​700!
 
Just like our high school proms, we all met up with our friends before the big event to admire each other’s formal wear, this time at Morgan’s Pier.  Instead of taking a limo to the big event, we ran a trail laid by Sex Toys For Tots.  He was nervous about the pack making it to the boat on time, so he laid a short trail.  A VERY short trail – lasting about a half a mile and taking the pack 10 minutes to run, we showed up about 50 minutes early to the boat.  Sex Toys generously offered everyone a round on Goats’ credit card at Cavanaugh’s while we waited.  In true Big Fucking Mess style, Goats had left her credit card at the first bar.
 
Once all the early hijinks were settled, we boarded the Ben Franklin Yacht and bee-lined for the open bar.  We set sail and made our way up to the top deck for circle, led by Goose in a Canadian tux and Fort Dixalot looking like Hugh Jackman from the Prestige.  Trying to rival Goats leaving her credit card, Thud Muffin apparently left his health insurance card at Cavanaugh’s.  But Goats came back with the messy win, somehow leaving her panties on Morgan’s Pier.  Angry Inch finally found a date to prom, but forgot to bring a condom.  The whole pack cheered for not using a condom, I guess because Safety Third (#momvoice but really you guys should use condoms).
 
Then, the moment we’ve been dreaming about since middle school – electing prom king and queen, and watching the Angry Inch pass both crowns off.  The field for prom queen was massive, and essentially turned into a social.  Goose invented an efficient voting algorithm where he repeatedly split the field in half and kept the side that had the loudest cheers, eventually crowning Three Way Stop Prom Queen.  Silence of the Goats triumphed over an otherwise-all-male field for Prom King. 
 
Then we danced, didn’t break anything or lose anyone overboard (look how much we’ve improved since #650!), and on-aftered at Cavanaugh’s Riverdeck.  Because it was Just Andrew’s last hash before moving to San Francisco, an impromptu naming happened, in which he was christened Stairwell to Heaven. 

It was a dark and stormy night as the pack headed out for the 699th time.  Quickly, they became lost on a Pantyphile hared trail.  Suddenly, they found a check, and off they went to only get lost again at Sugarhouse. Just when hope was lost, a “J check” was found with a four loko and airplane shot to be had. Could it be? A shot near is finally here!  Onto an abounded pier they went to get their shots until Mother nature had better ideas.  The rain began falling ever so slightly.  But the pack was not deterred.  An annoyed apartment dweller shined their light at the pack but little did this person know, they already had their sights on the next part of trail.  So off they went!

Rain rain and more rain.  Most normal people would run for cover, but not when there is beer in your future.  Along the trail they went in search of the beer near with shots a flowing through their bodies. What’s that I hear?  “My name is Jack” being sung across the street for teens and a DIX awaiting for the Gorillaz.  Finally the beer near is in slight!  Should be right inside this door they thought.  Up 1 flight of stairs they go, followed by another and another and another, 12 flights of stairs later, they are rewarded a roof top with beer, mixed drinks, amazing views of lightning over the bridge and mini-cup flip cup! And best part of all?  The rain had stop on arrive up to the top!

After a much needed beer near and fun, the pack began their final journey back to The Druid's Keep. Down the huge slide they went to the ground floor and back out to the elements. Just when they thought it was on-in, another “J Check” they found with two shots for Emo kid and the slowest runner he could find.

Back at the bar they managed, where they met up with their auto friends to begin their favorite part of the night.  A welcome welcome welcome greeted them by their famed RA Goose.  The Hares. Down Down they went.  The Virgins. Down Down they went.  The Visitors. Meow Mewo they went. Auto hashers.  Down Down they went. 1st in and last in. Down Down they went. Comes lately.  Down Down they went. Accusations.  Down Down went just about everyone.  Before the night was over, they heard their much loved GOAT’s announcement of this cup that involves a mayor.

And so goes another Hash night into the history books, to be talked about in legendary status, just like the 698 that preceded it.

-Blink

Trail was short. So is this trash. Ended in song orgy. Sounded like this:

​​tl;dr we played with a cute dog.

We decided to celebrate America’s b-day in the place that started it all: Old City.  We met up at Jon’s bar, where Goose’s chalk talk skipped half the marks (not that anyone listens anyway).   One of the marks was a selfie check, where the number written was the number of people the pack was supposed to squeeze into a selfie.  The pack couldn’t quite establish if that meant “at least” or “exactly” that many people, but we took a bunch of selfies on the jog up through Spruce St. Harbor Park and past the summer fest toward Elfreth’s Alley.  Elfreth’s Alley is the nation’s oldest residential street, but more importantly, is home to Just Charlie Brown.  We had our Beer Near in the courtyard behind Just Bridget’s apartment, and ooh-ed and ahh-ed over her adorable golden doodle, who liked to play with balloons and get attention.  Then we moved on to Washington Square, where we had red, white, and blue Jello shots.  On the way back to the bar, people started signing at a song check because Cause showed up even though she wasn’t the DFL – just FYI, it’s only a joke that we wait for Cause to start singing, the rule is really to wait for everyone. 

Back at the rooftop of Jon’s we held a circle that featured an impressive number of cums latelies/BFM old guard hashers.  Including Shop N Fuck, who apparently can’t hang anymore, asking “Have down downs gotten shorter?” Baa Ram Him had an impressive hash crash along trail that effed his face up (but how could you tell?), leaving him looking like a bad Nelly impression.  The Virgins were not impressed by circle, but we had a 100% flash rate from our visitors, Super Cool Guy and Maybe It’s Gaybelline.  Bitch$hots and Judge Doody had a costume contest, which at first glance appeared to be an easy win for ACP, but Judge Doody was secretly packing a flag speedo under his pants, and image we won’t soon forget.
 
It was International Dicklomat’s last hash with us before shipping off to Korea :(.

The following are the unedited, annotated notes of Slothy Seconds:

THE natural scenery of America has often been contrasted, in its general features as well as in detail, with the landscape of the Old World — and more especially of Center City — and not deeper has been the enthusiasm, than wide the dissension, of the supporters of each region. 

In fact, the real Edens of the land lie far away from Drinkers Tavern — how very far, then, beyond the reach of the casual city hasher, who, having made arrangements with his liver for a certain amount of drink upon city streets, can hope to fulfill his agreement in no other manner than by quaffing, can in hand, through only the most beaten thoroughfares and thoroughbars of the city!

But, even of this delicious region, the sweeter imbibements are reached only by bypaths. Indeed, in America generally, the traveller who would behold the finest landscapes and finest forrest beers, must seek them not by the railroad, nor by the steamboat, nor by the stage-coach, nor in his private carriage, nor yet even on horseback — but on foot. He must run, he must leap ravines, he must risk his neck among precipices, he must follow the marks of Sex Toys for Tots and Silence of the Goats, or he must leave unseen the truest, the richest, and most unspeakable glories of the hash. And beer. Did I mention beer again?

A singular exemplification of my remarks upon this head may be found in the Wissahiccon, a brook, (for more it can scarcely be called) which empties itself into the Schuylkill, about six miles westward of Philadelphia proper and improper alike. He will thus strike the Wissahiccon, at one of its best reaches, and, in a skiff, or by clambering along its banks with 26 hashers, he can go up or down the stream, as best suits his fancy, and in directions scattered by our hares, will meet his reward. More light-footed hashers may delight in uncovering a wild Pantyphille emerging from the underbrush. More experienced, perhaps Three-Balled, hashers will endeavor to hash smarter, not harder. A concerningly geographically-challenged hasher may be struck dumb by the realization that the end location is the same as the start.

Now the Wissahiccon is of so remarkable a loveliness that it must be venerated with strong drink and strong song, some, provided by transplanted Road Runners, of the genitally-interactive variety. Its bounty so overcumming, some hashers may even find themselves announcing imminent offspring to share in its beauty. 

Thus ended my romance of the Wissahiccon. Will someone please tell me how to get back to 1844?

 - Edgar Allan Poe (2017 / 1844)

International Dicklomat laid an alphabet trail, where the pack had to follow the letters of the alphabet, and the direction the letters were facing told them which way to turn.  The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog.

We started at El Camino, a new bar for us.  Hares were Pantyphile and Just Alex.  I only want to make two points with this trash:
 

1. We named Just Sean!
   1. Just Sean had been hashing for 6 months, after Where’s my D made him come.  He worked in operation supervision at CVS.  One time he lost a bet with his friend Moose and had to 69 with a girl whose vagina tasted like soap.  When he was 8, he shit himself riding a bike.  He had group sex with two girls in a tub and two on the floor, and another time he came and farted at the same time.  He also likes prolapse porn (which, here is the Urban Dictionary for the curious).
   2. Some of the contenders were Soapbox, Pink Sock, and Or-gas-mic, but Just Sean will henceforth and forever be known as Prolapse of Judgement.
2. Safety Third!
   1. It was rainy and we went to Graffiti Pier, where a bunch of half minds got up to the upper level by climbing these weird giant nails on a tree.
   2. It was still rainy when we left the pier, so most of the pack piled into Pantyphile’s truck.

i.He is a terrible driver, nearly missed an turn and swerved to make it, everyone thought they were going to die.
ii.Myself, Just Ryan (a virgin!), Under the Gaydar, and Just Elvis decided to run back.  We did not know the way and it was raining too hard to look at phones, so we took a bunch of wrong  turns and showed up to the bar near the end of circle looking like wet dogs.

​-Slothy Seconds

Where? Pennsport Beer Boutique 
Hare? Baa Ramhim

It was a hot, steamy night as a group of the most titillating people one has ever laid eyes on gathered to participate in one of the most unholiest acts (or should I say holiest ;) ). Sweat was pouring down their thighs, chests heaving in and out, the moist air enraptured their tight bods. Oh my! I'll be right back! *runs to grab vibrator* Anyway.... It was the BFM's 690th hash and Baaa and his three amigos had planned to hare one of the most scandalous hashes the BFM has ever seen! And oh was it scandalous! There were HC (Human Centipede) checks and YBF (You've been fucked) checks and wine nears and whatever else their sick minds could think up! Boob Checks that only Cause participated in (wait was she even there? Well her spirit sure was) splattered the ground. Even Just Christian flashed a nipple for the thirsty fuckers. However the real fun didn't begin until we gathered at the classiest strip club in all of Philly. There I met Betty. She informed me not only was her stripper name her real name but that she and her half-sister, who was grinding her ass in some lucky hashers face, had identical vaginas! Now I may not know if my VJJ looks like any of my relatives but J. Chrissy was very keen to know if I glitterized it, which to her disappointment I do not. The debauchery continued all night! Goats, our ex-RA, did the most unspeakable of things. We at the BFM are known for drinking beer out of shoes but the sloozy took it a step further- she put water in it! Drank the whole thing like a dried up cootchie! Judge Doody lost his virginity that night to J.Andrew too. We would have all ended up in Kensignton selling our bodies if it weren't for a very special someone. His name was Buster, and he was a cat. I will never forget how he followed Dix, ACP, and I through the streets preaching to us to cleanse our tainted souls. He stayed with us the whole time, devout to the cause. That's until we hit a pizza shop and he said fuck it. We re-paid the saint in two cans of wet food and went on our merry way only to later write down his teachings in a book that would later be revised and rewritten by others until it became the worlds best seller. 

​-Where's my D?