NYCH3 #1119

NYCH3 #1119

Date: 17TH August 2005

Start: 12th & University Pl.

Hares: Sideshow Bob

On-in: O’Hara’s (Cedar & Greenwich)

Scribe: Fire-In-The-Piehole

When your Hare for the evening is the current holder of the Worst Trail Of The Year™ Award, you’d be forgiven for feeling a pang of anxiety as you check the start location for the r*n.


As it happens, in order to win the aforementioned award, the hare had had to lay a trail to an island with only one bar and fewer inhabitants. One might argue, therefore, that since said bar had now closed, the chances of things getting any worse were slim to none…until you realise that someone capable of leading us to an island with one crap bar is easily capable of leading us to an island with no bars at all.


Concerns weren’t allayed when the missive went out that the start location was being moved at the last minute. Initial rumours that it was because Sideshow Bob had forgotten where the start was or had got lost along the way proved unfounded. Instead, it was the very good reason that a Cindy Sheehan vigil was taking place on Union Square.


I say “very good reason” because the last thing you want to see when you’re trying to sit there calmly with your little candle and a sign that says “Meet With Cindy” is Booty Call running amongst the women asking who this Cindy chick is and if he can have her number…actually, forget “last thing”, it’s not even on the list.


The summation of which preamble is to say that the pack gathered at the corner of 12th & University Place with a mixture of emotion ranging from vague disinterest to chronic apathy. “Pack” in this context means, as so often seems the case on a Summer Wednesday, the extras from a Cecil B. DeMille film set…several of whom may very well have been in a Cecil B. DeMille film and you know who you are. (Tip: if you were pushed around the trail in a stroller, I’m probably not talking about you)


We were set on our merry way in an easterly direction after some encouraging words and a suitably uncomplicated chalk talk. All things being equal, our odds of ending up within bottle-throwing distance of civilisation seemed reasonable.


All things, however, were *not* equal.


Indeed, things very nearly fell apart at the seams early on upon encountering our first check near Astor Place. For it was at this juncture that the boy wonder, F**k Me I’m A Gay Nerd, took it upon himself to lead the pack off further east, laying down pack marks “because people were r*nning that way”.


Disaster was averted when the pack, although mostly quite new at this, recalled the chalk talk they were given less than three minutes ago and decided to actually look for the trail before sprinting after some random East Village resident out for his evening constitutional.


True trail, the details of which are largely irrelevant save for the critical point that we managed to remain on the same island that we had started out on, led us in a generally southerly direction.


We wound our way down towards the Financial District and came upon a Chicken/Eagle Split somewhere around Church & Liberty. The Eagle led a little further south towards Bowling Green but, despite the ominous proximity of several bridges, tunnels and ferries, we managed to stay within the confines of Manhattan, ending very close to the Split at O’Hara’s Pub (Cedar & Greenwich) where 10,000 people packed into a space the size of an elevator at the back of the pub while the remainder of pub lay largely deserted.


And so to the Down Downs.


Sideshow Bob drank because he was the Hare and quite frankly hadn’t included enough islands on this trail. Then he drank again as Yello Smello pointed out that, in his euphoria at setting a successful trail, he had neglected to set the Hotline.


Magoo was hauled up as a Visitor and was promptly asked to drink from his brand spanking new shoes which he extricated from his brand spanking new shoe bag. A shoe bag for gawd’s sake…is he new at this?


The virgins were brought up or, more simply, the non-virgins stepped aside. They were too numerous to mention so I won’t bother except for “Sasha” who’s experience of the trail was from a stroller pushed by her mother. The poor child looked nothing short of incensed at being paraded in front of the pack as a virgin without being offered the compensatory cool beer she had been expecting. A vigil for Mayor Bloomberg to meet with Sasha and lower the drinking age will be held in Union Square next week.


Ass Ranger was punished for some excessive air guitar manoeuvres on trail while JJ was rebuked for her cautious wardrobe choice which I thought was a little harsh. After all, you never know when a Nor’easter and a blizzard are going to strike simultaneously in the depths of summer.


Finally, F**k Me I’m Gay was given a Down Down for his reckless endangerment of a virgin pack on trail.


The food arrived during the Down Downs unfortunately. So with barely a nod from the monks of St Bernard, Stewa apparently proceeded to polish that off, no doubt stuffing it in any currently unoccupied orifices.


Fortunately the beer lasted quite a bit longer so there were few complaints.





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