Date: 14 March 1999
Hares: Mellow Foreskin Cheese, Black Box, Thumper Pumper, Mammorex
Beer Crew: Drop Box
Location: Mr. Day's, 18th/19th & L/M Streets, NW, DC
Most people think Leprechans are good luck. And apparently they are, as long as you don't piss them off. We must have really annoyed a LOT of Leprechans, because yet again, the heavens opened and dumped cold and wet on the White House4 St. Patti's (as in Black Box) Run.
Confusion reigned supreme that day. Taking our cue from the weather, which could not decide whether it should snow, rain, or sleet, the pack could not quite decide where it should go either.
The hares informed us that the flour was green and the checks consisted of shamrocks...well maybe it was, and maybe they were, but this scribe saw neither. She did see Dumb Blonde checking for trail at the onset and the scribe just knew this run would be all down hill. Figuratively speaking of course. He was not "on".
Pinky Penis however, had more luck and trail preceded to our right heading up M street. Mr. Penis' luck was short lived, because shortly after getting us on trail, he twisted his ankle and had to hobble back to the warmth and comfort of Mr. Day's were he drank beer while we ran around in the freezing cold and snow....Wait....HEY! He's way smarter than he looks! (Quote O'the day: "Beer is better than asprin")
Trail went up an alley and pretty much zigged zagged about. It was too bloody cold and wet to attempt to take notes as to where we were heading, but since it seemed no one could find trail it was a moot point anyway. There was an interesting array of head gear, most prominent of which was Nurse Crotchet's really, huge green leprechan hat. Maybe it is HER fault for the bad weather.
As I wuz sayin'..we were clueless; Finally Take Me Drunk, I'm Home took pity on this ragged lot and lead us about. She should be made to drink for showing leadership abilities. The trail, it was generally known, would take us to the Irish Ambassador's house. That person, you think would learn after years of this and move to a new home to avoid the harassment and embarassment. But alas, and thankfully for the hash, the Irish Ambassador house remains in the same place it is every year.
The house is located at the top of a BIG hill. Fortunately, and this was the highlight of the day, a homemade BAILLEY's stop. This stuff was so good it made you cry. It was served with a smile by the stunning Mr. Drop Box.
Those enjoying the alcoholic warmth it was giving off were Zimboobwe, Watch It Jiggle (her first time in print with her new hash name. Joy!), Vominatrix, Two Lips on a Dyke, Trouser Snake (long time no see to you), Too Slow, Tidy Bowl, Tick Cock, Tez's Smirnoff, Tastes Like Chalk, Stool Sample, F**king Pesto Chicken, Spurt Plus, Spinal Tap, Sir Fucks A Lot, Rocks Oft, Roach Motel, Ram Rod, Pay Per View, Needle in Thread, Mud Buns, Monica's Pimp, Marshmallow, Latin Anal-ist, Lazy Motherf*cker, Leaky Tampon (looking confused as usual), Kiel Bastard, Hymen Dickover (what? No Hat?), Heat Seeking Moisture Missile, Hawaiian Puke, Harem Scarem, Goomba and many many more.
Around this time Mellow Foreskin Cheese gathered up his courage, knocked on the Ambassador's door and the hash sang a hearty "When Hasher's Eyes are Smiling". Several Irish Guards made a move to detain us. We sacrificed hare Thumper Pumper to them and it seemed to appease them, for they went back inside and peered at us from behind the Irish Lace curtains. And waved their automatic weapons threateningly from the window.
With shouts of "OnOn" the pack, jazzed up on Bailley's headed back down the hill. Had-A-Madam (long time no see fella) lead the way with that goofy blond guy in hot pursuit.
The weather continued to be crappy, but we continued to run knowing we would soon hit beer, and voila! We soon re-entered the alley to Mr. Day's and thus endeth another wet, wild, run. If the next Sunday's run is cold and wet I say we string up the Religious Advisor.
Yes. There was a circle. What happened. Well we had virgins. Yulia Yausheva and Elena Wolf. Apparently the Internet made them come. Sort of a new twist on Cybersex.
Pay Per Screw from San Diego and Robocop from West London H3; Robo, being a true wanker, made the mistake of wearing new shows and, well, we all know what happens there. He also is the Religious Advisor for his home hash. He too is to blame for the gnarly weather.
The victim was Bonnie Hogue. The story told, well, my notes are stained with water, so something about vomiting, sex, and peachers. So in our infinite wisdom she shall be known forever more as: Fellatie Throw.
The second victim was an innocent bystander. Apparently Jennie Lynch handed off her "I Need a Name" hat to Amy Burrison, who foolishly wore it. So not being the brightest bulbs in the lamp, our wise elders (Big Bird, WhereDaFaKhawe, and Great Balls of Fire) named her.
Amy's story had something to do with Champagne and sex (hmm, I see a trend. Who'se heard of hashers having sex??) She ended up with the moniker of: Totts the Twat (how about TwatsforTotts??)
And there you have it.
At this point the scribe hightailed it, like a bunny, into Mr. Day's where warmth, pizza, and beer abounded.
OnOn... BiteMeElmo
For those who may be unaware White House's very own Mellow Foreskin Cheese (The Original Bill Wagner) was involved in an accident the evening of Monday, March 15, 1999. He ended up in Arlington Hospital with a very broken leg, involving his kneecap. He had surgery and, from all reports, is doing well. Unfortunately this puts a crimp in his hashing activities (the running part at least, although my source says his drinking arm is just fine). Bill will be on crutches for 5-8 weeks, and by the time of publication he should be home from the hospital. If you have the urge to send a card, visit or call, his address is: 4122 N. 17th St, Arlington VA 22207; phone: 703-293-9747. I'm sure he'd like to hear from folks during his recuperation.
There are a number of people who are in desperate need of names, not to mention lives. Do you know any of the following people? If you do, and were a true friend, you would sing like a bird and tell MisManagement all the stories, real and imagined, that you can about these folks. If you don't know them PAY ATTENTION to them on trail and get ready for some story telling. You know, story telling is such a lost art these days. Let's work on those skills. Those who need a name are:
Wanna hare a run? Contact our beautiful and talented Hare-Raiser Fussy Bitch at Fussyb@aol.com.