NYCH3 #1151

NYCH3 #1151

Date: Sunday, March 25, 2006

Start: Union Square

Hares: Lisa and Kendra

On-In: Cheap Shots, Avenue A and St. Mark’s

Scribe: Noah’s Dinghy

When setting a trail for the very first time, it’s a good idea to have a co-hare along to help steer you away from common mistakes, such as placing marks that can easily be washed away by the rain, or setting a false trail after three marks despite announcing “Three and you’re on.”


But good ideas have no place in hashing, except for the choice of on-in, so feel free to set trail with another virgin hare and set whatever trail you please, because the pack is going to bitch about it anyway.  Lisa and Kendra apparently went with this latter school of thought, setting a trail that took us from the Heartland Brewery by Union Square (the tourists no doubt confused by all the people stripping down to r*nning gear by the bar), over to 7th Avenue, down to 9th Street, over to the river (where a group of teenagers observed Erica, then US Marine Whore, and finally Salt Lick pass them and commented on “all the bouncing titties”), up to Tompkins Square Park, and then to the on-in.  Sure, it was a bit more complicated than that, but the hares apparently set trail with the following exchange:

          “Have we turned in a while?”

          “I’m sure we have; I would remember if we were simply going straight for several blocks.”

          “It just seems we’ve been on Avenue C for a while.”

          “I’m telling you, we turned somewhere.”

          “It’s been raining on and off, some of our marks are going to disappear.”

          “I know, let’s put a check here so when the pack gets lost and starts following a bunch of people who r*n for exercise, it’ll be their fault.”

          “How many marks and they’re on?”

          “Who the hell cares?”


As I said, the only time it is necessary for the hares to have a good idea is when selecting the on-in, and in this case, the hares had a very good idea.  Pitchers were placed in front of thirsty hashers, who quickly emptied them, and replacements magically appeared.  Anyone worried about sobering up quickly had their fears drowned in Bud Light and McSorley’s.  Which was good, as it allowed us to ignore the stream of George Michael emanating from the jukebox.  This despite a sign clearly announcing that shitty songs would be skipped.


Down-downs went accordingly:    The hares.  Bruce for r*nning with his dog on trail, tripping at least one civilian with the leash, and being on call on trail, and receiving a call from the hospital.   Stewa for getting engaged.  Salt Lick for beginning a new job that would take her away from the hash on Sundays for the foreseeable future.  I missed what the job is, but I’d like to think it’s something unseemly.

Lisa for snacking on trail.  The post card advertising Axe body spray (warning: everyone will know how desperate to get laid you are if you actually purchase this product) that contains my notes make mention of Mounds versus Almond Joy.  That means something, I guess.  Sarah Down Under for being underdressed in a sports bra and shorts (it wasn’t that warm) and Salt Lick for being overdressed in a Giants windbreaker (it wasn’t that cold either, though the jacket did nothing to hide her chest from the aforementioned teenagers).  Assholes of the Week went to Fuck Me I’m Gay, for hounding people to play air hockey with him (is that what the kids are calling it?), and Jenn for taking him up on it.  The game was apparently too loud and the JMs instructed the assholes to stop.  One used his shirt to disrupt the game, and Jenn promptly threw it on the floor.


 Formalities out of the way, everyone returned to their regularly scheduled drinking, which was good because hash cash lasted a gloriously long time.  The dog was fed beer by everyone, except FMIG, who she snapped at when he got close (guess she understood AOTW).  Unused chalk was put to use for highly unsubtle innuendo (again, that’s what the post card says) on the walls and tables.  Ed Lunch announced what sounded like “Chad and I did it every day, but Erica can deliver.”  (And if that’s not what he said, no one really wants to know the truth.)  Many, many pitchers were consumed.  Pretty much a normal Sunday afternoon.  Evening.  Night.  Morning.


On out!