BFM #18
Posted on June 24, 2004
24 June 2004: Okay, okay, here it is: Le Trash de Hash BFM #18
‘Twas a warm, though not quite sultry eve last Thursday for the finally legal Mob of Franklin, Ben. Since it was 7:30, there was no actual Mob at T. A. Flannery’s, in Can You Hear Me (snoring)Now?’s back yard. In fact, it seemed as if there were no r*nners, as E=MC^2, (Anybody here know a)Scooby Snatch, and the always lovely Cunting Season were assembled in their Work Clothes. Only Wolfman Jackass, What Were You Thinking and I were properly attired for a hash, and the conversation was of the likely low turnout and whether or not we would bother with a trail or just hunker down to the drinking.
Speaking of hunks, the newly-returned-from-a-long-hash-hiatus Drag Queen soon arrived, ready to r*n, followed shortly by a sweaty Sly Fox, and the die was cast. E, SS, and CS went in search of a changing lounge. Tastes Like Antiseptic Chicken scrubbed in, and finally, Where’s Dildo? wandered in. Chicken tried to reach Metro Bachelor Lunar Digit, who was AWOL at that point. Bastard Child and CYHMNow? were absent, but accounted for.
But, alas, nary a grain of flour to be found. Someone (WJ?) offered up some easy to see gray chalk and E scoured for a suitable Biohazard For Markings (“How about some cornstarch?” I offered). He returned with a small, yea, I say, SMALL bag of beige oat bran.
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BFM #17 - The Commando Hash
Posted on June 17, 2004
17 June 04: Less than a week after Philly’s DA dropped all charges against a Ben Franklin mobber wrongly accused of terrorism, the Ben Franklin Mob Hash House Harriers stormed through downtown Philly wearing camouflage paint and clothes. (Mensa we ain’t.)
It was the BFM’s Commando run, concocted to celebrate the BFM’s 17th week of life, and sadly to send off one of it’s own, Sarah Cunter, who would soon be moving to San Diego. As it was a Commando run, hashers were asked to show up “commando” style and to wear camouflage.
“Going Commando” means “without underwear.” And who said hashing isn’t educational? Freaks interested in the origin of the term can waste their time here.
So hashers from as far as DC arrived with faces slathered in camouflage paint and bodies covered in Army surplus, but with nothing underneath. Over forty hashers showed up – the nation’s first all-meathead platoon.
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BFM #16 Continued…The Aftermath
Posted on June 11, 2004
11 June 04: On the morning following BFM16, without flour and wearing a charcoal three-button suit, Wolfman Jackoff sat patiently inside courtroom 405 of Philadelphia’s Criminal Justice Center, 13th & Filbert Streets. As he sat, the room slowly filled with police officers, victims, witnesses, defendants, defense attorneys, and prosecutors, all who, like the Wolfman, were there to see the Judge.
At the front of the room, three prosecutors lined up behind one table, removed their case files from their oversized briefcases, and called out names of victims scheduled to testify. Some victims showed up, others did not. Police officers hovered around the prosecutors, reviewing their arrest files. Nearby the defense attorneys also reviewed files at their table. Behind the lawyers, defendants took their seats in the gallery, as did the crime victims who came to testify against them.
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BFM #16
Posted on June 10, 2004
10 June 04: Things pretty much returned to normal when the Ben Franklin Mob learned the location of its Thursday Night hash late Wednesday afternoon: 12 Steps Down, 9th and Catherine.
Inside 12 Steps Down on Thursday night, Where’s Dildo? pulled the short straw from the hands of Sarah Cunter, who too soon will go to San Diego, though she’ll remain with the collective mind (such as it is) of the BFM.
When Dildo drew the short one, the mob acted. A hand thrust him a jar. Inside the jar was orange powder. Another hand forced dry wall on him, and another hand rammed a tennis ball into the bag someone slapped into his quivering palms. One second he held the short straw, the very next he held the ingredients for an orange bakery and a tennis court.
Any stranger happening to notice could wonder why among all these jostling individuals one person looked like a prison escapee. Was that escapee Wolfman Jackoff? No, it wasn’t the Wolfman – he auto hashed later on. No, this particular person was someone else altogether.
This particular clown wore horizontal-stripe black and white convict pajamas. The kind you see in 1930s chain gang movies. He did not forget to wear the black prison cap. The only thing missing was a steel ball shackled to his ankles, but Bastard Child is a locomotive on trail, so a ball just would have gotten in the way.
Spankin’ Private Ryan made a rare but welcomed appearance, and temporarily cleansed this wayward hash with the `dogus-no-bite-us’ blessing, and then Dildo ran out the door and up the stairs from this basement bar. Tastes Like Chicken kept time, and when time came the on on was on.
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BFM #15
Posted on June 3, 2004
3 June 04: Tonight the Ben Franklin Mob crowded into Anthony’s Old City Pub, a great burger joint wedged in among the outdoor cafes of Market Street’s 200 block. The mob’s animal contingent was well represented by Sly Fox, Wolfman Jackoff, and Tastes Like Chicken, all of whom are hosting an animal-themed center city pub-crawl this Saturday. Contact any one of them bastids for information.
The red headed dude, whose name until tonight was just Chris, showed up with a virgin, just Jen. Newly named Rash was there, fully recovered (so far) from the North Philly shiggy that gave her her name. The mob’s procreative contingent was also represented by the likes of Cunting Season, Sarah Cunter, and Bastard Child. The auto hashing started early when the Cause walked in wearing her Peter Pan slippers. No running for the Cause tonight because she had an appointment in our great neighboring state of New Joisey.
Everyone present who wanted a beer had a beer, but, in prime BFM fashion, nobody brought flour, so a flour bag was purchased at a store nearby. That bag of flour weighed five pounds. Once the flour arrived Sarah Cunter gnawed on a bar straw to make it short, and then made the hash draw straws to see who would hare tonight. And those unseen powers from below once again drove the short straw into the hand of Wolfman Jackoff. (The hare count is (I think) three for the Wolfman and four for the Winkie. Something pointless must be done to the first one to make it to seven.)
Armed with five pounds of flour and purple chalk, the Wolfman slipped out of the bar and into the dusk. Five (three) minutes later the mob stormed out behind him and into the outdoor restaurants, knocking over tables, grabbing drinks from waiters, and causing a general ruckus.
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