BFM #312 Another Year, Another AGM
Well, tonight was the most important night of the year at the Ben Franklin Mob. Yes, even more important than Prom and even more important than the night you backed that harriette who’d had one shot too many into a dark corner for a cheap feel: it was the AGM! (Annual General Meeting, for those who haven’t been paying attention.) The night where we forcibly wrest the reins of power away from the people who have proved themselves to be woefully incompetent and hand them off to other wankers of questionable competence who have either bribed or slept their way to power. If you weren’t there this evening, I want to extend my personal wishes that your dysentery clears up soon, because I can’t imagine any other reason that you would not have shown up to this.
Tonight brought out a whole host of BFMers, including some founding members we haven’t seen in a while because they went off and became responsible adults. They were: Bastard Child, Beers Sucks, Can You Hear Me Now?, Cause for Blindness, C*nting Season, Sly Fox, Scooby Snatch, The Rash, Up Her Ali, Hold the Sausage, Little Red Riding Wood, Dry Hump, Three Balls, Big Tackle, Son of Goat F*cker, Flounder, Two Clump Chump, Sleeps Around the C*ck, Fire Down Under, S&M Man, Cleavage to Beaver, Shefelta Fish, Midnight Tranny to Georgia, Porn to Fail, Just Jose, Grab My Handlebars, Mediocre & Stupid, Tube C*ck, Bonsai Bush, Reginal Discharge, Mr. Snuffleupamuff, One Night Only, Rear Engineer, Rear Engineer’s Mustache, Where’s My Vagina, Goes Down Often, Post Anal Drip, Swollen C*ckpit, One Inch in, Deep Discunt, Short Distance Rimmer, Slutty When Wet, and Just Joanna.
The Mob milled around Wooly Mammoth’s upstairs room before the hash, drinking beer and casting the occasional longing eye toward the tantalizing set up of chafing dishes at the far end of the room. "Food?" they asked, pleadingly. Hashers kept turning around quick and looking at the table hopefully, as if food had somehow sneaked in behind them as a surprise. "Food…now?" No, you impatient whiners. Trail first, then food. Sighing deeply and casting one last lingering glance at where they thought food might appear, the Mob trudged out into the snow for chalk talk, and to find the trail set as Rear Engineer’s final act of Phallocentric Tyranny.
Well, most of the Mob, anyway. The ancien régime of the BFM sensibly stayed at the bar where it wasn’t covered with ice and snow and caught up with each other. It was during this conversation that we discovered that even the combination of marriage and fatherhood has not changed Bastard Child in the least. According to his very patient wife Beer Sucks, he will still throw devil horns during church if so moved and sees absolutely nothing wrong with refering to his daughter as “carry-on luggage.” (This last bit I actually see nothing wrong with because I’ve been lobbying for all children ages 2 to 7 to be stowed in the overhead compartment.) You young whippersnappers who went out on trail, well I have no idea where you went. You were supposed to end up at Franklin Park, where Rear Engineer and Dry Hump had set up strategic stockpiles of snowballs with which to bombard you as inspired by this scene from The Patriot and apparently yinz decided to do something else. Perhaps a beer check? Maybe took in a movie? Got some grocery shopping done? No idea. At any rate, the Mob slowly trickled back to the bar and were ecstatic to find that food– which was for once not sad pasta and various lumps drenched in tomato sauce, but rather tasty little chicken, hamburger, and cheesy things– had appeared in their absence and thence proceeded to descend upon the spread like that scene in Gone With the Wind where Scarlett wolfs down the last radish in the garden then swears that as God as her witness she’ll never be hungry again.
Finally sated, circle began, easily the longest circle I’ve ever been a party to. It was like the extended dance remix of circles. Ridiculous. Plus, people wholly unrelated to the accusation kept leaping in the circle to drink. Bah. I only wrote down the interesting bits, so here you go:
Circle (Paul Oakenfold Extended Dance Remix)
Visitors (I guess since they live in Houston now): Bastard Child, who told a heartwarming joke about a man’s wife dying which earned him a boot to the groin (some things never change), and Beers Sucks who had to be reminded of a hash song to sing.
Hares: Rear Engineer, Rear Engineer’s Mustache
First In/Last In: Cause for Blindness, Midnight Tranny, Up Her Ali, and under the When One GM Drinks rule, the other 15 GMs in the room.
Comes Latelies: Dry Hump, Bastard Child, Beers Sucks, Three Balls, Can You Hear Me Now?, Little Red Riding Wood
Autohashers: Big Tackle, Deep Discunt, Bastard Child, Beers Sucks, Can You Hear Me Now, Little Red Riding Wood, Cunting Season, The Rash, Piss Cycle
Accusations (Get Comfortable This Will Take While 12" mix):
For not showering for a week: Mr. Snuffleupamuff
Primping on trail: Slutty When Wet
For running a sex blog: Goes Down Often (Scooby Snatch accused her of this, but called her Fire Down Under by accident, which earned him a kick to the nards and a down-down.)
For being around for BFM #1: Bastard Child, Beers Sucks, Cause for Blindness, Can You Hear Me Now?
(It’s interesting to note at this point, that Beer Sucks had been handing off her down-downs this whole time and Bastard Child was drinking for two.)
For drinking for two: Bastard Child
For asking to be accused: Two Clump Chump
For enthusiastically discussing non-sexual medical procedures: Hold the Sausage, S&M Man
All Current and former BFM GMs: The Rash, Cunting Season, Hold the Sausage, Up Her Ali, Rear Engineer
Goes Down Often for referring to Grab My Handlebars in print as "Hold My Handlebars." I’d just like to point out that this is minor, considering that once everyone has enough beers, they slur the “Grab My” so it sounds like “Grandma Handlebars.” Do with that what you will.
For not one but two hash crashes: Tube C*ck
For trying to make an accusation: Cause for Blindness
For naming an EWH3 hasher: Two Clump Chump
Mediocre & Stupid was accused of a whole bunch of things, but the only notable bit about that is that she had to do one down-down for being Mediocre, then a second one for being Stupid
Finally, the circle ended abruptly when Scooby unwisely attempted to make C*nting Season do a down down she didn’t want to do.
Awards (Instrumental Mix):
I personally wanted to give some random hasher a Witless Solipsism award, but that would’ve required the award to consist of a dictionary so that they could look up the word "solipsism." And also "witless." And "dictionary." And "word." But that seemed needlessly complicated, so here are the actual awards as compiled by Mismanagement:
Best Trail: 300th, as laid by Rear Engineer, Tube C*ck, Cleavage to Beaver, Cunting Season, Hold the Sausage, and S&M Man
Worst Trail: #261 laid by Jingle Balls and Fire Thighs, which was during the World Series. Only 15 people showed up, none of whom found the beer check.
Excellence in Hashing Award: For losing Stan, losing the Flabongo twice, and drinking out of no less than 6 pairs of new shoes, Mediocre & Stupid
The Little F*ckin Winkie Memorial Award for Dating the Most Girls in the Hash: Wresting this title away from 3-time winner Scooby Snatch, it was Two Clump Chump
The Drinking Special Olympics Award, or the "Up-Up": Scooby Snatch and Mr. Snuffleupamuff for their inspired boot-and-rally at the 300th.
Best Beer Near: Where’s My Vagina and Cleavage to Beaver, for being 10′ feet apart.
The Oo! Shiny! Award for abandoning the hash for a boyfriend: Goes Down Often
The Most Inappropriate Award: Goes Down Often for saying something so inappropriate that she couldn’t repeat it and I can’t even write it down.
Most Times as Hare: Two Clump Chump
All the winners were then invited to drink in the circle, and Rear will get them their awards from the Dollar Store once the snow melts, sometime around July.
Announcements (Phillies Tailgate Hooha remix)
There will be NO Phillies tailgate this August OR this July, as Cousin It is leaving town to become a Carmelite nun at a small convent in Moosejaw, Saskatchewan. Be sure to congratulate novice Sister Bernadette when you see him.
Namings and Renamings (DJ Ming & FS Drum N’ Base Mix)
Just Joanna: Because she went to Virginia Tech where apparently there is nothing to do for fun but cow-tipping, she was to be named "Just the Cow Tip." (I preferred "Porking at the Car Wash", but no one listens to me.) However, our illustrious GM was feeling the effects of all the "When ONE GM Drinks" down-downs, because he accidentally named her "Just the Brown Tip." Heh. Well, congrats, YFF, you’ve at least got a good story to tell.
Reginal Discharge: Originally, Reginal’s voted-upon name was deemed too offensive, even for the hash. Since that time, it’s has been decided that nothing is too offensive, and she was officially and properly renamed: Seize’er Tits (Or Seizure Tits, or Caesar Tits.You decide.)
E’rections (Old & Busted vs New Hotness mix)
Yes! New people who you can bitch to! The election was handily run by the efficient C*nting Season, and here are the results:
Haberdasher
Mr. Snuffleupamuff
Hash Cash
Where’s My Vagina
Mr. Snuffleupamuff
On Secs
Grab My Handlebars
Sloppy Ho
Mediocre and Stupid
RAs
S&M Man
Bonsai Bush
GM
Midnight Tranny to Georgia
This has been my last BFM hash trash probably ever, since I’ve written them for longer than many of you have been legal to drink. Or have been out of high school (…Just Tristan, I’m looking at you). And so, in the immortal words of Groucho Marx, “I’ve had a perfectly wonderful evening. But this wasn’t it."
On On,
The Rash
Brava!
You spelled “yuns” wrong. I’m not sure if there were any other mispellings because the remianing words aint in my vocabulary.
Nope, in Pittsburghese, it’s yinz. As in, “Yinz get bent.”
Well done! Rash, you’re a tough act to follow!
I’m going to go with Seize’er TiTs…I dig the apostrophe and the 2 capital T’s represent the tatas.