Manayunk hashes always seem to bit hit or miss. We went from about 45 hashers the week before to about 10 on trail. Its unfortunate because our hare, Hold the Sausage, pulled off a great trail! There were lots of hills, lots of dirt trail and lots of stairs!

 

Who came:

 

For those who turned out to hash, I must say, we were a pretty sedate group. We laughed and told our virgins that we weren’t sure what they had been told, but we promised them, we weren’t always so sedate.

 

After the initial circle, introduction of our virgins Just Brian, Just Jillian and Just Derik, and a few snatch air-outs, we were off.  We ran up hill and down another. As Sloppy and I started over the R6 Septa bridge we heard someone yell, “False!” and we turned back laughing and saying, that thankfully, we didn’t have to go down the stairs. We turned and headed up a pretty long hill and through a grove a trees. The mob was small and pretty quick so there wasn’t a whole lot of stopping until we reached Ridge Ave…I’m not sure if we were tired, hot or if we really lost trail but we seemed to walk in circles, around the ice cream joint, for quite a bit. Up in the distance, I saw Son of a Goat Fucker running back and forth, across the street, like a lost puppy. No trail where we all were so Fiber Opdick and Virgin Pimp headed in Son’s direction. We were on. We headed down by an elementary school and then took a left and headed down onto the trails along Lincoln Drive. Most of our little hash group must have been thirsty because I kept hearing the comment, “this would have been a great spot for a beer check.” However, there were no beer checks. At the bottom of the ever-darker growing trail, it occurred to someone, “do we have all our virgins?” We did a self-check and all virgins were present and accounted for. Then someone else said, “has anyone seen Cause?”

 

We arrived at the opening of the trail and took a right and r*n the newly paved path along the Wissahickon creek. Just about the time we all settled into our paces, trail took a right…up a set of stairs, comparable to only those I’ve climbed in Montmartre, and San Fran. Fiber Opdick and I would reach a landing and look up and there were a whole other set of stairs.

 

Thankfully, when we reached the top it was all-downhill from there, literally! As we r*n down a group of people were r*nning up the hill. In the growing darkness, I focused my eyes and the one woman looked like Just Kate. Just then E=My Cock ^2 ran past me. Their hockey game over, Just Kate, Rear Engineer, Strap-on, E, et al were r*nning trail in reverse to meet up with us.

 

Back at the bar, the hash seemed to have crawled out of T. Hogan’s woodwork because there were more hashers in the bar than regular patrons. Our barmaid didn’t seem accustomed to our large numbers because it took FOREVER to get beer. Trust me, I know this because I had to endure the whining.

 

With our hash having multiplied by 3 and beer flowing, Sloppy Ho opened the circle.

 

Hare: Hold the Sausage

 

First In: Son of a Goat Fucker

 

Last In: Cause for Blindness

 

Virgins:

Auto-hashers:

Seeing how we had more people in circle than at the on-out, Sloppy called for a social.

Cums Lately:

Visitor:  Papa Elmo

 

Accusations:

Announcements:

At that point, Sloppy Ho summoned Papa Elmo into the circle. Elmo began laughing but it was a nervous laugh. Sloppy suggested that since we don’t have any stories of Papa Elmo, she suggested that he tell us the worst thing Elmo ever did, to which Elmo replied, “bringing my dad to the hash!” Sloppy began calling out for name suggestions. The few were: St. Elmo’s Father, Stained Elmo’s Father and Virgin Pimp’s suggestion of Satan Elmo’s Father, for which he was banned from future namings. Papa Elmo was christened St. Elmo’s Father and when Elmo joined his dad in circle for the down-down, it was observed that St. Elmo downed his beer faster than Elmo.

 

With circle closed, the whining continued.  Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!   “I want more beer.”  “There isn’t any dark beer left and light beer doesn’t count.”  “I paid $7 and only got 2 beers.”  “Where’s the beer?”  “Since when did the BFM become so organized?” 

 

I poured myself a lager and continued my conversation with St. Elmo’s Father.

 

On, On!

Europee’n on Me

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