GGFM #163

Official Organ of the Greater Gotham Full Moon

Hash House Harriers

G2FMH3 Hash # 163 – Friday, March 25th , 2005

Mis-management:  JMs:  Jumpin’ Jack Gash & 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

Stats:                     Hares: Lunch and F*ck Me, I’m Gay

                                      Start: Union Square

                              On-In: Doc Holidays

           Punk Ass Bitch (Scribe): Mickey Mouth




The hash met up at Union Square. A good easter basket sized full crowd, eggspecially considering that Lunch and F*ck Me, I’m Gay were the hares. We all tottered around for a while, until the Hares deemed it was time to start the festivities. Cockstar, Screaming O and I shortcutted a little bit but didn’t have many eggxtraordinary problems on the trail. While running through Washington Square Park it’s hard not to notice all the information signs that tell you how to behave. Reminds me a particular sign in a park we hashed in on PuTuoShan, China.

Tourist Guide

  1. Tourists must abide by rules and regulatins in scenic area and be directed by staff members.
  2. No smoking and no flaming.
  3. Cherish every tree and flower ond every blade of grass and pnblic installa Tion.
  4. No hunting within the seenie area.
  5. No Throwing nibbish


I kinda like to look at it as a guide for life……

Anyway, FMIG likes to go through buildings and Lunch likes to run in circles, many of both. For the eggdditional stuff, let’s go to my reporter on the trail. Mean Jean?



“Thanks, Mouth. The part you missed went west right past my house on 16th then went to 9th ave and through the Chelsea Market, out to Tenth Ave, through the meat-packing district to a nasty-assed check at Gansevoort and Greenwich that went south then east through the west village over to Washington Square Park. South to Houston, east and north again to Doc Holidays. Fun stuff on trail: Tom K. taken to task by security guard in Chelsea Market; my ass being in some movie as I ran straight through the shot once they yelled action; Just Rich must have gotten crazy-lost cause he only passed me on Lafayette Street, just a few blocks from the bar; er, can’t think of anything else interesting…back to you”



Thanks, Meanie! Looks like the run wasn’t that much eggertion.



We on in’ed to Doc Holiday’s. To the back room. No vents, no eggcape, no air and right next to the bathroom where what must have been an eggceptionally large man who obviously had Mexican earlier that day, or bad G.I., dropped off an aromatic package. Lunch asked around and then lit a few matches. I thought it was a religious custom, things dying and being resurrected, maybe light some candles…. but unfortunately it was just a big stinky poopoo. Right after lighting the candles, Lunch filled up the water pitchers with water from the men’s bathroom. I felt it was as good a time as any to start with the beer. A tasty choice of Pabts Blue Ribbon in cans or the good stuff in pitchers (poured by the waitress at the bar. I eggtablished assuredly).



The rest of the pack wandered in after a while. The oblong room got rather smelly but the distinction leaves your senses after a while. A few PR people from some cheapo beer came in and offered us some of their “fine” quaff. While I didn’t fall prey to their spittle, I did get a nice pitcher hider bucket…with a bottle opener!



Circle was called and we all kind stayed in the same place we were. FMIG was MIA so we brought up the visitors and virgins. A swede, a couple of civilians were honored. Finally FMIG came out (from where?) and the hares were toasted. Mean Jean called up the trinity of shortcutters (see above). I can’t really remember the rest of the downdowns until the end. Mean Jean summoned up formally Steve and asked him what his name was. “Anger Management,” he replied. Mean Jean then asked JJG if the GGFM had so named him. “Nuh uh,” JJG eloquently responded. “Wet Connection, did you name him?” “Nope,” she said. “Um, you. Um. Dave. The Body. Did you name him?” “Whilst you don’t remember my name. I do remember that we have not named him.” Everywhere was eggtreme puzzlement. Could a man have so much hubris as to name himself? We are witnesses of it all, my friends. A sad day to see the heavens toppled over so. But Mean Jean done right. “Since you currently don’t have a name, but want one so badly as to make one up. You are now named Fuck Me, I’m Gay.”



Silence is golden, yes, but fifteen seconds of awed stillness followed by ten minutes of boisterous guffaws is priceless. I heartell even Marie W. belted out a good belly laugh, eggcellent! Mean Jean has restored our faith. While it may not be a jesus story, it will prove just as lasting. Hallayulyah!



The rest of the night twittered on. Lunch sold some of our pizza to a bar sot. Sometimes I wonder about people and will here sign off with a quote from our esteemed Mayor Bloomberg (sent from Offensive Discharge, about the NYC school math guides being filled with errors),



“It is a complex world, and every day you wake up in my job and say, ‘They did what?’” he said. “There are times when I’m halfway downtown on the subway after reading a few of the stories and I think maybe I
should just get off at the next station, cross the platform and go back uptown.”


Amen. On Out.

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