BFM #38
Posted on November 11, 2004
11 November 2004: On this fine night, our pack of idiots was summoned to the Irish Pub by the promises of $2 pints and a (hopefully soundproofed) room for our circle. By 7:00 PM (6:39 Hash Standard time), the Pub was standing-room-only full of the usual after-work crowd of desk pilots and similar white-collar trolls, with nary a dry bag or a pair of running shoes in sight. As the hounds came in from the cold, elbowed their ways through the throng and guzzled their pre-trail beers, our grand f*!king master of mismanagement prepared the straws for tonight’s lottery. The short straw went to Full Moon’s Strap-On, who hadn’t laid trail since their AGM last quarter. For some reason, she was joined to co-hare by PH3’s Tinkerbell. (This reason will be explained later.)
Off they went to leave the track for tonight’s hunt, and as the Mob counted five minutes (bearing in mind that a BFM hare lead minute is actually only 48 seconds long), Skin Fiddle and I agreed to watch the coats and bags, since we were both unable to run. As the last hound went out the door, SF and I turned our attention to our pints, the club’s luggage, and NCState taking an early lead over Florida. Half an hour later, Strap-On and Tinkerbell returned to the pub after laying approximately 1.5 miles of urban trail, over which they must have distributed several grams of flour.
LF Winkie was first in, though not because he is an overachieving greyhound as expected, but because he frankly admitted to losing trail and wandering on-in by himself. He whinged unnecessarily about the utter paucity of mark on the sidewalk and was promptly told to shut up. Strange how that happens, Winkie, when karma deals it to you like you’ve dealt to others. The usual greyhounds were next in, including Crusty Calves and Scooby Snatch, and many others who also admitted to losing trail or otherwise mentioned the thin spoor. They received the same comfort as Winkie did. Full Moon’s on-sec E=MC^2 was one of the few to stay on trail, though he was hardly first in.
After half an hour of milling around and being denied pitcher service at the bar (unheard of!), Winkie left to retrieve hash cash Rash from Amtrak’s 30th St. station. We also learned that the Irish Pub was unable to accommodate our needs (seems this has happened before…), so we moved our on-in to Bonner’s, our home away from home. On the way, we picked up Lake Flaccid and his (non-hashing) girlfriend whose name escapes me just now.
As the Mob assembled on more familiar and accommodating grounds, Winkie eventually called the circle in a very somber, almost funereal mood. By that time, we seemed to have lost most of the pack. The hares were roasted for their s*!tty trail, led by Scooby’s gravelly, post-chest-cold voice. Accusations flowed as if from a dam burst, and the GFM was most frequently on the wrong end of the elbow after the autohashers were downed in. Poor little Winkie was excoriated mercilessly (mostly by Strap-On’s better half): for leaving the apres to pick up Rash, for borrowing a car to travel ten blocks, for once again running us out of a pub that couldn’t take us, and finally (by me) for not taking enough abuse this night. To his credit, Winkie downed down after down after down with hardly any protest.
Lake Flaccid (the hasher formerly known as just Mitch) was elbowed for autohashing, and he responded by explaining that he was on a fund-raiser for cancer research. By a pint he was exonerated. Just Medical Alyssa was accused of hobnobbing with city celebrities and bigwigs during a Veteran’s Day event. To that end, all veterans were toasted (when one vet drinks, all vets drink). That was my second pint. Just Medical Alyssa was named "Oral Offender" after an obscure and unenforceable violation of military conduct concerning marital relations, and she necked yet another pint. Then, announcements.
Winkie reminded us all that the Mob holiday party is still on the 18th and is still at McGillin’s. Rash reminded all present that she still expects all attendees to RSVP and cough up $22 if they haven’t already.
I had three announcements:
1) A local supermarket had flour on sale, so I splurged and bought 50 pounds of the stuff. I have twenty pounds of trail-ready flour in five-pound bags, for anyone who wants to keep a bag on hand.
2) I’m still haring for Full Moon on the full moon. Be there or be square!
3) As I had promised, I had a controversial tattoo drilled over. I had also offered the club the opportunity to "pound in" the ink, as is ancient Boot Boy tradition (and partly as payback for all the controversy I had brought to the club). I removed my shirt and all harriers and harriettes present dutifully (and I might add, some sadistically) pounded in the ink as invited. Notable in their absence were some of the Mob’s least irregular regulars: chaplain Wolfman, Sly Fox, unofficial mascot and vice blogmistress Cause for Blindness and on-sec CYHMNow, who missed at least a good photo opp. Since Winkie was in a naming mood that evening (as he has been of late), I was made to genuflect as the kennel (namely Winkie) decided my name. Given that Oral Offender had not five minutes prior been named in truest Mob tradition, I had a moment to panic over Winkie’s suggestion of a particularly obscene name involving fudge before he showed a moment of mercy and baptized me "Pound it In," which on the grand scale is as kind and relevant a name as this club has ever given anyone. As a misericord for my throbbing back, I downed down yet another another pint and left the inner circle no longer just Scott, as well as no longer sober or able to sleep on my back.
S*!tty trail, s*!tty apres (yet again in two different locations), two new names. The Mob in its mid-thirties is still as young (juvenile?) as it ever was.
POSTSCRIPT: Tinkerbell writes the following via email:
"One thought for the Trash (which was raised a couple of months ago but seems to have been forgotten): some of the girly hashers do not want to hare on their own after dark. I saw Strap was obviously very nervous about having to hare [solo] so I went with her."
Oh; okay then. And I thought Tink was co-haring for the rare opportunity of laying a live False trail, thus far seen only once by this club on Bum’s Urine’s hare (#34). Tink raises a valid point. Personally, I think individual hariettes should make the risk assessment on their own and be offered the opportunity to ask for a co-hare/guard dog.
Respectfully submitted,
–
Pound it In
Filed Under Trash |
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