Breastburn’s No Barbecue Hash - July 2, 2000 It being a long weekend there’s wimpy whusses pretending they have better things to do than dragging their buts down the Bruce Trail, including Clot who went to great pains to get out of this one by hiding in the hospital, but a hardy lot otherwise known as socially challenged misfits prevailed, showing up at the appointed hour and waiting in vain for more distinguished members, as all of us have at some time or other waited for the member to rise to the occasion and being sadly disappointed. And thus, what we saw was what we got, i.e. a small sorry straggly bunch and Breastburn declaring she wasn’t doing it twice, thereby ruining Phart’s perception of Hash girls being party girls. Well off we go, but we have Menu threatening Roadkill with barren times if he doesn’t stay in walking line with her, and Breastburn, who now wants to be called Torpedo Tits, as noted staying home claiming a potential coronary if not, leaving very few runners or what would call themselves that, but I was one of them, pressing on despite steep hills and got a good workout and that was before getting home with Phart. This was a no-challenge run, missing the opportunity for crossing a stream for reason of it being too far, hah!, with marks being of no importance having a little Birdie telling us the way and calling the real runners back for a rerun on account of not having stopped for a so-called check, double hah!! So we traveled a transient trail, chatting with retired gardening persons, spotting a pigeon puttering in a yard which fowl was mistaken by Roadkill for a peacock, gazed at a grazing mule, or was it a donkey, plus tripped over a few dead snakes on Snake Road and the only interesting part was the discussion whether Clot would now have more fun with his right hand, thinking he’d be doing it with someone new. So hardly any effort or sweat was wasted till we got to the down-downs, shared between B & B for setting a botched run, and then Roadkill for not bringing wine to the Camp Hash, an offense for which Scousebitch gleefully suggested we sing: "Here’s to cutting off his private parts..."and so on, Phart was fingered for wearing fashionable apparel, for which ET had to take the hit, him still being on the sober stint, and Deephuk for running and stopping and running again, you don’t say, I think the committee ran out of imagination and bodies. And hashers having been promised a BBQ, and told it was off, were then pleasantly surprised by neighbourly prepared grub, so it turned out we did dine Chez Rosie after all, next to her swimming pool filled with Walkerton water, but that was because of a lesson being taught to teenagers who want the fun but not the work, but why is it that parents seem to suffer most from these exercises while it is just so much Walkerton water off their backs, and they’ll never do what you want anyway, till your dying day, so that’s why Phart and I decided not to have babies. It being Canada Day Breastburn pulled out a patriotic looking bottle of champers, the national anthem was sung with enthusiasm, although that line about "all thy sons.." and that commanding bit oughta go, it no longer being P.C., and 2 out of the 20 or so singers were actually born in the best of all countries, the rest reminiscing about when they first stepped off the boat and so the evening fell over a happy lot of D.P.’s who slunk away in their respective chariots to dream about the last spike to be hammered in that night.