I am too lazy to update the web side but back end is up to date.
| Hash Details | |
|---|---|
| Hash Number: | 588 |
| What: | Hockessin Hash #588 |
| When: | Dec. 10, 2005 |
| Where: | Carpenter Station Road Park & Ride |
| Hares: | Cuntra Just Fucking Take It Lost Boy | Message |
| What: Hockessin Hash #588 When: Saturday, December 10, 2005 Where: Carpenter Station Road Park & Ride Who: Just F***ing Take It and Lost Boy. Why: stick around after the hash for karaoke D'erections: From 95S, - Get off at Naamans Rd (92, exit 11). Make a LEFT to go W on Naamans. - Go about .75 mile. Make a left at Carpenter Station Rd and park at the Park and Ride. Carpenter Station Rd is after an overpass - Park and Hash From 95N Get on the 495 ramp and get off that the first exit, Naamans Rd (92 exit 6). Turn RIGHT to go W on Naamans., see above | Hashers |
| Hash Trash | |
| Napoleon Dynamite: The Cultural Touchstone of a Slack-Jawed Generation December 10, 2005 Hash #588 Hockessin Hash House Harriers HARES Cuntra , Just Fuckin’ Take It, Lost Boy There was snow on the ground and the temperature was below freezing. There were twinkly white lights on the trees and the commercial Christmas whoring was beneath contempt. Still, ‘tis the season to pretend to be jolly, and who am I to argue with Charles Dickens? So I pushed the pause button on my Christmas Excess machine and joined about thirty other like-minded souls to relax a bit with Hashing buddies and, let me admit it right up front, get drunk. As acting, pro-forma, temporary Hash Biermeister, I copped the goods and loaded two coolers and one wooden treasure chest with chilled golden intoxicants. Let’s be thankful that non-prescription opiates are illegal, and further thankful that I obey the law. For in the mood I was in, I would otherwise have shown up with 50 feet of surgical tubing, 30 unwrapped sterile syringes (safety first), and 4 grams of Afghani tar heroin. Instead I brought a coupla cases of Rolling Rock and called it even. These are some of the images and impressions from that afternoon and evening which I choose to remember. The trail seemed to meander back and forth between Delaware and Pennsylvania. There was a covering of crusty 3-day old snow and ice droppings on the ground, making the trail treacherous as only a Delaware (and portions of Pennsylvania) snow can. As we fanned out over the grounds of an apartment complex, our cries of “On-on!”, “Looking!”, “Check.”, “Woof-woof…” and “What the f☺ck?!” brought out apartment denizens, citizen vigilantes who were sure we were either searching for a lost child (where was our Hare Lost Boy?) or tracking down some vicious but misunderstood criminal type. This scrivener is pleased to report that not a single Hasher fell for what just might be the lamest attempt ever to lure the Pack into an underground box culvert. The culvert carrying an unnamed tributary to Naaman’s Creek ran beneath a rail road bed. Try though he did, Lost Boy could not get anyone to enter the slimy tunnel, especially since the Pack was milling atop the rail bed and could clearly see both the tunnel’s ingress and egress points, separated as they were by a mere thirty feet. There’s something WRONG with that Lost Boy thinking seasoned Hashers would fall for such a cheap stunt. An interesting variation on the rail road right-of-way theme: we watched, waited, sniffed and smelled as municipal solid waste boxcar tonnage from The City of Philadelphia clickety-clacked southbound along the rails. Let’s see Arlo Guthrie write a romantic song about that. Him’ll Lay Ya (Please note my acquiescence in acknowledging this aberrant spelling of Mr. Cherim’s Hash Name) was observed at one point to successfully scamper (barely) across eight lanes of I-95 traffic. This cat’s gotta be running out of lives. It was unclear exactly when we were trespassing in Delaware and when we were trespassing in other states. Later review of Global Positioning Satellite photos made it clear, at least, that the Beer Stop was held upon the lands now or formerly within the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. We gathered for our Beer Break at the Lawn Croft Cemetery, where, if we had entered via it’s main gate of twin granite pillars rather than sneaking through the back door as we did, would have surely seen the posted rules stating: No dogs allowed. No running allowed. No loud noises. No alcohol allowed. No cars on the grass. Corpses must be buried @ minimum 6’ depth. Visitors must register at office Grounds close at 4:00 pm I am pleased to announce that the H4 Hounds violated 7 of the 8 prohibitions. Toxic Shock, who sports a size 4 ½ shoe (and a correspondingly shorter length of warming circulatory system within her feet) found herself rubbing her toes over a Hare’s car heating vent in an attempt to regain some feeling after an unadvised shoe soaking in the Naaman’s Creek. The many offers to gently suck her toes back to full feeling were not accepted. The trail On-In was a blur of snowy hill tops, prancing dogs, muddied shoes, filthy staircases and speeding cars. The Holy Hash Circle was conducted in a cold, darkening Park & Ride lot, where Just Wil introduced his gay lover Cherry DeWayne to the assemblage. Later that evening Just Wil introduced his gay wife Just Becky to the Slobbering Pack. Biermeister Cums Early joined us just in time for the Religious Ceremony, and brought with him a nicely stacked chest of what to my hungry eyes appeared to be Mother’s Milk. Or was that Plunge ‘n’ Puke? The Après featured the King and Queen of tavern grub – pizza and spicy chicken wings. Those majestic beasts are breathtaking when seen flying south against the slate sky of mid-December. It seems almost a shame to cut off their wings and eat them. Almost. The youngest Hasher, Little P.J., fruit of Plunge ‘n’ Puke’s loins, already has lost his baby fat and has a handsome face and chiseled body. Papa Cums Early seems to have found the baby fat. Oh, and the overriding theme of the Hash seemed to be that Napoleon Dynamite is an insignificant blip on our cultural radar screen, a meaningless poseur of a “film” puffed up about it’s own importance with an affectation of relevance to today’s Generation ZZ (if that is indeed what we are currently up to on the American List of Generations), a jaundiced snapshot look at people of a certain age in the middle years of the first decade of the 21st Century, which is ultimately insulting to the video game benumbed youth who look for greater meaning than was ever intended in it’s bitter and simplistic message. But that’s just me. My parents probably sneered the same thing about The Graduate back in 1967. Bunion Butt December, 2005 | |
| Files: | |
| Hash_Trash___Napoleon_Dynamite.doc | |