Official Organ of the Greater Gotham Full Moon
Hash House Harriers
G2FMH3 Hash #194 – Friday, June 1st, 2007
Start: Biddy Early's (Murray & Church Streets)
Hares: The Committee
On-in: Biddy Early's (Murray & Church Streets)
Punk Ass Bitch (Scribe): Noah's Dinghy
Cockstar, Rich, US Marine Whore, and Crawlaholic gathered us up to celebrate their last Friday night in charge of the GGFM. (For some of them, at any rate, but more on that subject later.)
We began at Biddy Early’s, which most everyone guessed ahead of time meant the trail would be A to A. The sight of Cockstar emerging from the bar already ripped out of her gourd confirmed this; no way that girl was traveling anywhere with a bunch of bags. A few instructions from Rich for the one virgin, and the announcement that we might encounter a back-check mysteriously labeled as a “check-back,” and we were off.
The pack first r*n around City Hall, then rounded back onto Chambers towards Broadway. Someone guessed we might be headed for the Patriot, though this seemed dubious. No hare is lazy enough to simply set a one block trail. Well, okay, I might be, but this is why no one asks me to hare. Instead, we encountered our first check, and some of the fleeter of foot soon discovered trail. (Salt Lick tore off after seeing one mark in a different direction; who knows how far she would have gone if someone hadn’t been generous enough to yell on call after her.)
So where did the trail take us, you ask? Or perhaps you didn’t ask. Too f*cking bad, I’m going to tell you anyway. We r*n past the same goddamn landmarks incorporated in every Lower Manhattan trail: under the Brooklyn Bridge overpass, along FDR drive, past some Wall Street firms, into and quickly out of Battery Park, then along the Hudson for a stretch until we crossed over the West Side Highway and back to where we started. On the way, we encountered the “check-back,” and three beer checks. The latter were apparently the reason the back check had been named in reverse, so that hashers would realize they were nearing an alcoholic pit stop, and should not suddenly wander off trail in search of nonexistent marks. Frankly, that happens enough on nights when there aren’t special instructions.
Did I say there were three drink checks? Ha-ha, silly me. There were actually two: at one, Crawlaholic waited at a pub with a couple pitchers and several plastic cups, while over by the Hudson River, Cockstar and Rich had cups and cans of Bud Light and PBR in plain brown paper bags. There had been a scheduled third, which would have involved USMW offering some concoction out of Gatorade bottles. Unfortunately, while she had cleverly schemed to serve the drinks in an innocuous-seeming bottle so that no one would be the wiser that folks were consuming alcohol in public, it did not occur to her that mixing all of the ingredients with the big bottle labeled “Vodka” in public might arouse suspicion. Using her considerable charms, she managed to convince the John Q. Law who interrupted her to simply dump everything out and not give her a citation. USMW related all this to me as she had lingered by the check for a while to tell everyone to keep r*nning; as a result, I wasn’t especially concerned when FMIG told me upon my arrival at the “third” drink check that the cops had busted my better half. My lack of worry was supposed to assure everyone there wasn’t a problem, but I suppose came across more as I’m an unfeeling bastard. Eh, what are you gonna do?
So, having r*n what probably wasn’t all that long a trail but felt like it in the heat, we finally arrived back at Biddy Early’s, where further drinking was to be done.
Being as this was the RGM, a new committee was in the offing: gone were Rich and Cockstar (JMs), USMW (Hare Raiser), and Crawlaholic (On-Sec). Replacing them were Rich and USMW as the JMs (okay, so “gone” and “replacing” aren’t entirely accurate), Leave My Clothes On Lauren for On-Sex (hmm, there’s something that could be done with that name and title – suggestions are welcome), and Empress Norma as the new Hare Raiser.
The respective committees, old and new, each did their down-downs. Rich, who took credit/blame/scorn as the hare, was given a down-down, followed by the virgin, whose name might have been Travis. Then we made Bottom drink for falling off the wagon as of 12:01 a.m. the previous night after having been a teetotaler for six months (which may not be as bad as your AA sponsor taking you to Vegas for a bachelor party, but it’s a similar sentiment). After that came a rash of down-downs: Scot for pulling one of the muscles in the vicinity of his ass and using this an excuse not to r*n; Mean Jean for sporting a T-shirt from the very first RGM; Blackout for spotting the check-back with the number 4 and instead of telling everyone to go back four marks calling out in dismay there were four beer checks (a hasher objected to more beer?); Ewa for being Polish on trail and missing all of the drink checks; Donner Kabob for (a) mistaking a random civilian for Ewa and wiping his sweat off on the poor guy’s shirt, (b) tripping on a curb, and (c) doing both within a few blocks of the start; USMW for the aforementioned wasting of alcohol; Cockstar just because she’ll always drink if you tell her to; and Chris for purchasing a cheap pack of wife-beaters so as to r*n in one, then changing into a Hawaiian shirt at the on-in (Andy and Ewa were sporting similar attire and thus given down-downs as well). Random abuse of power then went Cockstar, who ordered one of Rich’s co-workers to drink.
With that out of the way, we followed the example of some noble hashers and got good and pished, as the hash cash once again lasted a gloriously long time, until some frat boys, who apparently psychically knew when that moment came, suddenly overwhelmed our section of the bar. I fled before being subjected to a bunch of grown men who think “flip cups” is an activity that warrants macho posturing.