Heave-Ho to Headmistress Hash

May 21, 2001

Well here it was a sad day in that the original one and only foundress of the Oakville Hash House Harriers not having had Curry for a long time decided to sell the founding Hashers home and move to the desert, and thus a farewell to herself and the home was plotted by Phart, who had not planned for the weather, it being in lockstep with the feelings of despair and sadness, in other words it was fucking pouring buckets and it never stopped, washing flour markings down the drain thereby at least saving the neighbourhood dogs, until all and sundry decked out in raingear and various plastic wrappings started hobbling along a barely distinguishable trail egged on by the hare himself. And a pissy run it was, with no one hardly running and the designed descent down the muddy ravine abandoned, so all that was left was a trot along the well known and loved streets of the home of the beaver, and even the usually affluent Monday night effluvia of the moneyed town burghers was disappointing since all that was found in the offal heaps was a hyacinth bulb, but this lack of scavengeable items was more than compensated by Headmistress=s garage sale, where everything was now for the taking except her virginity, and between eating and drinking we filled up the chariots with all that appealed including ferns, firewood and a tombstone and we were happy to see that some old-timers had risen from the deadbeat file to haunt the hasher homestead for one last pissup including Niggly, Termin and Termineater, Bear and Underbear, and Lengthy and Blue Tit who are the original couple made in hash heaven, and his lengthy works, because they now have two tits, I mean kids, and general jolliness ensued in the soggy backswamp, no doubt encouraged by copious amounts of liquids and solids and warmed up by a bonfire and real life barbecue: none of this gas shit for Phart, who was stoking the coals in a dress donated by Headmistress since he said he didn=t have a thing to wear to the last red dress run. And there being no GM or other useful Hashficials, the trash lady had to administer the down-down duties, but a general lack of lyrics was observed, the original Oakville hymn being the only one fully memorized by the pack and the rest made up as we yodeled along, so Phart got fêted for his feckless hash, and looking for a front running bastard Bumsteer had escaped, so that honour went to Braindead and then they lined up all the old timers in a row for their revival meeting with the plunger and then it was time for Headmistress who was honoured with a huge card and hoisted on a chair, and cheap and disorganized as they are they said the present would come later, I heard that line before, and ET finally got her 100-run foot, which instantly buggered up the old back along with loading the firewood, and in the general spirit of cleaning out the closets your roving reporter announced she would donate a size 10.5 racing flats for a song and a kiss, and there=s Braindead on his knees caterwauling like a sick puppy, or was that Woof but no she=s over it, but that=s enough, we ran out of songs already, back to what we do best, the drinking part of the running club, well into the soggy night until it was time to check the garage one more time for seemingly useful items which we are now throwing into our own disposal unit and then head on on home, and put this memory behind us.

Roadkill's Killing Fields Hash

Although yours truly intrepid hound of hash events thanks her lucky stars that she did not attend this ill-conceived event, mention should be made regardless in that this was no doubt the worst Oakville hash of the millennium and that record will indubitably stand for a long time to come. Anyone attempting a Roadkill hash should know in advance that the guy has apparently nothing better to do than to subject his hash buddies (a term wearing thin) to 2-hr plus hashes, but this one was not only long but took place in Death Valley, site of a previous hash by Jesus and you can see my comments on that descent into hell in the archives, and which is where I ruined my repetitive stress syndrome afflicted arm hanging on by a tree trunk. But apparently Roadkill=s hash was more devilish than Jesus, i.e. steeper and the water deeper, meaning waist-high waddles, plus very very muddy from floodwaters that hadn=t stopped since the week before. Apparently the surroundings were so wild that a beaver was spotted, but we don=t know whose and Roadkill also got goosed while setting this satanic trail, adding to the general shittiness of it all. The on-on was at the Cop Shop, but I don=t even have a third hand account on that, seeing that Phart had to hurry home with Headmistress=s filing cabinet sticking out of his ass and for once had to forego the joy found in jugs.

For his efforts Roadkill was presented with the fetid foot award, but being an engineer or simply a man he did not listen to directions and Aforgot@ to wear it to the next hash, which was......

Handjob's Do-it-yourself Hash

Well Phart being a married man generally forgot what a handjob is, so figured that the Do-it-yourself part meant that we had to do the hash all by our little selves, the hare being off row-row-rowing, but no, here she was on a Monday night in army boots but she wasn=t putting out so back to the handjob. This hash was heavy on the flour but short on length, being set by two neophytes, Handjob helped along by her Joystick, but the general opinion was that, had she done it by herself it would have been a lot longer, since women like it lengthy whereas joysticks just don=t last - ask around, so it just goes to show you that if you want it done right you gotta do it yourself back to the hairy palm. When asked how to discern a false trail, well four to be on and if the path peters out it=s false, or if your peter pans out, whatever comes first, but Twojugs peter wouldn=t pan out this week anyway without his Oral Sox and was in sore need of a handjob, so he went behind a short rock to relieve himself, thereby earning the obvious urination award.

Well off we go onto the one and only false trail, down valleys and up vales, and arriving at the scary log over the ravine location, despite male urgings for her to come across, ET decided she preferred to go down instead and the view was magnificent. Calls for a beerstop were a crock but not to worry because the point of depart was returned to in a flash so thirst could be slaked and gullets soaked. On to the down-downs and there were a few, for the virgin hares, to P=nGuin for new shoes - does she not know better by now, but anxious to have it she pressed TwoJugs - Don=t let it soak, just give it to me - well what an enticement, and Birdie=s recent shoes were reported by Dyscount allthough being baptized before, except for the laces, well suck on it said Hyena, but Dyscount=s advice was dismissed and thus he fell in his own trap. Nipplering was shortcutting and TwoJugs had the map wrong, only concerning himself with the Oakville gang while giving a bum steer to Niagara bounds, but he took it like a man, and there was more but I forgot, it=s hard to multitask while drinking, although I do remember Birdie being crucified talking about Jesus, and right in the middle of hollering a hymn a car with good looking chicks pulled in but they very quickly got scared away by the Bum-titty cult, too bad for the subsequent boys, who had to smoke their weed in their own company and back to the handjob.

So here=s Phart getting another rock from the quarry since he apparently didn=t get his off, and then...

On-on to Gator=s Ted where yours truly intrepid reporter ends up sitting between two old gators with goaties but the food was good and every third pitcher free because Handjob knew Rosie the maitre d=, and does Rosie go into Gators or Gatorettes, well for frying out loud, we=ll get more fries for you frybabies, and it was good, so good we=ll do it again next week.

On-On !!