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Wednesday 07/21/2010 #875

SO SO and Diggity Diggity @ Hi Pointe/Clayton/St. Louis, bitches!

Hash Trash:

First, we all pull up into a tow away zone.  Then, like everyone else, I was thinking how rained on are we going to get.  The drizzle did not stop the half-minds though.

 

Before the opening circle, it was clear that a number of infrequent hashers were reappearing.  That is the magic of the Central Corridor.  Namely, something in St. Charles County unclenched releasing a number of hariettes: DMB, Hummers, & Fisty.

 

Another re-emersion was Fuck Me Rudolph, probably associated with another unclenching.  Postage thought he was going to have to run circle -- again.  But, he ended up sucking up his divaness, and let the redheaded step-Diva roll.

 

Original Gay-Blade or Huggy Bear or... was in attendance with a beer hat that fit the mood, but may not have fit the muggy, muggy sweaty muggy-ness of what followed.

 

We had a Wednesday virgin:  Just Kate.  We also had a visitor from Key West -- Turd Cutter, and those folks from Waukesha, 2 Can Slam & Psalms 13:15.  With the larger than usual Scony contingent, mangled vowels littered the trail as much as beads of sweat and empty Stag cans.

 

Somehow circle started, and it was dicey with Rudy being a born-again virgin RA.  His volume was turned up, and folks were brought in.  The hares were cranky because the trail had been adversely affected by the thunderstorms, but Rudy managed to get them to do chalk talk, bless them, photo em, and get them out. 

Opening circle continued, and folks still filtered in, like Mother Teresa.

 

The pack left assuming it was going to be the shortest trail ever (first beer stop at the former Hipointe bar?), but the hares were actually not lying in that there would be some running on trail.  With a great mix of checks, chickchecks, and check backs the pack stayed together and filtered through the Demun strip, Concordia Lutheran Seminary (they had the good sense to be inside at prayer, having a covered dish potluck, or something), the carcass of Christian Brother before they fled to Chesterfield.  The first beerstop ended up in respectable Oak Knoll Park, which I didn't know people were actually allowed in (There is much that still confuses me about Clayton).  The old girls walking the dogs in the park didn't call the cops quick enough, and after hares stole the beer, the pack soon followed.

 

Interesting, the talkers didn't make it to Oak Knoll.  Fartfenugen, Lazy Ass, Witty, and PMS were left to there own devices.  I do not know what they got up

to:  Guesses might include scaring the locals, impersonating the cast of an ABC after-school special, added really special appendix to the sacred Kama Sutra, quietly strolling through the night like ninjas, or no damn good.  Submit votes below.

 

We got confused leaving the park (Thanks, Postage).  The wandering back and forth across Clayton let the hares speed away to the next beer stop.  Slipping through more of suburban Clayton, the hares led us across Big Bend into Richmond Heights.  The trail was still solid.  The talker pack, particularly Toxic Waste, chose to hit a liquor store on the way as the moseyed along.

 

Crossing over Bellevue, we thought the weekly po-po appearance had finally arrived.  Seeing the flashing lights, the runners all looked at their toes hoping someone was drunk enough to talk to the RH officer.  Surprise, surprise, he was actually making a traffic stop.  It made the chick check more than a little like a middle school dance.  The woman driving the white jeep thing was probably the most tense about 40+ people watching her get nabbed.

 

Recovering our stide and mood, we lumbered along to the suave bachelor grotto that is our Ho-hum's house (Long live the Sunday Hash and its benevolent religious advisor).  To continue the RA-as-diva image, think Ho-hum as a part of the Kim Jong Il school of RA'ing.  The pack was a bit strung out at this point, but the beer was cold and the speakers has Springsteen.  People were getting the gab on, and it was a million miles from what would follow.

 

The last dash -- two blocks...maybe -- led past Del Taco, but surprisingly no one was that wasted to stop.  Yet...  I found the Rudy-LockNut race to the end more racist than what Rudy said to the Chinese family in the alley moments before. Woot.  Returning to the parking lot, there were no tow trucks, no po-po cars, and no thunderclouds.  Big Hump's luck will not last.

 

Circle was great.  Why are you still reading this?  Get a job!  I'm talking to

you:  Dewey, PMS, Witty, Lucy (oops..).  P.S. Well done, Fisty.  Make up for the rest of us slackers.  Um, what went on in circle.  Rudy had started to sober up...no, I didn't say he was sober (Heaven forfend), just more sober than opening circle.  More random people showed up and drank beer without paying:

Lots of money was lost from y'all -- ICHY, Hollateral...yeah.  Dangerous cherries were brought out by the Wakasuckers.  Birthdays, virigins, hares, visitors, red-wearing folk were brought in, plus other folks.  Just Kate told a joke that showed how similar being an archaeologist and a hasher are.

 

There were a bunch of insignificant run runners drank.  Just Dave and his blonde bitch got a ten-run band from OC 'I liked this rubbing thing a lot' D.  And, your resident fossil got fleas from Bozo and Dave-bitch -- oh, and a 50 run headband as well.  Thanks, BWD.  [Aside:  OCD!  Eat it.  I beat you.  ;-p That's what you get for going to the Bahamas.  Sucks having 49 runs, don't it. 

Back to everyday Lucy.]  Fifty runs, and I still call myself a Sunday hasher. 

Denial, denial, denial...

 

Hashshit should have gone to Whiney, who won hash shit last week for the shittiest, Mcshit, shit shitty trail he thought was passable, for not taking his hashshit on trail and then conveniently disappearing from circle.  [Lucy should not drink coffee while writing.  Just saying.]  There were 5-10 people brought into circle for the honor of shitting-the-hash.  This week, a virginal shitter (I was SHOCKED) was chosen:  Disco Ass.  His crime was peeing on Hummer's Hummer (presumably without paying).  The moral of the story is that Hummers Para Libre, but you gotta pay to pee on her (or her automotive alter-ego). [Beer good; coffee evil.]

 

Announcements were mumbled, the Low was swung, the coolers were snatched away, and the hashers were still nervous about tow trucks and po-po visits.  And, much of the pack sauntered over to Hampton for the on-after.

 

This paragraph is a shout-out to Rudy for holding off the rain with his immense, powerful, articulate, well-organized, sympathetic, considerate and mystical powers.  I was never expecting to get through the run without being rained on. 

His reign last night was worthy, and Postage is his bitch.  Y'all are both still divas.

 

At the on-after, Barn-Star skipped through the gritty, grimy parking lot with lovely views of gas stations and Fox 2.  Not the pretty part of St. Loo-us.  She was giddy because she was carded.  The doorman who pumped-her-full-of...

channeled Rick's Crab Hut saying 'Damn, thought it was going to be a slow night'.  What did he really mean?  Please submit guesses below.

 

Inside, it was a million, billion, trillion kilometers from Clayton.  Mirrors on the walls, glass on the bar, and disco balls -- too many to count.  It was like that 'special room' in Disco Ass's house, according to Norman Bates.  Thus, the REAL source of his name:  He just says that he was slapping women's asses in Japan instead of St. Louis as a cover.  We all follow what Norman says, right? 

I really didn't know Hampton Ave. was so Vegas -- a little bit of southern Illinois, next to Forest Park.  It was so kitsch that the hasher almost didn't fit in.  Then the karaoke started, and equilibrium was achieved.  I left with my hearing intact, but I am sure I-Cunt-Hear-You has been inundated with emergency calls for the audiological traumas that ensued later.  There were a couple of decent voices, like Bozo.  Who knew?  But, that just may have been the special juice of my headband kicking in.  Before I left, these weird folk came in, who looked like they were in a cult.  They all had similar shirts on (red, Cardinals printed on it -- must be a Catholic sect thing), were sweaty, had the stench of an athletic event on them, smelled of beer...freaks!  Wouldn't want to be like them.  Just sayin'.

 

Submitted disrespectfully by Lucy

As per the requisition request of Fuck Me Rudolph, esquire, Religious Advisor, Big Hump Hash House Harriers, dated 21 July 2010.

 

On-on.  If I missed something, add it below.

 

 



Big Hump Hash House Harriers - St. Louis, Missouri - Established 1999