A Long-Weekend Walk With Toad & Canoodle

May 20, 2002 

It being a gloomy long weekend only about 20 hashers showed up at the designated parking lot across from the Toad abode.   She gave some instructions, but left the actual running of the run to the ever affable Canoodler, who closed the ranks, making sure all fences and fordings were dotted and crossed.  We started off o.k. but then got down to a gulley, where was some confusion as to which side to be on. TwoJug decided to short cut by blasting up a hill, but that was the long way around.  For someone like yours truly, who’s scared of heights and scared of water and also does not like to climb over fences, this was a bit of a challenge, but I hushed my inner child and conquered the stream all by myself, although not as adventurously as HandJob, who made a big jump in the mud. So we got our feet wet, and after a pleasant hour we arrived back to No. 88, where it was found that the reprehensible Roadkill had not only broken my French assiette, but also forgot the vin, maudit, thereby severely bringing into question the significance of his existence.  There was some discussion as to whether to waste any beer on down-downs, but we decided to do it anyway, although there was no GM or Religious Advisor, but we had Hash Cash and 2 Hash Trashes.  Opinion of today’s hash: too much water and not enough beer stops.  Herr Bullet was accused of retroactive competitive running, having done a 3:20 marathon the week before.  ET accused Bumsteer of not running, but I guess he was faster than a speeding bullet and besides went into Toad’s back end, so this accusation supplied me with extra beer, but he got his when he accused TwoJugs of calling me by my nerd name, which when pressured he thought to be Jean.  Another plot to procure beer, since there was not too damn much around, especially with Roadkill’s oversight.  Some lame excuse that he could go and get it, but wanted company on the half hour drive.  No dice. Beer store was just closed.   Some stories were told, i.e. TwoJugs meeting another hasher in the grocery store and not being able to recall his real name.  Is like meeting a nudist club member at the post office and saying, Ahey, I did not recognize you with your clothes on?.    The indians call it “firewater”, the Dutch call it “talking water” and you know what, without ample amounts of this ingredient, hashers are a subdued and muted lot.  Or is that just my own sober assessment?  So after the bulky burgers were all et,  there were only memories of booze, so that hashers had to resort to drinking stories, so on-on home we went, and who did we meet in the parking lot but Birdie, who was just in time for the 7 o’clock hash.