BFM #56 - Ides of St. Patricks or It Ain’t Easy Tog’ing Green
Posted on March 17, 2005
17 March 2005: Everyone was Irish at Kelliann’s Bar & Grill on Spring Garden - 1 mile from Center City, in case you were wondering; I was. Yes, there was lots of wearin’ of the green, but none so green as the BFM gathered in the back room (quarantined?) adorned in green togas, diaper togas (Skin Fiddle), it-was-a-bedsheet togas (Bum’s Urine), laurel wreath and little green horns (LFW), caftan toga, green shirt toga, I-don’t-wanna-run-in-a togas ( C*nting Season), and a Celtic kilt (Tour). A big f*cking mess o’ green. See Me, Hear Me, Touch/Shush Me *volunteered* to hare, toga-less, taking off with appropriately, ah, pink flour and Bastard Child, co-hare of choice for fair maidens reluctant to run wantonly through the city all alone. Five or two or seven minutes later the BGM oozed out the back door for a chalk talk and introduction of virgins, Just Brian (Flaccid made him come) and Just Heather (Just Michelle made her come, pictures pending).
Trail: On-On was called almost immediately and we were off heading west on 15th and into the chilly evening and an unsuspecting city. After zigging and zagging and often checking (yes!) we came across a long squiggle of flour in front of several stores and a garage, somewhere near 20th and Pennslyvania. More checking, then, it became clear: the hares had run out of flour and replenished the supply at Whole Foods. White flour led us to the BFPkwy, pausing to Think(er) about where trail may still go. We came periously close the The Museum, but circled around near the boathouse row rocks, taking in the backside (so to speak) of the Franklin Institute. We followed the white splots around the Parkway environs and past St. Someone Church, where we witnessed a miracle. The flour was pink again! On down Vine Street and Back In for our lucky pots of gold(en brew).
Circle: After suitable refreshment, our Resident Authoritarian, E=My Cock Squared mounted his podium and conducted the ceremonies. First up were the Hares o’ the evening, See Me, Hear Me, Touch Me and Bastard Child. Next came the virgins - well, the virgin still standing, Just Brian had been fast-talked into his first hash by none other than the long lost (in Utah) Lake Flaccid. Tour de Puke from H5 (Harrisburg/Hershey H3) was honored as a visitor, and for bringing his *friend*, Ruby(?? not sure I caught his name). Tour, in lieu of a body part, gave us a rousing rendition of a Bagpipe Song. Ruby took the option - he bared his … elbow.Back to the rituals, Dyke Queen drank as first in (Tinkerbell being noticeable absent. Seems she was in Utah, skiing in search of the lost Lake), and the Cause drank as last in, having been passed in the last hundred yards by the lollygagging Winkie and Cunt’mo. Dyke Queen has been r*nning with us for the past few weeks, not finding the highlight of Center City until the end of his visit to the States. I don’t think we’ve seen the last of him. Okay, time for accusations.
Hashus Interruptus: Rash, Cause and Cuntmo (Since when is missing one week a violation?!?)
Toga no wear us: C*nting Season, Lake Flaccid
Auto Hashers: E=MyCock^2, Strap On (I just flew in and boy, are my arms tired), Lake Flaccid and Just Brian, and
Taxi Hashers (from mid-trail): Beer Sucks and Cheep Show
Wearing a garment that made her look like Jesus: Cause for Blindness
Getting off the Rock and back to the flock: Cuntanamo Bay, who sincerely thanked The Mob for keeping in touch. He also gifted Ms. Season and Ms. Blindness with a hash appropriate souvenier from that island: Cock Soup.
Finally, Tour de Puke made his pitch for the upcoming Stinko de Mayo, H5’s analversary weekend fiesta. As an encore of sorts, the Piano Man proceed to wow the crowd with a ditty about Rumson men and a certain Philly hasher whose clothes must stay on. Ya hadda there.
Your *humble* scribe,
McCause O’ Blindness
Oh, yes, Welcome Home Cuntmo!!
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