Hares: Official Organ of the Greater
Hash House Harriers
G2FMH3 Hash # 156 –
Start: Artists Gate, 59th and 6th
On-In: That bar on 93rd and 2nd (ed note: Rief’s)
Punk Ass Bitch (Scribe): Mickey Mouth
I bumped into the ghost of Dietrich Knickerbocker. He was wondering around the
“Oh, Mr. Knickerbocker, I am so sorry. Are you alright?”
“Ms. Mouth, my kind lassie, of course. Imagine running into you. What finds this good day for you?”
“Good sir, I’m heading to the hash. Would you like to join us this evening?”
“Why Ms. Mouth, I would be delighted.”
We walked to the Artists Gate and along the way he went on about
Here we are now, 151 years later. So what would those wealthy merchants think now, as hashers ran through the park, enjoying the ponds, the bridges, the trails, I asked Mr. Knickerbocker.
“For this, they would shout, we have created you a park! Enjoy the bounty!”
“But,” I rejoinder, “we are running to a saloon.”
“Ah, ‘tis true. They were mightily concerned about the welfare of the working class, and felt the devil’s sauce to be a source of wickedness. But of course not to themselves. They might frown upon that from their 54 room mansions”.
The hash all met at the Artist’s Gate at 59th and 6th, under the stern gaze of Jose Marti, a Cuban patriot, journalist and poet who fought for the liberation of
I thought, “Were we, lowly hashers, in for a just as fatal run? With Magoo setting trail, for sure we must be. History doesn’t rear its head for naught. Magoo was promising a short and well-marked trail. I have heard these words before, and in vain, and even from my own mouth. Is it not that we learn from history but just are doomed to repeat it?” I didn’t say anything to Mr. Knickerbocker (Ms. Mouth, please call me Dietrich. Ok] this being his first hash and all.
The run was quite a feat, Mean Jean managed to maintain a healthy lead in front of the pack, Bottom tripped while trying to short cut, the usual to dos. Mr. Knickerbocker, being a ghost, could fly through the trail, but he stayed along side me and pointed out some neat historical places. The trail meandered the park and finally ended up at that bar on 93rd and 2nd, the one with the outdoor place in the back. Right on the edge of Yorkville.
Dietrich breaks in, “Yorkville is a neighborhood on the
We all stood around spritzing and fritzing. Up to my Phoking elbow (herein called Pho) and I decided, along with Wet Connection’s approval, that we were all very moisturated and now needed some beer. Which did flow well all through the night. “Kyle” (although I suspect he has a name by now) entertained the troop with his story of bartenders spitting shots into his mouth and before we knew it, it was circle time. Downdowns went to the hares, Magoo and Fairy Queen.
Dietrich asks, “Those are not proper names for this time, are they?”
“No, Dietrich, but on hashes the etiquette is to have handles in order to release you from your outside life.”
Magoo drank again for being an overzealous hare. Adam and Wankee Doodle were visitors. Mastercard was chastised for being a groomer. “Rich” and “Doug” ran around the wrong way and almost got in a bloody fight.
“But there is no right way, that is the beauty of it,” Dietrich states.
“Some people believe there is only one way to do things.”
Wet Connection proved very knickerbockeresque and explained that the
“No, Dietrich, we were just making a joke. I know it’s the highest point.”
“Yes, indeed it is. Belvedere was originally designed by Frederick Law Olmsted and Calvert Vaux as a Victorian “folly.” In architectural terms, a folly was a spot of playfulness, a fantasy building – a miniature Greek or Roman temple or a pint-sized Gothic castle – that offered a dash of the unexpected in a carefully calculated pastoral landscape. The Castle originally was only a shell, with open window frames, and doorways, really an elaborate scenic overlook. Today,
“Have some more beer, Dietrich”
Ted was sought out because he ‘found’ a free sample of Viagra ‘on the ground’. Vince was brought up for his haircut and then the random dd was supposed to be awarded but Fluffy stole pizza all the while hiding his colostomy bag tires. Thus the circle ended and we could go back to gabbing. Pho told me that if he called me up and said “I have a crisis in my pants”, that he was just kidding.
“Can you really be sure he is?” asked Dietrich
“Not really.”
Legs Lesley pointed out that I had a hole in my shirt and my jog bra was showing. I don’t know why Dietrich hadn’t pointed this out to me earlier. But Legs let out a zinger, “it’s like a boob, only smaller.” Later she qualified it saying that it was in comparison to Downunder, which surely would be a compliment. Sure Legs, sure. The food came but someone obviously miscounted the number of people at the hash because there was not enough. Pho and I snagged two slices but that is because we have spent time in the bush and know it’s eat or be eaten. Dietrich and I spent the remaining part of the night hobnobbing and having fun. We all kept thinking it was raining but it must have just been the air conditioners from the apartment building above. I hope that stuff is not too poisonous because it ended up in our beer and pizza. At