Soirée in the Yard Hash - July 5, 1999
This is how I imagined a Soirée in Cueball’s yard: The string quartet softly
playing J.S. Bach’s romantic garden suite, the hammock inviting me to its
sensuous embrace, fellow hasherdashers entertaining me with their intelligent
discourse, Chippendale cuties passing around champagne and hors d’oeuvres, the
munchkins’ yelpings smothered within their bedroom walls.....And thus we end
up at O.T. Freddy’s, peanut shells and popcorn being crushed under slimy
running shoes, sweaty hashers yelling for More Beer! and pawing at platters of
cholesterol laden potato and chicken offal. Such are the disappointments in a
Hasher’s life. Is this why I removed myself from the sofa in my comfortably
air-conditioned basement? The first disappointment arrived when Breastburn Rosie
declared she did not like Phart’s blowjob, and here I thought he was
alright.... And then Brain taking off his woolen wintergarb, stopping when
things got interesting... Ah, we might as well take a hike on a hot hazy humid
hunt, while health officials warn against any form of strenuous exercise. Well,
it wasn’t as if this group of slugs put in any particular effort, since it was
the laziest bunch that I’ve ever seen this week. Playing chicken on the
highway apparently being nixed by the hares, hashers were to cross a sewer-fed
culvert, the temperature of which reminded one of recent contributions from
local toilets.
This experience led to some hashers of the better sex
declining to cross the next waterway, and instead stroll around the obstacle in
a more civilized manner. Typical male hares of the night, imagining themselves
flashy playboys picking up babes, made sure to have the pack stop in order to
gawk at a variety of upper-end automobiles, before strutting on to the next
ordeal, which, after culvert two, consisted of a rather steep hill going up.
Well, what do you know if yours truly didn’t in the distance next to the
communal garden see a car with open trunk, indicating to me that it was a
beerstop, but no, it was another disappointment and a mirage, since it was just
some chick hauling in the vernal harvest, and besides Cueball was in the throes
of telling me that he has an alcohol allergy so that after two beers he swells
up all over and therefore is not that interested in beerstops anymore, leading
to his lament of: "Warum, warum ist meine Banane krumm?" (Why o why is
my banana bent - for those of you without the Teutonic touch) Well take a cue,
ball, and drink more beer, so that you will swell up more and thereby please thy
mistress. Which leads me to the down-downs which Cueball tried to avoid by being
the administerer thereof, but I tricked him and gave him his due for inviting
hashers under false pretenses. Other recipients of the chalice were Breastburn
for wearing 600-dollar implants; I thought a job like that would cost at least
6,000 but they are magnificent Rosie. And to Yokohama Doc who came back for more
and turned out to be a Front Running Bastard, Barbie for being tardy and Bear
for lending out a book to Phart without demanding its return for 2 years - the
title being Lending Books for Dummies, but by now it has been superseded by the
Y2K version so he didn’t want it anyway. Now someone who really shoulda got
some was Hashcash who did NOT go on the run, but instead opted to do her long
overdue paperwork and then harass us breathless and penniless hashers with the
usual Icecold welcome. Well Hashers, this is the scoop for today but if you
really want to hear some gossip, other than the fact that Cueball and CunTel use
the same barber - wedding bells are in the air with Knickerbocker Baby taking
the plunge on Labour Day, Mucky Dip snaring Skewbic Hair in October, and ET and
Phart being N° 61 on the list of 1,000 happy couples tying the knot in Niagara
Falls come Valentine’s Day. I say, somewhere along the line there should be
some beer for the Hashers who have witnessed these lovely couples yell at each
other for stupidities committed during our weekly communal sacrament.
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