Dec 15, 2014
Start: Alligator Lounge, 600 Metropolitan Ave
On In: George and Jack’s
Scribe: Six Inches Ladies
Meeting at the Alligator Lounge in Williamsburg isn’t really the sort of thing that we do very often… Oh, wait. Yes it is. That place is our prelube so often that it’s actually a preset on my Garmin watch and Siri thinks it’s my home address.
Skidmark was our intrepid hare. After finding Spank the Plank and this week’s scribe alone at the bar he feared we’d be the only ones on trail. I pointed out that it was only 7, and that people wouldn’t arrive until 7:02.
2 minutes later the entire pack showed up wondering why people were already at the prelube.
Pleasantries were exchanged, beers were downed, pants were removed (wait, this sounds more like a date than a hash) and the pack was ready to go.
No visitors or virgins were mucking up our pregame. Details are for suckers, so the pack listened as raptly to Skidmark’s chalk talk as they would’ve to a preflight safety announcement. Someone was actually reading a Skymall Magazine at one point,
And so the pack launched into action. Everything was fine until the first check when we almost lost Pecker Wrecker because he “couldn’t go straight.” He was ready to hail a green cab, but the trail continued to the left (and there’s no such thing as “hailing a green cab”) so he could stay with us. There was much relief.
The check at McCarren Park was perfectly mismanaged. After solo hashers went in separate directions in failed attempts to find the trail, group think took over and the entire pack ran in circles like a flock of panicky pigeons until someone stumbled onto the trail.
The trail zig zagged back on itself a few times, even crossing McGuinness Blvd TWICE. Because it’s not a hash until you have to decide whether to wait ten minutes for the light to change or play Frogger on the main thoroughfare in Greenpoint.
At one point the trail had us one block from the on in, but the hare led us around another three quarters of a mile on a series of turns and double backs so complicated that at one point I was actually following myself.
We ended at George and Jack’s (formerly called something else) at Berry and North 8th. We drank Ommegang Rare Vos and Barrier Saasquash and played pinball, to the horror of the younger crowd who kept wondering how something so big could only contain one game.
Down downs happened:
The hare for not setting the hotline. And also for marking Beer Very Near so far before the on in that we forgot that we were going somewhere.
Terminally Anal for getting lost while doing extra miles.
Squirty Dancing for being a gaping asshole. Or having one. I don’t know what this was about, but it sounded offensive so I’m putting it in. Yeah, I said that. Doubling down on offensive.
Rack and Roll Her for not drinking. Because it’s a hash. Pretty much 94% of a hash is drinking. If we could figure out a way to not r*n and just drink we’d probably do it. I assume the real reason that the hash developed the r*nning component is that they were thrown out of the first bar and had to get to the next one as quickly as possible. Your ancestors developed this past time so that you could drink, for fuck’s sake, so just have a damn beer, Rack and Roll Her.
(Can I curse, here? Fuck it, if you were picky about that you’d probably have someone literate do the scribing.)
Pecker Wrecker for paying his hash cash in loose change and for complaining that no one was eating his fudge. I felt bad for him and ate some. I’m a giver, what can I say.