BFM #64 - the all-too-familiar skinfidlagon
Posted on May 12, 2005
12 May 2005: ‘Twas Thursday and the Franklin Mob did congregate at McKenna’s at 24th and Brown in Fairmount. In attendance were Mary F–king Poppins, Cheap (sans Mr.) Show, Tastes like Chicken, C–ting Season, Skin Fiddle, See Me Feel Me etc, myself and Tink, as well as Philly H3’s Booby Trap and Cousin It, and Porn to Fail from another live-hare club, Northern Virginia’s S.H.I.T. H3 (motto: "if your trails ain’t live, your hash ain’t S.H.I.T.!") Later to arrive, but well before 7:30 HST (7:53 EDT) were Oral Offender, the other resident British expat Dyke Queen, Nut Cruncher, and a host of boots: just Todd from Sly Fox’s barbeque the weekend before and his friend just Christie, just Brooke, and just John, who had read about our fine club online. Todd, who has all the hallmarks of a fine hasher, distributed Breast Cancer Awareness nipple stickers, which looked rather like this:
Last to show were Rash, E=MC2 and Strap, and Dr Fox. Having reached quorum, Rash proffered straws and tonight’s hare was our wily Skin Fiddle. Out the door he went to lay our 64th trail, and E took his time assembling the boots and visitors outside for the necessary chalk talk. During the chalk talk, two joggers happened upon us: just Chad and Melanie. They presumed that we were a group of runners (hah!) and asked what we were about, so E had to do the talk all over again, putting more time and distance between the hare and the pack. Finally, the hunt was on, by which time Skin Fiddle had had eight minutes to draw trail. What he had drawn was about 2.25 miles of checks and sparse mark, in the all-too-familiar complex right-angled polygon known to geometry majors as the skinfidlagon:
The pack held together fairly well for the first mile, but fragmented after E dashed east on a check and the rest scattered, most eventually finding trail within a block. Our boots and visitors held in well and stuck it out to the end. At last, the on-in mark, and on in we went.
Tonight’s sacramental element was once again dispensed in bottles since this pub didn’t do pitcher service (seems this is the norm for our club these days). We adjourned to the billiards room in the back so as not to interrupt the night’s ever-so-dry Quizzo tourney. Glasses were distributed, and after our hare was toasted for his s–tty trail, the visitors and boots were brought forth. Just John admitted that he made himself come, and was not prepared for the chorus of "wanker!" that followed that admission. Todd said that Fox had made him come; this was later attributed to be a "hand job," not sure how that came up. Christie said that Todd had made her come, the lucky dog. Chad came unexpectedly and Melanie said that she came with Chad. SHITH3’s Porn to Fail was given the option and he chose a song, which he bungled. Booby Trap was given the option, though I now forget which he took and I can’t read my own notes on that.
First in was E, only because Tink is weary of guzzling pint after pint for that and getting elbowed as an overachiever, and deliberately let E pass her. I took the non-honor of DFL, though I honestly did think that there were a few folks behind me on trail. Ach; no matter. Next up: accusations.
Nut Cruncher was in the dock for locking his keys in his car. Fortunately, nobody’s kit but his was in it. Given that this has happened quite a lot as of late, I propose that the club invest in a Slim-jim and keep it on hand for just this case (as long as it isn’t kept in Rash’s car). Porn to Fail was roasted for flubbing his song, as well he should have been. While it was noted that our Mob had the best tent at H5’s Stinko, it was also noted that Rash had some difficulty holding her beer. To that end it was determined that she needed more practice, and she was given a glass to do just that, which she managed to keep down.
During the circle, one of the barflies had racked a game on the pool table, and one of our fair harriettes had pushed the balls in to the pockets while said barfly was refilling at the bar. Oh well; that sort of thing happens. Nothing came of it, and everyone got out alive.
Announcements:
Our 69th trail on June 15 is going to be a pub crawl. Start being kind to your liver today.
The BFM’s first Yanks-vs-Brits cook-off was on May 14 at Skin Fiddle’s palatial estate. To their credit, Mr Queen didn’t cook any food that is named after a venereal disease (such as Spotted Dick or Cock-a Leekie). Ms Sausage brought some lovely pastries, much booze was swilled, and some wags tried to name Mr Queen’s pup just Richard.
Porn to Lose had mentioned that some H3 in DC was celebrating their 1500th run on May 22, which has already passed at time of publication, so never mind.
That’s all I got for now. See you on Thursday, Cause and Mr Shoes.
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