I am too lazy to update the web side but back end is up to date.
| Hash Details | |
|---|---|
| Hash Number: | 571 |
| What: | Hockessin Hash #571 |
| When: | Aug. 17, 2005 |
| Where: | Woodlawn Wildlife Preserve |
| Hares: | Bunion Butt Lost Boy | Message |
| What: Hockessin Hash #571 When: Wednesday August 17, 2005 @ 6:30pm Where: Woodlawn Wildlife Preserve Who: Lost Boy and Bunion Butt D'erections: From I-95 take Rt 202 (Concord Pike) exit north for a few miles until you get to the Rt. 92 (Naamans Road) Intersection. Turn left at the light onto Rt. 92 (Beaver Valley Road). Stay on Beaver Valley Road for two miles (the road will turn into Beaver Dam Road) until you come to a stop sign when the road Tee's onto Creek Road. Turn left onto Creek Road and then immediately turn right into the Woodlawn Wildlife Preserve Parking lot. Park and Hash. No special instructions other than you should come prepared for an austere apres. | Hashers |
| Hash Trash | |
| A Hash in the Bad Part of Town August 17, 2005 - Hash #571 Hockessin Hash House Harriers BEAVER VALLEY, DE. AUG. 17, 2005 - Bunion Butt and Lost Boy were in the Woodlawn Wildlife Preserve parking lot planning the Hash trail when a robber rolled quietly up in his red Chevy sedan, quick-grabbed Lost Boy’s bag, and peeled out of the gravel parking lot. The bag contained a cell phone, the car keys and 4.5 kilos of Enriched White Flour. After a car chase and some police intervention, the two later hosted the evening’s Hash which featured a fine wooded trail, cold beer and passable pizza. The police report listed the flour as the primary loss. Margaret Meade is an anthropologist and a pretty keen observer of primate and canine behavior. She was already well hidden in her camouflaged observation post built in the crotch of an American Elm tree overlooking the Woodlawn Wildlife Preserve when the early harbingers of the Hash began to arrive. Dr. Meade began to record her observations: 6:05 pm - The first arriving harbingers are those whose day jobs seem to permit them greater free-ranging territory and more time for hunting and gathering beer. 6:12 pm - Close on their heels we now see the arrival of another Breed – the Captains of Industry types. Included among them are the IT Computer Specialists type who appear to arrive dressed for the Hash trail. 6:18 pm - The Construction Manager type screeched to a halt and finishes kicking off his last work boot. A necktie hangs from his rear view mirror. 6:19 pm - A couple of A-Hole engineer types come in all out of breath and closing up their phones. They’ve just had a very important day! 6:24 – 6:41 pm - They are now showing up in abrupt bursts of twos and threes, sort of how the Corpuscles arrived in the left ventricle in the Hemo the Magnificent filmstrip. Out of their cars they climb and toward the growing circle they migrate. Abundant and hearty hugs signal the communal trans-dermal sharing of the Hash Vibe. I believe that if the Hashers’ veneer of civilization was but a mil or two thinner, we’d see Hashers licking one another just for the sodium and to say “Howdy!” 6:41 – 6:45 pm - At some point along the short walk from auto to magic circle, the day workers begin to change/morph into something “other”, something resembling a pack. As surely as when Dr. Pepper unwillingly morphed werewolfian, or when Burt Lancaster stepped across the first base foul line to become a ball player, the working drones leave their individual daily grind back in their fart-infused autos and join the social animal which is becoming the Slobbering Pack. For some Worker Drone/Hashers, the transmogrification is well underway before they leave their vehicles. Witness those who climb out of the car with hands full of bags and a doggy leash clenched between teeth, giving the undeniable impression that they are taking True Canine Sustenance into their bodies sublingually via webbed canvas conduit. (Here we shall leave Dr. Meade’s field book and allow Pope Cletus to continue the narrative.) The Laborer-to-Pack transformation is now nearing completion as the Hashers stamp their paws and pace in tight circles around Lost Boy as he tries to issue trail instructions over the growls of the Snarling Pack. Only “nearing completion” because there were New Boots here tonight, and you know how they can be. Three virginal cherries crawled out of the background and into the glare of the Central Circle. Virgin Jeff came with Up the Rear. This fact hints at a nice wholesome erotic image which may prove useful later. Virgin Phil, a transplant most recently from Florida, came with Bunion Butt. “Ha-ha! Good one. Hadn’t heard that one before.” says I. Virgin John, resting alone in his car: As the Pack gathered he made inquiries as to what was going on, got very excited about joining tonight’s Hash and came all by himself. A good looking Trio-O-Cherries, but cherries nonetheless, each at times flashing looks of apprehension and wonder as they absorbed the scene swirling around them and slowly begin to grasp the commonalities between themselves and this near-canine social system into which they have found themselves. Until these Cherries have been through the painful grind of breaking their Hash Hymens, their entry into the Pack will feel incomplete. But once that cherry is busted, a full fledged part of the Pack he is – Le Chien Aime Blut, “The Dog Loves Blood”. So On-Trail we went. A blind man might later have said that the first part of this trail sounded like 70 sneaker shoes slapped rhythmically against asphalt. No, wait… that’s exactly as it was since the Hares took us out immediately on a 440 yard road sprint. Turning suddenly westward ho and across the Mighty Brandywine, we left the hustle-bustle world of blacktop behind and entered both the Covered Smith Bridge (constructed way back in the early years of the millenium, AD 2002 by the plaque on the bridge) and a simpler time. From your Hash Flash’s point of view through a 210mm mid-length lens, the Pack, crossing Smith Bridge and coming out of its dark interior into the molten gold of the low western sun, made visual allusion to the climactic scene of the 1985 film Witness, when all those banjo-eyed Amishmen came o’er the hill a’helping. Looked exactly like that scene except for the black clothes and bare midriffs and spandex shorts and straw hats. A half remembered Amish Joke. Can’t recall the setup, but the punch line is “…so Isaac says, “Run the Hashers over the bridge and find the trail!” The Pack emptied out from the Covered Bridge and immediately entered upon (as the official recorded land deed intones) “… the lands now or formerly of Eleuthere Irenee duPont.” The Grenogue family home perched impassively atop Mt. Gunpowder, and took no notice of the ant-like Hashers passing to the east. It was very gracious of the current Ms. duPont to forgo posting her estate boundaries, thus granting implicit approval of our entry. In place of tacky NO TRESSPASSING signs, the lady of this manor had planted her perimeter acreage with ragged, pointy, stinging nettles. The wise Hashers of the H4, with precise and unerring geometric logic, continued to thrash directly through the heart of the nettles in a perfect Point A to Point B straight line. Goddamn, those things sting! There was then a most welcome Brandywine River crossing (current water level somewhere between balls and ovaries deep), where the Hounds found relief by splashing and rubbing their legs. “Hey, keep your hands off my thighs!” was a common Harriet cry. The relief was brief, as the trail next called for a steady climb up the headwall of a pathless, shiggy covered hill. More blood was spilled. The Pack strung itself out and pattered through woods, streams and open fields, eventually sprinting hellbent downhill to the Beer Stop, where the beer was actually just starting. The remaining trail consisted of some well manicured wood chipped trail, a narrow, bare dirt tunnel cut through the woods, an ankle deep stream crossing, then finally a weary march through wooded upland understory growth and a steep drop down a hillside and On-In to our point of origin. Cribsnatcher, acting with the full blessing en absentia of the Right Rev. Butthead, conducted the Holy Hash Circle. Yummy, quenching Down-downs were granted to favored Hounds. The Hares were blessed with multiple D-downs, and the No Longer Cherries (NLC’s) were welcomed into the Pack with suds and song. (I think it rude that the Pack would assume after only just meeting the NLC’s that “♫… They’re the meanest…♫” and the allegation about them and the Horse’s Penis was absolutely without merit.) Postscript: There was a moment of unselfish heroism displayed on the trail that night. When our Horny Hash Hornblower Tinsel T*ts stumbled and pitched forward ass-over-teakettle – HORRORS! The Hash Horn hit the ground! To the rescue was Thunder Thighs who, like Johnny Yuma retrieving the fallen Stars and Bars from the hot, dead grasp of Audie Murphy, scoops up the Holiest Horn, caresses the tip with her lips and blows her way On-In. Postscript: Notorious hydro-phobe Woody carried himself like a gentleman and with great dignity passing through the Brandywine Creek neither whining nor bitching. It was a pleasure to behold. Bunion Butt, August 2005 | |
| Files: | |
| Woodlawn Park Hash Trash.doc | |