The Write up
HARES: Karen, Seth & Pussy Repellent
Start: 59th &
On In: Dive 75
“More wine, ‘cause I got to have it… More skin, ‘cause I got to eat it”
Here’s the report from weather.com. Someone put it in the bathroom—I want to wipe my ass with it. Snow and cold don’t tell us when we r*n. We tell it. And at , Seth, Karen, and Chris told it we were r*nning, two-foot snowdrifts or not, following red food-coloring arrows squirt from a Windex bottle onto its not-so-pristine white surface.
We met at 59th and Lex, high on crack. A second-rate snow blower churned nearby, foreshadowing the trail by decimating the exhibit red arrow. Seth attempted a second exhibit, but it was so cold that the juice had frozen. Yes. Pussy Repellant, his pant legs soaked to the knee, assured, “It’ll be amazing if you all finish this trial.” Hell, yes! This is what it’s all about, kids. We were about to get beatin’ like redheaded stepchildren, but beer tastes good after a hard day’s work.
We followed Mike B. and WC most of the way to the Park, skirting civilians by leaping snow banks and splashing through black slush. The trail didn’t enter the Park at a gate—this trail was about work, which meant leaping over the wall and then r*nning through the thin January brush. We meandered back downhill and hit the Mall, gingerly stepping north on the well-packed snow.
FAD#6 found a check at
Vodka would have been too much
By the time I reached Chris and the tequila, having ditched Dave Long to take the long route in my effort end DFL, the day had waned. Chris’s phone rang—it was Seth, manning the vodka check, wondering how much longer they’d wait for late starters JJG and Kerry. I encouraged them to pack it in: No offense to DB2, but the early bird eats the tequila-soaked worm—and Jim-Jammity Krispy-Kreme Christ on a Bottle Rocket, it was time to drink!
The trail left the Park at 86th and CPW, then drifted south to the old standby—Dive 75. UWS locals come out of the woodwork for a few—Anne, Kara, Maria, Sideshow, and Hardy, digging out from the storm by exercising their arms. Civilians (Debbie, Mastercard & company, Patrick, Haldi, DB2) and hotliners (Down Under, MJ, PN & company, Alice, Steamer) filled the place. Time for down-downs? It was glorious:
- Hares Karen, Seth, & Chris, who got the most compliments I’ve heard on a trail
- Godiva, friend of
, visiting from Pearl . France came up for a second down-down with benevolent Godiva for taking the subway. Pearl
- Karen returned to the circle, having both lost her cell phone in
Central Parkand having been accosted by a dirty old man inspecting her thong as she bent down to mark the On-In
- Seth and Long, for being the only two who even saw the vodka check
- Anne, for the civilian offense of living within spitting distance of the On-In. The rarely used song of “Love Me Tender” was sung. F*cking eloquent, I’m telling you!
- FAD#6 and Debbie, as proxy for Kyle and Kerry still “on trail”
- Long, out of material, was about to do AOTW himself, ‘til Jean shouted, “Take off your hat!” Hashers can’t keep their mouths shut—take that as many ways as you can.
JJG and Kerry showed up six hours later, clothes disheveled, with warm smiles, sleepy eyes, and sh*tload of endorphins massaging their tiny minds. “Lisa told us Dive Bar, not 75,” said Kyle, putting on a poor excuse for an innocent face. Lisa promptly explained herself, and Kyle was left standing with his cock in his hand, repeating his debunked excuse. “Smells like bullsh*t to me! Drink it down-down…”
This is the Hash, folks. All weather. All beers. Already ? And who r*ns this sh*t?
Ages: 17–69 (no one gets older than 69).
Hair: Brown, blonde, red, natural, dyed, graying, thinning, gone
Sex: Damn skippy. Dionysus would be proud…
…Not one run that celebrates costumes, racy attire, cross-dressing…but five runs. Not just booty calls to Flaccido…but a guy actually named Booty Call. The Ides of March is right around the corner, and so is the orgy. So, stock up on prophylactics. Buy a fresh pair of sheets. Schedule that waxing. Jesus H. Christ on Ice and Mary in the Penalty Box, you’re a bunch of hedonists! And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Don’t deny it. Don’t say a word. Just crank up the jukebox, throw on some funk, and call Crazy Bob. ‘Cause we’re the Hash, the New York City Hash, and I feel like dancing!