BFM #30
Posted on September 16, 2004
16 September 2004: When you’re thirty, it’s time to do away with childish things. And the Ben Franklin Mob turned 30 weeks this week. So the Mob was asked to observe the occassion with formal attire, like uh-dolts. The BFM may be several brain cells shy of one brain, but the BFM ain’t shy. Assorted mobbers sashayed into McGillin’s decked in skimpy cocktail dresses, flowing gowns, trashy-flashy ties, tiaras, a gargantuan Viking helmet, and a tuxedo subtly accented with gold-painted sneakers. The last worn by Bastard Child.
From all points hashers came. Visiting indignantaries included Tour de Puke, who is religious advisor to the legendary Harrisburg Hershey hash, and Hatrick, the grand fucking master of an Atlanta-based hash (not sure which). Cliff Diver from the Rumson HHH was there, as was At Your Cervix, a hasher from the other hemisphere (this planet’s got two of ‘em), and who’s now in Philadelphia.
Little Fucking Winkie proffered straws outside on Drury Street and the short straw went to Just Kate, who has cum to this hash before, but only once, and that time was her first hash ever. It was great to see her again, and, always the gentleman, Winkie volunteered to help her lay trail. Winkie then gave the virgins a good chalking-to and took off with Just Kate.
Just Kate’s orange flour led the Mob east to 13th Street then north by the Criminal Justice Center then west to Love Park. It’s easy for hashers to forget, but note: sprinting through Center City a gowned and tied drunken Mob was shouting "On On," "Check," and "Fuck You You Fucking Fuck" like a prom gone insane (a good place). Civillians squinted and gaped - there’s just no explanation for this. Nor should there be. Humans took 5,000 years to reach this point, and, dammit, here we are.
At Love Park the trail disappeared, leaving a very well dressed mob stranded in the wilds of center city. Because she could, the mischievous Crusty Calves ran down the garage ramp next to Love Park and yelled, “On On!” even though there was no trail. The Mob’s ears heard and the Mob’s feet followed. Damnation! Crusty down downed for that later.
Down in that garage, Bitchard and Strap On were looking for trail when they heard, “Halt!” It was Police. Somehow Bitchard and Strap On explained the gown, the white shirt & tie, the sneakers, the running, and the British accent. Generously the officers waved them on.
Meanwhile, the well-dressed party without beer in Love Park reluctantly let go of the trail, which could not be found. They bee-lined back to the bar, where there was beer.
Meanwhile, underground, mobbers found trail, but it was blue, not orange. But Just Kate had orange flour when she left McGillin’s. So did co-hare Winkie have blue flour? Or was another hash out and about? Nope. It was the underground maintenance crew. The crew decided to wash away the orange trail tonight, but they left the blue trail the Mob left there weeks ago. The best laid trails often go awry.
“Never-say-die” hashers persevered, though, and they all converged aboveground many blocks south. They were At Your Cervix, Crusty Calves, Master Baster, Where’s Dildo?, and your correspondent. We ran a search pattern for a few blocks and found nothing. And then we said “die.” And then we returned to the bar.
Free Beer Tomorrow, the owner of McGillin’s, once again kindly gave the Mob the upstairs room, where beer went faster than a luge team on speed. Wolfman Jackoff circled up the mob and down downs began.
Just Kate and Winkie were serenaded for their especially shitty trail, and then came the FRB and DFL. DFL was Where’s Dildo? People shouted “Where’s Where’s Dildo?” and that bastid appeared and did what had to be done.
Then came the virgins, autohashers, and the visitors. Hatrick brought with her Just Carla, who fell into at least one of these categories. Just Jen also contributed to this sorry spectacle by bringing at least one, maybe two?, virgins.
There were all sorts of accusations, including Bitchard propositioning Strap On on trail (the REAL reason for police intervention down there), Master Baster and your correspondent racing on trail (Master Baster started it, don’t believe his denials), and Bastard Child hiding behind Beer Sucks’ skirt online (no doubt about THAT . . . *whipping sound*).
Winkie also had to down down for some reason. Winkie is Grand Fucking Master, and when one GFM drinks, all GFMs drink. Acting on piss pour intelligence (provided by your correspondent) E=MC2 raised a point of disorder and entreated Tour de Puke to down down, thinking that TdP was H5’s Grand Master. Nope. TdP is their religious fucking advisor. A perfectly false accusation, for which E, too, did a down down, th’bastid.
STD, just back from the Parisian runways, stood atop a chair and slurred out praise for the apparel of certain mobbers, including Bastard Child, Cunting Season, Just Maygan, Rash, Sly Fox, and Strap On, identifying them as truly modeling “formal wear.” Then she was booed soundly off the chair.
Crusty Calves and Bastard Child made announcements for upcoming hash events, and then the circle came to an end, which is not possible, since it’s a circle. Which means it never ends, like the BFM, beer help us all.
On On.
Denouncements:
Jailbait hash - Thursday 30 September 2004, 7.5p Stay tooned for where…
Filed Under Trash |
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