I am too lazy to update the web side but back end is up to date.
| Hash Details | |
|---|---|
| Hash Number: | 573 |
| What: | Hockessin Hash #573 - Great Balls of Ire / Close to the Border / Back to School / Mourning the End of Summer / Welcoming Autumn Hash |
| When: | Aug. 31, 2005 |
| Where: | 449 Wilmington-West Chester Pike, Glen Mills, PA |
| Hares: | Bitchard Thunder Thighs | Message |
| What: Hockessin Hash #573 - Great Balls of Ire / Close to the Border / Back to School / Mourning the End of Summer / Welcoming Autumn Hash Wear: Golfing Togs, Poncho, Loafers and Knee Socks, Bathing Costume, Corduroy Blazer, OR WHATEVER ! Where: Spring Lake Recreation Center, 449 Wilmington-West Chester Pike (a.k.a. Route 202), just over the DE/PA border, just 10 minutes north of I95 and Wilmington or 25 minutes south of Philly! When: Wednesday, August 31, 2005 at 6:30pm. REMEMBER...it's getting dark earlier, so be there or get lost in the woods! (It helps to carry a small flashlight) Who: Thunder Thighs, Bitchard D'erections : This is an A to B hash (so...you might want to consider bringing a dry bag), starting from the parking lot at the Spring Lake Recreation Center. You may know this as the Pitch & Putt on Route 202, just 2.3 miles north of Naamans Road on the right, or 1.4 miles south of Route 1 on the left. It's virgin territory - well most of it, plus virgin Après with Yuengling, Smithwick and others on tap. | Hashers |
| Hash Trash | |
| Take 202 north for about two miles & hang a right. August 31, 2005 *** Hash #573 Hockessin Hash House Harriers One of the small and dear treasures sometimes observed on the Hash Trail is the look of stark terror smeared on the face of a Veteran Hare as he sees his carefully laid trail go to shit. One such treasure presented itself tonight in the visage of Bitchard, the little bitch Hare, shepherding the full Pack o’ Hounds, deeply lost on a trail he set two hours ago, choking down his rising panic. B-Hard has gotta lotta ‘splaining to do – his audience tonight, a grumpy assemblege of 32 Hashers, hands on their hips pacing and pawing the ground. The hash was 50 minutes old and the Pack was most definitely not on the move. Die Hunde shadenfruende l’obscurite. The dogs fear the dark. Bitchard seemed to become preternaturally still and then focus deeply, searching for the Lost One True Trail, taking a 270 degree survey (in 27 and 54 degree slices) of the foreign fields afront him, having already intuitively eliminating from his search the quadrant whose wedge could be geometrically described as congruent to and up the ass of the zoned-in Hare. A patrol of four or five Hashers, evidently Special Forces Delta Dogs, full of courage and fueled by the fear of the darkening Hashscape, struck off silently on a Long Range Patrol. The murmurs from the mutinous Hounds grew to mutterings which then blossomed into a full-throated roar “Where the f☺ck are we?”* The little Bitch Hare froze, then raised his nose to the wind. His nostrils flared. A vein in his neck throbbed and I thought I saw a gear in his temple turn. A sudden movement and now he is off on an uphill trot. The cow-like herd of bewildered Hounds watched as Bitchard, their Papa-for-the-Night, climbed the hill to the southeast and rendezvoused with the vanguard LURPS patrol. The Hare and his few proud brave bitches grew smaller and faded finally into the dusky horizon. The stamping, stiff legged Packus Majora was left alone in the dark on some forgotten piece of Back Forty bottomland. It was quiet. Quiet. “On-On” was the distant cry from out of the dark atop the hill. Twenty-five pairs of Hounds ears flicked forward. The Hashers needed no further enticement to trail, and took off en masse, their supreme relief a kind of ecstatic epiphany -- “♫…was lost, but now I’m found. ♪” Some Hares pride themselves in finding a quiet trail where the pleasant chirps and buzzes of summer insects accompany the soft rhythmic sounds of a Hasher Conga line sweetly padding On-In. Our Lost Hares chose instead the tactile/auditory sensation which can be experienced only by running along Rt. 202 in the dark with rush hour-construction traffic screaming every which way. * Phrase not actually heard on the trail. Expletive used solely for dramatic purposes. And to further confuse matters, back at Beer Stop #2, I’m pretty sure someone dropped some beer in our acid. The Rt. 202 experience:ARE YOU EXPERIENCED ? The headlights - so many headlights. Swoosh! Three semis blow by. Air pressure change! WHUMP, WHUMP, WHUMP. Screaming motorcycles two across go whiz. Crazy Doppler wailing in my ears, in my head, blasting against my thorax. Cars keep coming. Carrs keeep commming. Crrskppcmmmggg. POT HOLE!! Blinded by the light. So many lights. Looking for a break in the traffic. Look out for the guardrail! The shiny, curvy guardrail. Gotta cross now. CROSS NOW. CROSS NOW. CROSS NOW… now! Move! Don’t git kilt. Safe, for now, but still only in the grass medium. Narrow, narrow, narrow, narrow, narrow grass medium. Be cool. Take a deep breath. You’re with friends. It’s all cool. Get a grip. You’re safe, all is good. Consecutive Winebaggos compress concussive air waves that slap us in the face and knock us in our rear ends. WHOOOMP! WH-WHOMP! Coming down now, but… …up ahead, swimming in the rising fog is the welcoming green glow of a roadhouse. Home! At least our Happy Hash Home for a coupla hours. Just three more traffic-befouled northbound lanes stand between the dry-mouthed Pack and cool, clear drink. In the middle of Rt. 202 I assume the Crane Pose. I close my eyes and feel the wind and hear the cars and smell the exhaust and calculate the Doppler and open one eye and take one peek and close that eye and spring from the Crane and walk across 202 into McCoy’s Tavern. The Hash Circle materialized, and while it is very important to note that the Hares were uniformly chastised, and it is equally important to note that Hashi Interrupti were respectfully honored, it is most important to memorialize that on this night, regular visitor Penis Coladus paid respect to his Home Hash Kennel now embroiled in all the sadness of New Orleans, by dropping trousers and hanging his head for a moment of silence. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * EPILOGUE For once doubting Bitchard’s ability to safely bring home the Hash Herd, I offer my sincere apologies and all props and cred to the Bitch Hare. Bitch Hare Bitchard’s bitch Thunder Thighs, however, did not shine bright at her moment of trial, making plain and clear to all that she had laid not a single stretch of the trail, and as such she was useless in shepherding the Lost Herd in their time of greatest need. But God loves all Hashers and her redemption was swift, for while suffering in the Hash may be intense, it is blessedly brief. Her redemptive release from sin was primarily ethereal and kharmic, but a fair size portion was manifest corporeally later that same night by her gentle-rough nibbling, with much feeling and robustery, of your humble scribe’s earlobes. It left me Breathless and in need of a cigarette. Bunion Butt September 2005 | |
| Files: | |
| Hash spring lake.doc | |