel. Who was there? You couldn’t tell underneath the 50 layers of wicky wear, hats and jackets. Pat negotiated a three minute warning for us to disrobe. At precisely 7:33pm, the hares called us together. It wasn’t difficult because we were already a huddled mass. That reminds me of a poem: Ahem!………..
Emma Lazarus’s ‘The New Colossus’
“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries
she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed, to me;
I lift my lamp beside the golden door.”
Mickey’s Ode to ‘oryctolagus cuniculus’
Keep, languid lads, your storied pomp!’ cries she
With chalked hips and lipsticked lips.
“Give me your hearty, your hale,
Your huddled hashers yearning to run free,
The wretched refuse of your working detail.
Send these, the drinkers, liqueur-lost, to me;
I lay my flour* besides the now^-golden trail.”
*birdseed, chalk, whatever
^thanks to the hash men, um, boys
The second annual Flashlight Hash commenced….downtown? It wasn’t a very sly trick as we just circled FAO Schwartz and headed back to the park. The trail led down into the subway but I hear tell only Devo was hasherly enough to do it. Into the park and it was a beautiful sight as the pack spread out, crunching the snow. My nose was by now a frozen block. Confirming its existence only by repeatedly smushing it, I tried to warm it up with my gloves. The nastiest check came bright and early on the run, near Tavern on the Green and CPW, right after one complained to the hare about how easy the trail was to shortcut. Here is where a tale of two trails begins. It was the best of times, it was the worst of checks…………..
I went off checking (yes, me!) with Slow to Blow down CPW. After debating whether we shouldn’t just run north until the trail exited the park (“but this is a flashlight hash, what’s the point of running it if we’re not going to run in the park?”), we split and I went back into the park. The spirit of the run grabbed me and when I regained control of my senses, realized I had lost the whole pack. Luckily when I returned, Tricia, Slow to Blow, Steven, Danny and Crazy Bob where wanking around. Miraculously, back at the check, there was a pack mark (Steven, averring no pack mark was there, moved his feet and voila! A pack mark) and we were on on. Hearing not a hide, hare nor peep of the main pack, we on oned through. The moon, coincidentally almost a full moon, now how did that happen? was beautiful up there in the night sky, providing a lovely beacon.
Not hearing hide, hare nor peep of the alleged SWEEPER either, we on on’ed through. Perhaps someone should define sweeper to Met Pipen/Bloody Bush. A sweeper is someone who sweeps up the remains, pushing them forward. He is not a leisurely jogger, periodically checking the progress of the hash…..and losing 6 hashers. JM Hoffman may have described it best, the ‘sweeper’ Bloody Bush was a trail fairy, intermittently appearing along the trail, as if by magic, checking on the herds headway. The hare prefers to be thought of as a ‘brooding omnipresence.’ I prefer to call him a ‘bitching unpresence.’
Anyway, the trail was difficult to follow but our little pack of wolves managed to follow it through. It was Slow to Blow who, tasting each potential splat on a tree (tree sample?), would confirm with a zealous ONON that it was indeed flour. At one point the trail seemed to end until we remembered that birdseed was announced as ersatz flour, and we onon’ed whenever we came upon the hare’s spilling of seed upon the ground (that was soo easy). Running down a snowy embankment, the zephyrous spirit of hash billowed our cold tired souls and we all erupted in howls. Onwl! Onwl! with chalk, flour and birdseed. ‘But birdseed looks like dirt in the dark,’ one complained. ‘Did you notice we called it the flashlight hash?’ the hare riposted, barely suppressing an appropriate ‘idiot’ under his beer basted breathe.
Finally we made it on in to the Gin Mill. Having sweat through 4 layers, my first priority was to de-clothe, water be damned! Seeing all the hashers on beer already, I guessed we were not right behind the main pack. Turned out we were about a good half an hour after them.
Greasy Grub soon slithered out and was soon gone, fried food slicked down our numb throats. The beer was sporadic in coming, Bud being the first round, Seranac credited with the save. Circle was called and the hares, Met Pipen, Eliot, Doug and Lipstick Lesley were thanked for a remarkably resplendent trail. Two hashers, a ruskie and Slow To Blow were downed for thinking the lake was a veritable lea. Virgins blessed as well. Asshole of the hash was given to Junior (queen of the pussy hash doppleganger) for holding his ball and then giving it away. Yellow snow downdown should have been given to Fluffy but the JM’s demurred, noting that one of them was guilty of the same offense. Micturating miscreants….
It was nice to experience more than two songs at a hash in NYC, but where does this reputation for song with the G2FMH3 come from? I am still looking. Lesley collected the cash and kissed us all upon payment. A fousball table was sighted and quickly taken advantage of. One note from John and I to the guy who thinks he is really good….it is a GAME! Pool was played, and a game of asshole was dealt out (that is what happens whenever you have a punk ass bitch show up to your on-in). From here the night became marinated with beer and soon hashers were pairing up and leaving (You know who I am talking about). Although only my second Full Moon, it was the best run I have done in NYC and I want to thank the rest of my little wolf pack for making it all the more fun. ON ON!
Oh yeah! If anyone finds a QH3 headband, I lost one and would greatly appreciate being reunited with it (because it feels so good).
The Full Moon Hash Hymnal
Consider Yourself
Consider yourself, On-In
Consider yourself, One of the Harriers
We’ve taken to you
So strong
Its true, we’re, going to get along.
Drink it down down …
Here’s to Brother Hasher
(Sung to the tune of "My left testicle is killing me")
Here’s to brother hasher, brother hasher, brother
hasher
Here’s to brother hasher may he chug-a-lug.
He’s happy, he’s jolly,
He’s fucked up by golly
So here’s to brother hasher may he chug-a-lug
Drink it down down …
Shitty Trail
. . .(Sung to the tune of "Mickey Mouse")
S-H-I, T-T-Y, T-R-A-I-L
Shitty trail, (Shitty trail!)
Shitty trail, (Shitty trail!)
The mother fucker gave us shitty trail!
I would rather drink some beer, Than hash your
shitty trail,
S-H-I, T-T-Y, T-R-A-I-L
Drink it down down …
Horse’s Ass
Joooooe Blow,
Joooooe Blow,
Joooooe Blow is a Horse’s Ass
He’s the meanest,
Sucks the biggest penis
Joooooe Blow is a Horse’s Ass
[optional 2nd refrain]
Ever since he found it,
All he does is pound it,
Joooooe Blow is a Horse's Ass
Drink it down down …
What A Wank
(Sung to William Tell Overture)
What a wank, what a wank, what a wank, wank,
wank,
What a wank, what a wank, what a wank, wank,
wank,
What a wank, what a wank, what a wank, wank,
wank,
What a wank, what a wank, wank, wank.
Drink it down down …
The Beer Prayer
Our lager, Which art in barrels,
Hallowed be thy drink.
Thy will be drunk (I will be drunk),
At home as it is in the tavern.
Give us this day our foamy head,
And forgive us our spillages,
As we forgive those who spill against us.
And lead us not to incarceration,
But deliver us from hangovers.
For thine is the porter, the stout,
And the pilsner, For ever and ever. Barman!
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