Post date: Apr 20, 2013 1:19:43 AM
As my dear sainted father once said, as he gave me my first factory for my tenth birthday: "Fuck the poor, son. Fuck 'em right in their poor ears" And I've let that advice guide me through life, and by god, it's led me right, except for those times I killed a hobo for fun, or date-raped a Townie, or got brought up on charges for "harrasing" the honors frats even though we use the same hoods and robes in our initiations and you didn't see *me* go crying to the ACLU... you know what forget it, it was all nothing money couldn't fix, and it eventually led me to hashing, is what I'm getting at.
My dueling partners we all busy last weekend testifying before Grand Juries or Congress, so it was with great interest that I saw there would be an Ivy League Interhash. Even though I went to the super secret, super exclusive Ivy school that only ex-Chairmen of the Federal Reserve, the Bonesmen, and the direct-male-line-descendants of Miles Standish know about (we don't let them in, of course, it's just to keep them in their place - plus its fun to watch them squirm) and although the only company more tiresome than some nouveau riche Harvard twat or some Brown turd is one of fighting proles of Princeton, the opportunity to be able to converse with inferiors who've at least a passing familiarity with serious literature is nothing to pass up lightly. Even if they probably didn't read it in the original Greek.
My family's private train being out for repairs after negotiations with the local union took a predictably contentious turn, I was forced to ride with the Takers on public transit. Imagine my chagrin when, decked out in my finest soup and fish, I didn't see a single straw boater or pair of spats in the whole crowd! I was so shocked I actually dropped the bubbly! Twice! Good thing my Brothers in Shaft and Boners weren't around. Last time a pledge pulled a jape like that we lost a whole weekend and one of my favorite wolfhounds fishing his body out of the lake, and they made me use one of *my* vintage Bugattis to fake his death, even though of all the bottles of 151 he drank, I only forced him to funnel like, two, tops.
Eventually we got to the start, and sure enough, they were even letting Penn people in! At *our* parties, which by the way, are held exclusively in Svenborgia to ensure the proper sort of guests, we still always make sure to have a decoy party set up for the Brother Lovers and those abysmal cattlemen from Ithaca. Sloppy hashing. I couldn't be sure, because I've never seen one up close, but it even looked like they had one of "those types" haring the trail! Good thing my grandfather's not around to see this, although goodness knows what sort of state things'll be in when they cryogenically unfreeze his head.
Trail went out into city and up and down some rusty barbed wire strewn gullies until at last we arrived at the first drink check. To my surprise they showed the discrimination to pour the liquor "produced for that unique group of drinkers who disdain light flavor or neutral spirits." Now, while I'd normally never touch a digestif before the cocktail hour, the assurance that I was with people of means enough to afford the complicated series of tongue surgeries necessary to enjoy Malort put my mind at ease enough to let my hair down and throw convention to the wind. A couple of harriettes felt the same way, as two of them went to town on each other with a enormous wooden pecker that reminds me of the time I got banned for life from Tiajuna... A few songs were sung, but unfortunately, there were none of those delightful castrati on hand Yale's so fond of trotting out, so it sounded like a pack of wild dogs humping in a trash can factory. To this day I still don't know why none of those Hondouran children would just chase that pack of wild dogs out of the factory. Maybe they didn't want to get docked for leaving the line, but as long as it didn't affect revenues, I was happy to have the filthy mongrels around to drag off the slower and weaker ones, moreso the closer it got to payday.
Eventually the pack split up, and I of course took the Eagle trail, as I succeed with suspicious ease at everything I try. Something about your Great-Great-Grandfather having cheated the Turduckautucken Indians out of most of upstate Vermont in a crooked game of quoits just opens doors, I guess. Trail went out and continued through the unkempt grounds of New Jersey, and it was simply fascinating to see what can happen when you allow your gardening staff a even day off. Certainly won't be happening on my watch. Positively frightful shiggy, thorns to mud to the middle classes, the kind of wasteland that puts one in mind of Dartmouth, all the way up to the parking lot of a mall that was in the process of sliding down into the Raritan. As though I needed any more reason to have everything handcrafted by master artisans. I don't, though. Their work is exquisite.
A quick dash across a bridge and we found ourself at the second beer stop, in the mud and weeds behind what I can only assume was prison housing for arsonists and perverts. Can beer was served, but it did bring back nice memories of when me and the gang would go slumming and hit up a non-secret frat's party. I believe it was somewhere around this point that one of our virgins convinced her boyfriend that she'd had enough. Probably also that they were broken up. Or maybe hill folk caught them, they were never seen again.
Eventually we were off and through some more slop of of the natural and human variety, and I fell in with some locals and an actual hill-William! Imagine my delight when these sons of the soil were able to use some sort of sixth sense to lead us back to the start almost completely disregarding trail!
Circle was quite fun though I received a shock when I saw Columbia had a woman RA, but then what can you expect from a school that picks Harlem to open up shop in. And even though we were short on Whiffenpoofs, there were plenty of other kinds of poofs about and the songs ran on in circle and out. The night ended just like a classic Winklevoss party, with everyone shirtless and shitfaced.
I'd love to continue prattling on, but unfortunately, I simply must dash, as I'm being fitted for a new private jet, and aeronautical engineers can be quite the prima donnas about punctuality.
Yours in Pretentious Arrogance,
Typeford A. Hole III, Esq.
P.S. Corporations are people too, my friend.
P.P.S. I'm only kidding. Gentlemen don't have friends, they only have interests.
P.P.P.S. For those of you who spent the day trapped in your limo while your world slowly crumbled around you ending in your own death, or worse, chose to stay in and rent Cosmopolis, the next Columbia trail will be this Saturday, the 13th, at 3pm, starting at the Buhre Av. stop on the 6 line. I can only imagine they'e going that far into the Bronx to get a jump on the gentrifiers and flip some useless low rent housing into high-end Greek Yogurt-eries and Dog Krav Maga gyms. I'm not really sure how people who have to work for money get it. Summit and Princeton don't have next week's hash up as of this writing, Boston Marathon is going on all weekend in Boston, and Hashlympics regos are mostly up on the website. Also a bunch of old men are going to get naked and drunk on a beach, and since with the Bilderberg initiations so close, now would be a good time to get the kinks out. https://sites.google.com/site/columbiahashhouse/local-hashing For details. (email me if you've got a big deal trail coming up and It'll get put on there.)