GGFM # 155 – RGM

The Truth 

Official Organ of the Greater Gotham Full Moon

Hash House Harriers

G2FMH3 Hash # 155 – Friday, July 30, 2004

Random General Meeting

 

New Mis-management:

 

JMs:  “Kyle” & Mean Jean The Down Down Machine

Religious Advisor: “Scot” andDanny

Parliamentarian: Sarah Downunder and Pearl Necklace

On-Sec: Mickey Mouth

HareRaiser: “Rich”

Fluffler: Magoo

Sergeant-at-Arms: Crazy Bob


 

Hares: The Old Committee

Start: Canal and West Broadway

On-In: The Patriot

Punk Ass Bitch (Scribe): Mickey Mouth

Scene: Necternal, the bar room in Mount Olympus. Dionysus, dressed in godly robes, lays on a long ornate chair, drinking from a gold goblet. 

Enter: Gorgeous Young Boy in curly locks and a short short toga.

 

Dionysus, my lord, there has been a regime change in the isle of Manhattos.

Where exactly is that, my boy.

Oh, over in the new world, small isle, not much to be concerned about.

Tell me about it, do they still worship me?

Oh, yes, my lord, most emphatically still. The change started upon specious rumors of WOMD.

Weapons of Mass Destruction?

No, no, the Winey Oldsters Might Dash.

Begin at the begin, dear boy, my head has supped on the grapes already.

Ahem…., like in the Aenead, Rumor flew around the town with one hundred eyes and mouths announcing the various changes. Was Sir Scot stepping down? Would Crazy Bob stay the muse? Where’s Magoo? The hash scuttle started on the corner of Canal and West Broadway. They were milling around, waiting for a leader to show them the way.

Wait, sweet boy, we have a sleeper there right?

Oh yes. Mickey Mouth. She has been a trustworthy sot, uh, sort, for years, serving out terms worldwide.

Right. I remember her.

Perhaps you would just want to read her report?

No, dear boy, read it to me.

She also wrote a dithyramb, do you want to hear that?

No, no, I remember her voice well enough. In my state, it would be unwise.

Ok, [Gorgeous Young Boy takes out a cd player and presses play. Mickey Mouth’s mellifluous voice is broadcast] O great and noble Dionysus, son of Zeus and mortal Semele, god of fertility, wine and patron of the arts….

Boy, you can skip that part.

Oh, ok. [the Gorgeous Young Boy fast forwards a bit] …ever most humble servant reports thusly: The throng was impatient as a hungry arena lion as “Scot” rambled on for hours about checks and marks and what was a ‘true’ trail and what wasn’t. “Fiddlefaddle!” I bellowed “trails are trails!” Finally the pack was set to chase the old regime down. The run was as confusing as Aeneas’s trip home from Troy, and full of as many adventures.  Alas! I can’t relate them as I tried to shortc—I mean, I got lost and ended up running down to the Manhattan Bridge. But, by Apollo’s lead, I found the trail again on Canal Street. Unfortunately, it was one of “Scot’s” made up marks and I forgot what it meant. Was it true trail? Was I on the right path? Then I started thinking that perhaps I wasn’t. I mean I hate my job and…um, well, oops, back to the hash trail.

“Scot” held watch over the trail like Argus Panoptes. It seemed to wander uptown a bit, through the massive crowds of Little Italy, over to the Hudson. Here I left it again. But there was a strip and go naked beer check down in Hudson Park. The on in, no surprise, was full of Patriots, to the old and the new. We piped upstairs and stank out all the locals pretty quick for we smelled like the stables of Augean, pre-Heracles. The water was the draw, my lord, but only in order to lay ground work for your most precious of nectar. For the beer started flowing freely pretty quick. It wasn’t long before the horde demanded to be told what was to come, were there actually WOMD? Would the masses rule themselves? Was the goat’s liver of good boding?

The circle was called, but the people were getting twitchy. Mean jean had trouble keeping the crowd quiet. Shouts and hoohaas were coming near and far. A great song rose up for the outgoing regime as the hares of the run. She asked for the virgins but because of the rousing bawls and shouts, both virgins and visitors made way for the beer. The worst trail of the year was given to British Andrew but since he wasn’t there we had British Andrew number 2 drink for him. Nail Driver was given a DD because at one prior hash he got the digits of a hot date, but it turned out to be Lunch. Worst On In was awarded to Legs Lesley. Best Performance granted to CockStar, Fairy Queen and Fluffy (absent because he was downstairs drinking with Timmy…?) “Rick” was named Bon Jovi Boy, shortened to BJ Boy. Then I don’t know what happened because I needed to get a beer so I missed a few downdowns. But it was in your name, my lord, forgive me.

Now for the new appointees. Hare Raiser is “Rich”. Sergeant–at-arms is still Crazy Bob. On-Sec is Mickey Mouth (what! Yells HUA, that bitch!?). Parliamentarians are Sarah Down Under and Pearl Necklace. And we now have a fluffer, Magoo. I was told to report that without comment. And so I have. No comment. Mean Jean will remain as one Joint Master. And, da da dah daaah….”Scot” will step down and “Kyle” is now the new joint master. When he stood on the chair, one rabble rouser raised “stand up!” “Scot’s” final farewell was a tearful and sorrowful one. “I gave the best years of my life to you,” he crooned. He and “Danny” will now serve as religious advisors. From then on, it went precipitously downhill as any good hash does. “Danny” and I staked our claim at the far end of the bar, away from the stink and near thy manna. We enjoyed watching the flock twittle and twattle. And, well, getting a full view of the two lustbirds going at it against the wall, like spring rabbits. I’d say they were dry f*cking, but I don’t think there was anything dry about it. You might ask your father if he had gone for another jaunt.

The food, dear brutus, lies not within ourselves but elsewhere. Unfortunately, man cannot live on beer alone, my lord. There was no f*cking food to speak of. A rumor of a couple of pies, some hamburgers and some fries. I was sick mad hungry as the local lingo goes, as if Brize was buzzing in my stomach. But enough.

The rest of the night was splattered by tomfoolery. Crazy Bob giving, as always, his fair share. Where he got the clown nose, I don’t know. What he did with it during the hash, I would rather not relate. What he did with it after the hash, I am scared to imagine. Our new Kingly “Kyle” maintained that it was his own damn fault, even though some people claimed there was a woman to blame. But I don’t. Mean Jean got her favorite suspicions aroused. And well, that’s it, my lord. I had to retire to my flat. This is Mickey Mouth saying ave atque vale, my lord. Till next time

So, my boy, it was less of a regime change, then a turning of the guard. No WOMD, no need to cause harm?

Yes, lord.

Are the people happy? Are they still drinking to me?

Yes Lord Dionysus, as if ale were breath, my lord.

All’s well then.  Pass the wine on the left hand side…

Exeunt


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