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If a turtle doesn't have a shell, is he homeless or naked?
"Cool hash page"
December 2002

Hash 78 - BASH - Rotterdam, NY

When: August 7, 2004
Where: East Greenbush
Hare: F’ing Francis
Scribe: McCavity

Hounds: Dirtbag, THFKAD, McCavity, Pontius Penis, One Drunk Watching, Nice Snatch, Bodsa, Spermbank, Poptop, No name Phil, No name Warren, No name Willy, and accompanying autohasher Touch Down Jesus.

With the Halve Mein hash having enjoyed a summer of unbridled debauchery, Run 78 had to be conducted with mechanical enhancement. Yes, it was time for the 3rd occasional bike hash (BASH). The crew assembled at the Rotterdam square mall with an assortment of road and mountain machines, THFKAD looking particularly uncomfortable trying to keep his feet on tiny clip in pedals. With normal shoes. The regulars were joined by several friends of the hare, No name Phil, no-name Warren and coming for the 2nd time, no name Willy.

After the traditional delay waiting for McCavity and Bodsa to get their sorry late asses to the start our hare could depart, hash aerobics could take place and the pack could be off. Once One Drunk had ascertained that trail did not head down a hole in the ground. The real trail was soon found heading up a steep stony path where sensible people got off and pushed their bike while no-name Phil had to show off and duly had the first hash crash of the day.

The pack was first f***ed good and proper when trail disappeared near a road junction, only to re-appear a few yards down the road with flour on both sides of the road. Every possible route was scouted until McCavity remembered Dirtbag mentioning a turn we had missed, and sure enough trail continued down what remains of old Mariaville road. The hare later denied laying the orphan flour on the road, it turned out to be ash from police warning flares. Goddamn police, don’t they know there are hashers about.

This would not be the last time hashers on bikes were heading in all different directions with no true trail being found. Was it the useless hare? Was it the useless hounds? You decide. I say a combination of the two. After sticking to roads for a while trail cut through an apartment complex where the options were a long shiggy back check or what was “obviously” the true trail, into a series of dirt bike tracks. Trail led in… but did not lead out. Hashers headed up hills, over fences, across fields, through mud (OK some of them were looking to relieve their bladders but mostly they were scouting trail) and still nothing. Finally the dreaded technology was employed to call the hare and ascertain that there was beer under a bush where the pack had first entered the track area. Abuse was sent in the hare’s general direction, but the pack’s mood was improved with copious beer and the happy band were invigorated to remount their mechanical devices.

After more mostly on road biking the trail found its way in the finest direction a hash trail can, to a bar. And not just any bar. A bar with inflatable animals! A bar with inflatable male anatomy!! Needless to say this entertained the half minds of the hashers for many a long minute until their short attention spans returned to beer.

With the beer checks accounted for and trail heading generally back to the Mall the FRB’s sprinted off down a hill and back to the cars. Unfortunately trail was heading back to Lock 9 on the Mohawk so our overachievers went into Lance Armstrong-drive and made it to the finish before the rest of the pack. Who had been dumb enough to wait for the DLTLBFRB’s (dumb lost trail losing bastard front running bikers).

Circle was conducted at Lock 9 with down-downs awarded to: the hare, FRB McCavity, DAL Poptop, our virgins, Dirtbag for getting to 75 runs and Touch Down Jesus for autohashing. Nice Snatch was officially named with copious flour while to no-one’s surprise the Hashit was old favorite Dirtbag. Not just for being gropatious, not just for FRBing in the wrong direction, not just “because”. No, he was accorded the honor for wearing an outfit reminiscent of something a wrestler would have worn in the 1930’s. And now seen most commonly in male bondage clubs (I’m not sure who researched that last point…). Singing included the old favorites (Days of the Week, Swing Low) before a number of the hashers felt compelled to remove the accumulated mud, flour and beer (and add a layer of sewage and PCB’s) by leaping in the Mohawk.

A short bike ride brought us back to the cars and with the “athletic” part of the day done we took off for Francis’ palatial riverfront residence for a fine party, partly conducted in the garage due to a torrential summer downpour. There was beer. There was swimming. There was more beer. There was keg stands. And there was a drunken boat ride, complete with keg of beer and two fine examples of the drunk fraternity in McCavity and Spermbank. The great thing about late night boating in this area is that you can navigate by the eerie glow of the river, and those who have spent to long swimming in it. Thank you GE.

Accolades to Francis for the umpteenth fine aprčs-hash of the summer. The hash overachieves once again in the party stakes. However our host would like to know who managed the “summer downpour” in his son’s bed. Recycling is good, but recycling your beer in the bedclothes is not. The truth is out there...


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