9 September 2004: Saint Jack’s in Old City received it’s second Mob visit Thursday. No virgins. This time there were only experienced Ben Franklin Mob hashers, all skilled in the high arts of drinking, “singing,” and snuffling after flour like mutts hunting a bone.
Always a pleasure to see Thunder, Crusty Calves, and their third (and fastest) wheel, Bitchard. Also present were the newly named Sloppy Seconds and Dances with Bum Urine. STD, who will be haring Liberty Bell Sunday 12 September, was there, as were Just Heather and Just Jason. The genitalia roll call included Skin Fiddle, Cunting Season, and Scooby Snatch. And, I ask you, what hash would be a hash without Cause for Blindness.
There was a surprise visitor. Though small in size, this well-known visitor is large in stature; this visitor is usually quiet, but loud when blown; this visitor always accepts beer when given and always gives beer when needed. The Mob was happy to have this visitor along because this visitor was the Philadelphia Hash House Harriers’ horn.
Time came for the straw drawing and Little Fucking Winkie did the honors. The short straw went to E=My Cock Squared. Winkie lectured E that a hare must lay ‘three marks for every one block.’ Meanwhile, feeling especially horny this evening, Strap On happily assumed horn duty and strapped it on. E ran south.
On trail it became apparent quickly that E thought Winkie said ‘one mark for every three blocks.’
But a trail is a trail, and the Mob snuffled it to South Street. At South and Front, a police officer spotted Wolfman Jackoff running, and, without even being asked, directed the Wolfman toward the Front Running Bitchard down the block. Wolfman followed, but Bitchard was off trail, so they both came back.
Trail led on to South Philly, through the narrow neighborhood streets where people pass time on their doorsteps. Some concerned neighbors thought we were running from something and asked whether they, too, should be running.
The Mob plummeted deeper into South Philly, through a back check seven on Columbus Boulevard, and then to a regular check just north of some projects. Looking for trail, Strap On ventured further into the projects than anyone else, alone.
Bitchard found trail a few blocks west and the Mob vacated in that direction. A few stalwarts hung back for Strap On: just a few scattered hashers, their shadows, and an occasional passing car. Then there was that quick tapping patter of running feet. Sure enough, it was Strap On bulleting back, intact and horny.
Northwest at a check near Fifth and Catherine, the Mob spread out looking for trail. No one found it, and the mob gave up, broke up, and coasted back to St. Jack’s. The last remnant to drift in included some meatheads who continued looking for trail: Lunar Digit, Sloppy Seconds, your correspondent, and Just Jason.
At St. Jack’s the Mob was pleasantly surprised by the appearance of two Gyno-babes – Purrier and Just Anne, along with She-Man, and the babe-with-a-whip – Rash, who was wearing clothes. After a time, Cousin It arrived and, as a mis-manager of the Philadelphia HHH, immediately noticed the horn, which was returned to him forthwith.
Wolfman convened the circle in the upstairs bar, which exhibits paintings of genitalia and sexual bondage, giving everyone that down home feeling. The circle piled on E for his trail but the backboned E remained defiant. Purrier and Rash were forced to drink twice – once for autohashing and once for dressing way too nice. Just Heather down downed for drinking a White Russian, which is what she down downed. Cause for Blindness also down downed, but it was difficult to hear why with bar music screaming from the wall speakers. Whatever it was, no doubt she had it coming.
Not many accusations this time, despite Wolfman Jackoff’s every effort to egg people on. Maybe it was the horn. STD announced she is haring Liberty Bell Sunday 12 September, and E recommended the DC Red Dress Run, coming this Fall. The circle posed for a group shot with the horn, and went back downstairs. Later on Sticky Fingers and Self Service arrived, and the Mob passed away the hours until everyone passed out.
Horny trail, horny bar. Strap on on.
By the way – Hoist a pint (or PBR can) for Cuntanamo Bay down in Gitmo. He and the rest of ‘em are weathering hurricane after hurricane, each worst than the last. Da bastids.