BFM #269: My Favorite Time is 269
If you missed this week’s hash, two things:
1. I think you’re lying. We had a f*cking cast of thousands out last night and I have a mystery bruise on my hand this morning which I strongly suspect is from having to write down all your names AND all the stupid stuff that was said and/ or done.
2. If you actually weren’t here (again, see #1), you can reenact this hash on your own, as this was the biggest epidemic of checkhanging I’ve ever seen in my life, and I’ve hashed in New Orleans where people will stop for a beer in the middle of a checkhang. So, simply head out to any street corner and stand aimlessly for five minutes. Amble to the next corner, and repeat, hoping someone tells you where to go next. If you feel like it, loiter outside the Locust Bar for a while. Tada! The hash.
This evening’s festivities commenced at Tattooed Mom’s, a bar which has either forgotten that we nearly made them lose their liquor license a few years back, or times are just really that tough that they had to let us back. I arrived before most of the horde, and spent a few minutes chatting with Son of a Goat F*cker, who apologized for anything he or his better half might have said or done at the most recent Full Moon. I hadn’t been there to be offended, but allegedly First Down and Rear Engineer were arranging to exchange cell phone pics of their poo, and on the walk back home at the end of the night, Son of a Goat F*cker committed an act against a poorly parked car that is typically limited to underage R. Kelly sex tapes. If you know what I mean. And I think you do. Anyway. Also showing up tonight were Nappy-Headed Ho, Working Girl, Where’s My Vagina, Comes Anally (who was wearing a race t-shirt), Fire Down Under, Silence of the Clams, Big Tackle, Sly Fox, , Sex Tonight, Denied!, Pink and Puffy Rides the Huffy, Midnight Tranny to Georgia, Lick Hymen, Two Clump Chump, Holy Fuck, Cause for Blindness, Softcore Analyst, Jingle Balzzz, Mediocre and Stupid, Swollen Cockpit, Just Derrick, H2Hoe, Goes Down Often, Mr. Snuffleupamuff, Wonder Blow, Ass Ventura, Beefcake Strokitoff, One Inch In, The Rash, Rear Engineer, Hold the Sausage, Short Distance Rimmer, Bonsai Bush, Cherry Poppins, We’re Not Voting (who someone later in the evening mistook for Sex Tonight, Denied!. We’re Not Voting, if you came out more often, you wouldn’t have this problem), Just Greg, another Just Greg, Just Art, Just Erin, Just Matt, Just Melissa, Just Jen, Just Julie, Just Kurt, Just Katie, Just Keith, and Just Bill, who is NOT really a Just — he used to hash in Sydney and had a name and everything, but he doesn’t like his old hash name (he said it’s boring) and wants a new one. Yeah, for real. Start brainstorming, wankers!
The Mob’s resident Phallocentric Tyrant, Rear Engineer, grabbed a handful of straws and started making nervous hashers draw them. The lucky winner this week was Just Jen, who’s been out about twice and said she didn’t even know what the hare was. Nice try, Just Jen, but there’s no getting out of haring. Jingle Balzzz cheerfully volunteered to help and Just Julie agreed to go along for moral support. Five minutes after they were off, the Mob poured out of Tattoed Mom’s to the congested sidewalk of South Street, where they sort of formed a circle and a few people aired out their crotches. (And seriously? Stop that. Air it out on your own time.) Hold the Sausage attempted to shout instructions to everyone and finally told everyone to f*ck off and go find trail.
The Mob took off down South Street. Well, sort of. The FRBs took off down South Street, and once they yelled back “ON ON”, THEN the Mob took off down South Street, dodging tourists, hipsters, smokers on the sidewalk, garbage bags, parking meters, dogs, children, surly teenagers, comics book geeks, etc, rounding the corner, aaaaaaand promptly checkhanging at the next intersection. This went on for some time, with the Mob arriving at a corner and casually hanging out and chatting while a few brave FRBs went scouring the surrounding blocks for trail, then sprinting to the next check and waiting while the…etc. Lather, Rinse, Repeat. Until! The Mob arrived at a check that had absolutely no marks leading away from it. Baffled, wankers searched for trail until a voice yelled “On Bar!” and the pack happily waddled into the night again. “Are we on trail?” “Um…no.” The hash was being hijacked for an impromptu beer check at the Locust Bar, which we got to by going the long way around, because Hold the Sausage couldn’t remember what block it was on. (The correct answer: Right next to my gym.)
Also, the absolutely greatest thing of the night: Two random eighth graders, still in school clothes and with their bags, ran with us for most of trail. Just for the hell of it. Awesome.
Moving on. Most of the Mob hung around outside the Locust Bar, as there was absolutely no way all 579 of us could all fit, like some sort of sweaty, drunk version of “how many people can we fit in a phone booth?” (And if any of you kids just asked “what’s a phone booth?” you can just get the hell off my lawn.) Bored, and lured by the siren song of Pabst and Dum-Dum lollipops, the loitering Mob meandered back to Tattooed Mom’s, swarmed up to the back room and commenced drinking a LOT of PBR and accusing each other in circle. After the circle, there were lots of drinking and the construction of a tower of PBR empties. (You know, the usual.)
The Circle:
A Social: Everyone drank for the most Epic Hash Fail ever. Not only could we not find trail, we also couldn’t successfully complete a beer check.
Hares: Jingle Balzzz, and in absentia (they up and left, apparently) Just Julie, and Just Jen
Virgins: Just Matt, Just Katie, Just Some Girl in a Pink Top, and “Just Bill”
First In, Last In: Cause for Blindness, Mr Muff
Comes Latelies: Lick Hymen, Jingle Balzzz, Sex Tonight, Denied!, and Pink and Puffy Rides the Huffy.
Autohashers: Scammin’Ole Ladies, Cousin It, We’re Not Voting, Virgin Pimp
Accusations:
For not really being a virgin, etc: Just Bill
For dancing on a pole fully clothed: Cause for Blindness
For encouraging her: Ass Ventura
For wearing a race t-shirt: Comes Anally
For being twinsies: Ass Ventura and Holy F*ck
For scaring off the hares: Two Clump Chump
For wearing a skirt: Goes Down Often
For making wind noises when he runs: Two Clump Chump
For making that accusation: Just Greg
For not warning his virgin about wearing a race shirt: Swollen Cockpit
For denying all responsibility for the hash: Rear Engineer
Under the “When one GM drinks” rule: Big Tackle
For getting us lost on the way to the Locust Bar: Hold the Sausage
For getting his identity stolen in Italy: One Inch In
For something about either his girlfriend or his guitar (can’t read my writing): Working Girl
Announcements:
Cousin It’s Phillies Tailgate is August 9, 2009. August 2010 date to be announced shortly.
Rear Engineer and Scooby Snatch will be haring the Philly Hash this Saturday at the John Heinz Memorial Wildlife Refuge and Buffet.
Happy Hour for Student’s Run Philly Style: Get drunk at the Public House from 5-8, (and maybe even pick up that Sugar Daddy you were looking for) then come to TA Flannery’s for next week’s hash, which will also be Scammin’ Ole Ladies last hash before he moves overseas to pursue a lucrative career in Japanese tentacle porn. There will also be jello shots.
Overheard at the Hash
“My dog’s not interested in men.” – Short Distance Rimmer
“You aren’t going to shit right there, are you?” Lick Hymen to One Inch In
“It’s not like every time someone sits down, I ask them that!” An indignant Lick Hymen
“It does look like you’re trying to squeeze one out though.” Again, Lick Hymen to One Inch In
“I’m dating your mother.” Cause to the bouncer:
“You know, I’ve had a few threesomes, and it’s just kind of awkward” Unknown harriette
On On,
The Rash
I’m going to have to agree with you here, Rash; check hanging has become a bit of an epidemic.
to the tune of tom petty’s “free fallin’”…
Not a good girl, she’s got bad Karma.
She wheezes, and sneezes on you.
She’s nasty, hooked up on pharma.
And her horse is
her boyfriend too.
And she’s check,
check hangin’.
Yeah she’s check,
check hangin’.
All the hashers are standin’ in the alley,
Downin’ Czech beer and shots that are hard.
But she ain’t there,
not in the alley.
She’s on the corner,
like she’s standin’ guard.
‘Cause she’s check,
check hangin’.
Yeah she’s check,
check hangin’.