NYCH3 # 1043 – Toga R*n

NYCH3 #1043, March 20, 2004

Secvnd Annval Ides of March Toga Hash

HARES: HUA, Bottom, Crazy Bob, Mickey Mouth

Start: Tony’s Nut House, Mulberry St.

Finish: The Patriot, Chambers & Church

Scribe: Mean Jean



“Man, what a messy, messy night, maybe it’s a good thing it’s only once a year.”                       

                          –Head Up Ass in an email message the next day


Truer words ne’er spoken by man nor god nor Caesar nor JM. But I daresay that had a wise soothsayer (or scribe or hare or hasher) had forewarned same, we STILL would have turned up at Tony’s Nut House, got our sheets and foliage out and got our drunk on.  


And turn out we did! In the heart of Little Italy, in the back room where Tony Soprano meets Johnny Sack when he comes into New York, we turned ourselves into Roman debauchers. Like the backstage area of the Miss America pageant (NOT!), the fabric flowed and flew, the safety pins are secured, the plastic foliage is fashioned into laurels and tits and ass were taped into place(?). As usual, the locals were a bit non-plussed asking who we are and what the hell did we think we doing. Mickey and Crazy Bob and Cockstar were in a corner spilling the festival wine and juice and seven up into an orgasmic libation. Mean Jean to Cockstar: “What poor idiot was unfortunate enough to leave their pristine white jacket here by the sputtering red wine?” Cockstar: “Oh, that would be me.” Kyle struggled with his Martha Stewart twin 200 thread-count sheet in the back as I insisted he go shirtless whilst applying sparkles to him nipples (the things a girl has to do for her hash!). Marit and Steve pondered the application of the sheet and Steve decided that fabric alone couldn’t make the same statement that toilet paper could. Fireman Bob fidgeted with his undergarments. Sujan wondered how he’d managed to mistake my flowery sheet for his own at the end of the night. Fluffy dug through his bag for his bathrobe while Todd, fresh from his first trail the Wednesday previous, pondered what the hell he was doing here. Carla looked simply angelic while Jonathan looked simply devilish. 


The senators called the citizens to assemble outside for the chalk oratory. We quickly became a tourist attraction for the throngs roaming (get it? Rome-ing) around Little Italy. We learned there would be grapes on trail and a prize for picking up the most. We learned there were chicken and eagle trails (did someone say “chicken”), and finally, we learned that it’s very hard to get a cab at the corner of Mulberry and Broome whilst wearing a toga and a penis necklace. As I was a bag hag, I can’t tell you much about the trail except for the portion I happened upon from the subway at Canal and Sixth Ave. Seems to have done a bit of a loop-de-loop from the bar all around Canal street and down into the subway station. I know they eventually wound up at a drink check on the Hudson at the end of one of the piers. Then it was back to the Patriot for the Spectacle. And what a spectacle we were to become.





[To the Soothsayer] The ides of March are come.


Ay, Caesar; but not gone.

(from William Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar)




In the best tradition of the Roman Orgy, the wine (beer) floweth, the women showeth, and the men didn’t care who they fucked. Oh but wait, I’m getting ahead of myself. Indeed, the Ides had just begun.  Not helped in our cause by the barmaids’ copious pouring of kamikaze shots and subsequent encouraging of the young ladies to dance on the bar. Nor by the proclamation that Saturday is traditionally “Wet T-shirt” night which L’il Kim was oddly excited about. But first, the Senators begged “lend me your ears” and called together the citizens for the traditional bestowment of awards.


  1. Hares: HUA, Bottom, Mickey, Crazy Bob, and Alison
  2. Jason and Cree again, why not and what the hell?
  3. Virgins: I said it at the Red Dress Run, I said it at the Polar Bear Run and I’m saying it again: why why why pick the TOGA run for your first time?  David, Marcus, Bruce and Karen
  4. Jen & Erin: stopped and had muffins and tea on trail. (Might have at least had beer)
  5. L’il Kim for arriving late (shocking, just shocking)
  6. Sarah Down Under: talk about a Soothsayer’s foreknowledge…upon arrival at the bar there was a sign on the first floor that said, “Red-headed Slut Upstairs”.  How did they know she’d be coming?


Now onto the official TOGA awards part of the ceremony


  1. NAMBLA Award, or, for our purposes, ROMBLA: What do Crazy Bob and K-mart have in common? They both have boys’ underpants half off. Apparently it was  customary in Roman times to have a young boy for desert. I don’t think Crazy Bob helped himself by having the rubber chicken.
  2. Best Toga: Kiss My Rash who came as Safety Hasher in a toga made of bubble warp and yellow caution tape.
  3. Worst Toga: to Doctor Steve for his toilet paper toga.
  4. Second Worst Toga: to Tripod for an unfortunate fabric choice. Ripped apart his couch
  5. Picker Upper of the Most Grapes on Trail Award: Bruce (or as my notes call him, “Grape Guy”). Um, I think he was the only one who actually listened to the hares and picked up the grapes.
  6. Person Least Likely to be Asked to the Orgy: to Fluffy (I think he won this last year as well).
  7. The Ed Lynch is a Homosexual Award: to none other than….
  8. Vestal Virgin Award: to Karen (does Jim know?). She was crowned with laurels, given the sash of Yellow Caution, and awarded the Wand of  Solitary Fulfillment (giant dildo on a stick)
  9. Best Receptacle, or Most Likely to Be Invited to the Orgy. The nominees were L’il Kim, Crazy Bob, Fluffy and Sarah. (Notes are seriously fuzzy at this point so, just for fun, let’s give it to Sarah)
  10. Sexiest Toga: Sarah, hands down. Or, Down Under if you like.


Now we are entering the part of the evening where everything gets just a little bit fuzzy.  I remember some odd pairings of people in subdued corners of the bar. I remember civilians Wet Connection and Devo turning up. I remember the seltzer dispenser spraying the girls’ chest. I remember deciding I was Jennifer Beals in Flashdance. I remember Carla was my partner-in-crime in bar dancing. I remember Mickey shouting that I too drunk to be bar dancing. I remember thinking I must be very very careful while getting down. Very very carefully placing my right foot onto the bar stool. Not bad so far. Next step, however was a doozy. Left foot splats onto the ground. Pop. Ouch.  “Can I get another drink?” Yes, if you have it at the hospital.  The rest, as they say, is hash history.  


What shenanigans continued on into the Patriot night? You’ll have to ask someone else. But another toga hash for the record books. Until next time, if you ever see me on a bar again, countrymen, lend me your hand, please.


On out.