Now ON ON to:Roadkill's Housewarming Hash Sunday, September 6, 1998

Roadkill being red, Labour Day was out, some silly parade or something, but he got us on the Sunday, and lemme tell you this certainly was no picnic nor parade. Whomsoever does a Roadkill hash should know ahead of time that he or she is in for the kill, especially when he brings in his marathon buddies. Mind you, male eyes were not tortured in this case. Oh, those cutie outfits, it should have earned a down down, (or do I have the preposition wrong?) but once again, no effing chalice. See hash No. 3 described hereunder, I think the Hash dray should be keelhauled for his negligence. To start off, yours truly was once again delayed in starting her hash, this time because Phart forgot the instructions, and hash names are NOT in the book - "Operator, I would like to speak to Scubic Hair" Yesss! But hashers being scouts of some kind (they do like those brownies) Phart found the way to Cueball's mansion and directions from thereon. Cueball apparently not being able to rise from his hammock to attend the hash later on. So off we went on an endless journey, after a very long false trail, along the shores of above named Lake, disturbing Sunday strollers and layabouts, none of whom could be persuaded to join our lofty group. And why should they? It being rumoured that a potential participatory hasher belonged to the local cop shop, it was decided that the beerstop would consist of water - and this trick going on twice. Shame on you, Birdie! although you did have a very nimble finger to extract the fluid from the spout. Not even halfway through the trip there seemed to be a potential wimp way out, for which at least half of this scraggly group opted, some even proffering the lame excuse of having offspring waiting. Well, excuse me ladies, but unless you are pregnant and your offspring is waiting to pop out, this is NOT acceptable, never mind that it was 95 degrees and you already ran or, in your case, probably strolled at least 10 K. Well, we finally made it all back to the Roadkill mansion, newly occupied by himself and his Menu. Some got a housetour, but yours truly was too busy drinking, missing the magnificent master bedroom. And why do they call these things master bedrooms? it being understood by all you guys that the mistress rules therein. You men get to flip your wiener at our mercy, and so it was that Roadkill ruled the BBQ, having obtained fresh offal from a freeranging butcher. Fortunately cholesterol was offset by other fat-free titbits (not misspelled) and hash blood being fairly alcohol thinned. And on that note, Dr. Jeep himself did not precisely look the picture of health, and his Hummer was in even worse shape, her having fallen into a ravine from a bike. But true troopers that they are, they at least joined this sweaty sorority for some solace and soft drinks. On so it was that there were many libations, loosening of tongues and opening of hearts (do they have one) of various hashers, until Menu threw us out.