BFM #14
Posted on May 27, 2004
27 May 04: The BFM started like usual: just a bunch of sneaker wearing rubes milling in a bar, this week at the 700 Club in Philadelphia’s Northern Liberties Section. (Great bar for nice weather – it has giant open windows.) The earliest arrivals included Beer Sucks, just Jocelyn, Purrier, and the Cause. Next in was Cunting Season. It was looking nearly like an all-women hash, which would have meant no beer in the circle, only options, according to the rules.
No such luck. From the back of the bar came Scooby Snatch in a t-shirt that proclaimed, "Nobody Knows I’m A Lesbian." Bastard Child also appeared. (It turns out both of these reprobates had arrived earlier – they were changing out of their workaday floral dresses and into running togs).
Next in was Sarah Cunter, sweating like she had just run 20+ blocks to get there, which is what she did. This odd cast of characters grew as E=My Cock Squared showed up in all his FRBing glory. Then came just Chris, a.k.a. "the red headed dude." Next in was Sly Fox, who wheeled up on her urban assault bike. Lunar Digit walked past the bar at least two times like a duck in a shooting gallery before he heard people yelling, "Digit!"
Bastard Child, a man equipped for every drinking-related event, brought the flour and the straws. The short straw went to just Jocelyn. She asked for help in laying the trail, and E=MC2 stepped up immediately, winning adulation from all the ladies present, and likely a jealous beating later on from Strap On.
As the BFM’s first-ever co-hares, just Jocelyn and E=MC2 made super shitty use of their four legs. More than once they split up at a check, each carrying a flour bag, one laying true trail, the other laying long false trail. Just Jocelyn didn’t need so much help after all. It was like chasing two E=MC2s. The bastids.
At one of the split-checks Sly Fox and Purrier opted for the trail heading north. The rest of us opted for the trail heading west until some FRB yelled, "False!" So the mob screeched to a halt, turned butts, and followed the dust of Sly and Purrier, who by then were long gone in the direction of Girard Avenue. Where they ran was not a locality you’ll find on Philadelphia’s tourist maps.
Where they ran, and where the mob followed, there were many opportunities to purchase crack and sex, which might explain the long disappearance of the Cause and Lunar Digit, both of whom were later feared lost, but who were actually just DFL. On route, one corner-dweller asked if we were military, which, fortunately for this country, we are not. Another good soul, seeing us running like fools, asked if everything was all right, and it was. Admittedly one was a little concerned that Sly Fox and Purrier were running by their lonesomes, but these are the risks when you hash.
Many blocks later just Jocelyn and E=MC2 were spotted walking, easy prey for a hare-hungry mob. But it wasn’t as it seemed. As we learned, Sly Fox and Purrier had already caught them and stripped them of their flour bags (but not their pants). Not without a fight, though. Just Jocelyn darted through some North Philly shiggy to avoid capture, attracting prickly vegetation to her legs, and to the socks of Sly Fox.
But her efforts, though heroinic, were to no avail. The irresistible team of Sly Fox and Purrier would not be denied. No one else was present for the handoff, but no doubt they had to yank a flour bag from the hands of a sobbing E=MC2.
Together, Sly Fox and Purrier became the BFMs’ first-ever blonde and brunette co-hares, running through the urban wilds like the TV cops, Starsky and Hutch, but without the cool car, the badges, or the male accoutrement. Anyone who thought that these two were threatened by their surroundings was whacked.
Unfortunately for them they were way too conspicuous, and they were spotted from three blocks away turning east, and the mob moved in from all directions. Your correspondent lucked into an interception in a playyard of a local school, grabbed the flour bag, and laid most of the rest of the trail, until E=MC2, the bastid, took back the bag less than a block from the 700 Club, and used the remaining flour to scrawl "ON IN" on the sidewalk.
And on in to 700 the mob went. The platinum bartender inside wanted to know what this mess was about, so Sly explained it. No lack of communication there, apparently, because the bartender ably reported all events to Self Service, who auto hashed in later on.
As Sly took over the bartender, just Jocelyn’s earlier evasive efforts in the shiggy took over her legs. Her legs became a moonscape of hives, also known as "nettle rash." Purrier quickly took care of her hiveness, walking her across the street for antihistamine at a (licensed) drug store. It’s good to have a doc in the hash.
Meantime, since 700 doesn’t serve pitchers, the mob crossed Second Street to Liberties, a bar with outside seats, and pitchers. The mob captured all of Liberties’ available seats and doorsteps, and made such a ruckus that an upstairs neighbor closed his window.
Then Little Fucking Winkie showed. Apparently he was done learning all the "math" he needed to know for one evening. The Philly Full Moon Hash’s amazing outgoing GM, Strapon, showed too. To pull Self Service away from the platinum bartender back at 700 across the street, the whole mob had to yell, "Self Service!," which woke the neighbors, but which made her come.
She arrived to a circle, of sorts. It was a circle, but most of this crowd was lazing about on bar chairs or doorsteps. Tired the mobs’ bodies were, but the mobs’ spirit made no bones about whom was doing down downs this night:
- all five shitty trail laying hares,
- the alpha and omega of DFLs, Cause for Blindness,
- the auto hashers, which shamefully included two GMs,
- various victims of hit and miss accusations,
- Scooby, for almost causing a homeland security incident by receiving a package addressed to "Scooby" at uptight corporate central, and
- the newbie who tonight was newly named . . .
Just Jocelyn’s skin condition did not go unnoticed by the mob. Clearly she needed a name. Four names were suggested, but the Mob overwhelmingly roared for the name that fit the occasion: "Rash." And so Winkie named her "Rash," and it was good.
These were the events that made this hash this hash. If I forgot anything you remember, count your blessings. Unfortunately the BFM continues, god help us all.
On on
Filed Under Trash |
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