BFM #41

Posted on December 2, 2004

2 December 2004: Well, well, well: someone had a birthday on Thursday. That someone was Bastard Child, who was named for his damnable eruption from the loins of Philly Hashers, Bunyip and Magellen.

The Mob met Thursday at Player’s Pub, on Second Street near South. It was the first bar chosen by the Mob’s newly anointed Beer Mistress: Tastes Like Chicken. All agreed the choice was excellent.

Inside, an unusually mellow Mob passed time chatting until we remembered why we were there, so Wolfman Jackoff presented straws. Just Shelly pulled the short one, but she’s so new that Bastard Child heroically stepped up to co-hare.

Shelly resisted being hare because, to her half-mind, if you don’t have a hash name you don’t have to hare. But that’s like dressing up as a clown and refusing to perform because you don’t have the red rubber nose. Her claim was politely shouted down. Then we realized we had no flour.

Someone spotted Chicken out front through the window and See Me Feel Me Touch Me said, "Everyone say Not It when she comes in," so we did. Chicken was therefore "It," and as such, was required to turn around, exit, and get flour from down the street. No rest for the weary brew babe.

The It Girl came back with a flour bag, though it was small, so Player’s generous cook donated a pound. The co-hares left. Wolfman Jackoff kept time, fighting off pressure from impatient Mobbers to shorten the headstart. He held out almost five minutes. Then the Mob was on after.

The co-hares left giant, easy-to-see splotches of flour through some of the edgier locales of South Philadelphia. Trail highlights included a tightly wound crackhead yabbering on a corner, and a shadowy alley where people on a bench were either making out or making street sales, couldn’t tell which.

The trail also featured South Philly shiggy (an overgrown vacant lot used for illegal dumping), and a well attended wake which had spilled onto the sidewalk. Life must go on, so the Mob ran through the somber crowd.

Trail ended where it started. The co-hares had outrun the Mob by a hair; they heard FRBs yelling "On Hare" toward the end. But, we later learned, earlier on trail they had such a lead that they managed to purchase more flour, which let them lay such massive marks.

Back inside the bar, Cunting Season collected hash cash, Bastard Child got beer, and Wolfman Jackoff formed the circle. The Mob heaped scorn on the co-hares for their shitty trail, and the co-hares did their down downs like pros. Next up were the First In, who was the impassive Bitchard, and the Last In, Cause for Blindness, who had struggled epically for this position with Cheap Show. There were no visitors or virgins, so the circle moved directly to accusations.

The first accusation was leveled at Lake Flaccid, who had changed from his spandex into jeans after the trail, and who explained that spandex becomes uncomfortable if worn too long. His accusers, all women, viewed these acts as the acts of a man who cross dresses and whines about it. He did what he had to do.

The next accusation came down on Just Shelly, who had invoked her lack of a hash name to avoid being hare. Complaining about a lack of a hash name is bad, but this was an offense of an even lower order. So she did what she had to do. And when one co-hare drinks, they all drink. Bastard Child found himself back in the dock doing another down down.

Cause for Blindness tried to make an entirely scandalous accusation, but since she is banned from making accusations, she was politely shouted down. The next accusation went against two overachieving ass clowns who last week ran an 8.8 mile race: Rash, who was not present, and Bastard Child. Little Fucking Winkie did a down down on Rash’s behalf, and Bastard Child did one on his own ass clownish behalf. And when one co-hare drinks, they all drink, so Just Shelly found herself back in the dock.

Next, Bastard Child did a "Happy Birthday Fuck You" down down, and when one hare drinks . . . (Just Shelly got learned this rule real good). For the Birthday celebration, Beer Sucks brought cake and cupcakes, which the Mob dispatched without delay. Autohashers filed in during the proceedings, and once again the Mob had its way with an unsuspecting and innocent bar in Ben Franklin’s hometown.

Note: Some people in the circle did not believe that a pink ape visited Bastard Child for his birthday; here’s proof: