G2FMH3 Hash #180 – Friday, June 9, 2006
<!–[if !vml]–><!–[endif]–> <!–[if !vml]–><!–[endif]–>The Truth
Official Organ of the Greater Gotham Full Moon
Hash House Harriers
G2FMH3 Hash #180 – Friday, June 9, 2006
Hare: Joe Pennsylvania
Start: 68th and Lexington
On-In: O’Connell’s, 108th and Broadway
Punk Ass Bitch (Scribe): Noah’s Dinghy
Pele is generally credited with coining the expression for soccer, or “football” if you want to be all Europe-y, of the “beautiful game.” Though he said it, it’s unclear if he was the first. Joe Pennsylvania took us all on a decidedly not beautiful r*n on opening night of the 2006 World Cup, a tournament which would culminate in the United States’ stunning victory over Italy in the final. (Those with alternate histories can turn in their own damn write-ups. This is the official organ of the hash; I say the U.S. won and that wasn’t a penalty against Ghana, and it’s therefore official.)
The pack gathered for a pre-lube, always an excellent start, at Phoenix Park on 67th Street, in time to watch a replay of the waning moments of the tournament’s opening game. We then moved on to the start a block away, our hare bizarrely insistent we leave on time on account of a threatened storm which would erase his carefully-placed marks, though he insisted many would be protected from the elements, placed under overhangs and the like. With that, we were off, with virgins in the back (including one who brought a stuffed penguin for some reason), most everyone in the middle following the hashers up front, and Fast American Dave and Jumpin’ Jack Gash charging ahead without actually looking for, you know, arrows.
Within moments, the problem of starting a hash by Central Park emerged. Though nominally following the marks, everyone just moved in the direction of the park, and encountering our first check, immediately continued in that direction. However, the only trail to be found quickly turned out to be false. Thus, everyone split up in search of true trail. Seven of the possible eight corners around the check were searched to no avail. The solution was so obvious: go back the way we came and start r*nning around aimlessly, because clearly that eighth corner wasn’t the way to go.
Some, like Salt Lick, will tell you that hashers aren’t really stupid. And they’re right, because in slightly less time than it took to build Central Park, the pack discovered marks on that tricky eighth corner, and headed in. We briefly exited at 81st Street, but no one was fooled for more than ten minutes: we quickly turned back in, and headed past the familiar landmarks. Around Turtle Pond, through those darkened areas where in the 1980s women jogged with nothing less than an M-16 on their backs (shoulder pads were in then, so the look wasn’t as odd as you’d think), and then up, up, and out. Fortunately the rain did hold off for the length of the r*n, because contrary to our hare’s claims, chalk was liberally applied in unexposed areas that would get washed away by high humidity.
We r*n past the guys playing dice who wanted to know if we were on a marathon, through Columbia, then down Broadway, closing in on the mark, and then … beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeerrrrrrrrrrrrr!!!!!! Beerbeerbeerbeer beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeerrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!!!!!!! Whatever else was going on is ultimately unimportant.
Down-downs went accordingly:
Visitors/virgins: Kara, brought by one of the Daves. Carolyn (?), Lauren’s sister. Grant, who apparently made himself come.
The FRB bag was restored to Fast American Dave’s rightful possession.
US Marine Whore, who was nice enough to solve both of the boob checks that our hare gleefully set down. She was not, however, nice enough to remove her shirt in celebration in the spirit of the World Cup.
Tim, for arriving late once again and r*nning with a bag. I don’t know, maybe he’s training to be FRB.
Glen, for bringing the virgin (who did not come forward for her official down-down) with the stuffed penguin. Said penguin was stolen by the JMs and not returned until the end of the evening, long after our unknown virgin left in a bit of a state. R*nning companions, particularly cute ones, are apparently frowned upon: only depraved, perverted lushes may accompany you on trail. This explains [insert the name of any hasher here].
The hare again, for taking us through the aforementioned rape alleys in the park. Who knows, that penguin might have been of some use after all.
Random abuse of power went to the pack, and being the unimaginative sorts that we are, made Joe drink once more.
Absurdly large slices of pizza arrived, and more drinking was to be had. Pussy Repellent, FMIG, JJG and Noah’s Dinghy serenaded the hare with a beautifully harmonized rendition of “More Beer.” Once we were done, Cockstar decided to point out the beer was in the booth next to ours. Speaking of the JM, she was at some point overheard to tell Pussy Repellent “You felt me from behind,” to which he responded “Thank God, I thought I was grabbing Fluffy.” I apologize to anyone who now has that image in their head. Go on, have another beer, think of something else. Only four short years until South Africa 2010.