Post date: Oct 19, 2011 2:00:38 PM
Sorry this email was so long in cumming, But the best hashes tend to take
long intensive hours of therapy to dredge up all the repressed memories, and
this one was the platonic achetype of those hashes. I'm not sure I've ever
felt so much pride - and then so, so much shame - at a CUNTHHH hash as I did
at this one.
First, the pride: With 15 hashers present, this was by a factor of 50% our
largest hash ever! We got the usual gang of idiots; Myself, June Bug,
Second Cumming (First removed), Lazer Labia, Free His Willy, and I am
Cumstain, who manages to remain a regular despite repeatedly promising to
move far far away; some rarely seen but much loved hash creepers;
Pre-dick-table, Just Becky; our first ever contingent of visitors; Pimpy
Long Stocking, Splat, and all the way from sunny Salt Lake, Makes His Own
Gravy; a trio of inexplicably returning virgins; Just Matt, Just Darlene,
Just Ann and actual virgin Just Mike.
After a bit of chalk talking for the benefit of the newcomers to the CUNTHHH
(and the creepers who maybe forgot in the intervening months and years) and
decorous lead given to the hare, the pack was off. Since I was off
bag-haggin' I'm going to assume all went well up to around Columbus and 123
where we caught up. And it was there that everything pretty much went to
shit. The survivors gathered at Shrine bar in Harlem to gawk at the hottest
barmaid in Harlem, comment on how the bar had apparently one less mug than
there were hashers, and discuss their comrades who'd fallen by the wayside.
Comrades such as Just Matt, who, after not being able to get run over
dashing across Harlem thoroughfares against the light (seriously some of
those cars are worth less than your tie, (which for some reason he wore with
a button down shirt and long pants on the most humid day of the year
(snaking Pre-Dick-Table's apparently abandoned steez, (I'm just nesting
another parenthesis for no reason to make this sentence COMPETELY
incomprehensible), I mean come on, man, lend a little class to the joint on
your last trail (more on that later) which is always a good fashion choice
to wander lost around Harlem in.) they're not slowing down dude!) decided to
zen off a cold trail. And Pimpy, who'd done likewise dressed if not less
conspicuously, at least a little more appropriately to the weather, and
Splat who wasn't so much lost as abandoned. After discussing our missing
chums with great concern at great length, someone suggested we actually go
sweep for them, but then they started dragging their sorry asses in on their
own, and there was a new round of beers coming out, so we didn't.
Fraternitas!
After that it was a quick jog up to St. Nick Park where the pack was hit a
titcheck, which maybe for the first time in NYC hash history (at least the
two years I've been a part of it) a female of the lady pesuasion actually
stepped up and put 'em on the metaphorical glass. Congrats to Lazer, who by
this point was past tipsy town and on her way to becoming a full on wrecking
machine of drunkenness. I only caught some side-boob, but as anyone who
knows Lazer can attest, that's plenty. Our bluff called, the menfolk
dutifully began checking, turning up nothing after about 5 minutes but a
truther poster that announced "9/11 conspiracy: coward, idiot, nazi: pick a
side". Seems like somewhat limited options, but whatever. After choosing
(And I'm honestly not sure how we ended up *not* making a party game out of
this) the hash picked up trail, and bombed down through manhattan college
toward what those of us more in the know expected to be the taco check.
Savory streetmeat was not to be however, as the stereotypical Mexican
laziness proved to be our undoing. I refer of course to our Mexican hare's
laziness in not doing his homework to make sure that there would be a taco
truck to eat at at the time we were going to be running by, and not the
truck's proprietors who can decide when and how to do their job whenever and
however the hell they damn well please (kinda makes me want to break into
the taco truck biz). After getting over the initial disappointment of "No
Taco" written in block flour letters on the sidewalk, the pack proceeded to
follow trail as it made a beeline due north. Fortunately for our hare, you
literally can not swing a dead cat in that neighborhood without hitting a
taco truck (or a live one, but after you hit the truck it'll probably be
dead, or at least very mad, so it's best to use a dead cat. Just saying.)
so we eventually ended up at the delicious (and auspicious!) "Viagra" taco
truck. After being assured that Viagra meant nothing in Spanish *except*
pills for old men's limp linuses the pack declared the truck eminently
acceptable and gave long, hard, veiny, throbbing thought to what kind of
meat they wanted stuffing their tacos to the limit... and then just snarfed
down whatever they were handed, harriett style. Peeeee-nis Joke! Lazer got
schooled by yours truly in a taco deep throating competition (beat by a
bo-oy, beat by a bo-oy!) and everyone else decided not to lynch Cumstain.
No, lynching would have been too good for the likes of him.
Which brings me, after much over elaboration and various drawn out tangents
and other stalling, to the shame. Ohhhhh the shame, I can bearly stand to
think of it. And I was the... aggressor?, pitcher?, antagonist?, is there
even a word for it? Yes after a dash back to Bug-quarters. Stain ended up
nabbed just at the end by, I think, Just Mike. Lazer hit the scene and
began demanding a butt chug as penance. We started out ignoring her, hoping
she'd forget, but she'd already accumulated a lot of hash capital flashing
pack, and the on-in booze only made this chick more insistent. And that's
how yours truly ended up, pants down, squatting over the face of a man I'd
once had the gall to call friend, as Lazer poured a down down down the crack
of my ass into Stain's mouth. No Skidmark Charlie I, so Stain avoided the
cholera, but I can't imagine that was any consolation.
There were a lot of other down downs, but when I think back to that night I
get the shakes and gag a bit and have to scrub and scrub and scrub... -
truancy comes to mind, and there was quite a bit of that with all the
creepers, Pre-Dick announced he'd be leaving us, but his motivation
("There's pussy in Tuscon") was deemed beyond reproach, and he avoided a
down down. He did end up doing a down down for being elected scribe and
leaving me with this fucking Hash Trash albatross hung around my neck, which
was nice. Splat nailed it with some songs I'd never heard but don't
remember, Lazer busted out some Harriet specific tunes, and much booze was
had, and even more was spilled on Bug's rug. Some even ended up on the
floor. Heyooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!
The pack then debarked - and debauched - to Lazer's place, where the already
loaded pack ended up buying about a sixer apiece because of bad
communication and drunk math, and proceeded to get sock-feet-drunk. I
remember kicking back a fifth of every beer i drank to Cous Cous, who by the
way is a dog that weighs maybe 15 pounds. Otherwise it's a huge blur. I
imagine it was for Cous Cous by the end, but that prude still wouldn't give
it up! Bitches, yo...
Anyway, CUNTHHH is going to hit a nice round Baker's Dozen this Saturday,
and I expect all y'all to come by and help keep these numbers up! Hash
starts at 3pm at the Lion's Head, on Amsterdam and 109th. Usually we're at
the Alma Mater Statue, but starting in a bar seems more appropriate for this
hash, which will be a Larrikin! (Which I used to call a pickup hash until
corrected by an old timer on Hashpace, and now I'm hearing Larrikin is
something else, and it actually IS called a pickup hash...) at any rate our
hash is no stranger to controversy, so whatever it's called, we're calling
it a Larrikin this month, and everyone should cum! The trail will be hared
by... YOU! maybe, depending on if you get the short straw! Yes, the hare is
chosen randomly at the on-in, even virgins are technically on the table
(don't worry we'll give them a hasher consigliere to avoid a TOO shitty
trail), we spank their ass, send them on their way and end up at whatever
bar they decide to duck into when the pressure becomes to much. If the hare
is caught there will categorically NOT be a butt chug (Lazer shouldn't be
around, but if she is, from here on out we do this like new shoes, accuser
has to drink one too) no, the FRB takes up the flour and continues the
trail. London rules apply. And if you're worried about being put on the
spot for haring, you should show up, since the more people in the pack, the
lower your chances of being picked. It's just statistics.
Good Night you Kings of Queens, you Dukes of New York (A #1!)
Type A-Hole