NYCH3 #1268

New York City H3 Run #1268

May 28th, 2008.  From Suspenders Bar, Broadway @ Pine.   

Hares: Ass Ranger and Just Colleen. Scribe: Hedgehog with apologies to Bill Shakespeare.                             

Once more into the projects, hashers, once more,
Or huddle together behind our British Daves.
A hasher is never so appealing
As when slumped in drunken stupor,
But when the hash horn calls,
Then amble away like a Times Square tourist.
Twist an ankle, graze a knee,
Stain with sweat those T-shirts white.
Then prise open wide those bloodshot eyes,
Ignore the throbbing in the head
Like a Bronx boombox, let more brew overwhelm it
As surely as a hasher’s beer gut
Overhangs his impotent knob,
Sloshed with gallons of watery Bud. 
Now grit your teeth, and sniff the sweat,
Pant and puff, and lift those legs
Til the ligaments pop.
ON ON! you lazy bastards,
Whose blood is let by a rusty fence,
Hashers that like so many Gisberts*
Have been running in circles for sodding hours,
And given up calling from a lack of flour.
Don’t be caught front-running; admit
That you’re short-cutting bastards at heart. 
Set an example to the New York Road Runners,
And teach them how to down-down.
And you, good hashers,
With your knobbly English knees, show us
The quality of your shiggy ; prove
That you’re bloody, muddy bastards – no kidding,
For none of you is so sober
That you don’t have bloodshot eyes.
I see you slinking into the tavern,
Leaning on the bar. The hash is off.
Follow the hare, and on the trail
Cry ‘God I’d give anything for a beer!’ 
Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more,
Or close the wall up with our English dead.
In peace there’s nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility,
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger.
Stiffen the sinews, conjure up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favoured rage.
Then land the eye a terrible aspect,
Let it pry through the portage of the head
Like the brass cannon, let the brow o’erwhelm it
As fearfully as doth a galled rock
O’erhang and jutty his confounded base,
Swilled with the wild and wasteful ocean. 
Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,
Hold hard the breath, and bend up every spirit
To his full height. On, On, you noblest English,
Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof,
Fathers that like so many Alexanders
Have in these parts from morn till even fought,
And sheathed their swords for lack of argument.
Dishonour not your mothers; now attest
That those whom you called fathers did beget you. 
Be copy now to men of grosser blood,
And teach them how to war.
And you, good yeomen,
Whose limbs were made in England, show us here
The mettle of your pasture; let us swear
That you are worth your breeding – which I doubt not,
For there is none of you so mean and base
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game’s afoot.
Follow your spirit, and upon this charge
Cry, ‘God for Harry! England and Saint George!’ 

 [* A. S. Gisbert – the founder of the Hash in 1938.] 

The following miscreants were charged:
  • The Hares
  • The Virgins (too numerous to numerate)
  • The Visitor : Defloured from Marin H3, California
  • Hi-Tech Offenders (for cell phone abuse, and trying to measure the trail length using the altitude function on a GPS)
  • Smashmouth Award: Jessie (?) for a faceplant.
  • Global Warming Offence: Lexi’s Bitch for allowing canine contributions to the methane surplus.
  • The Hares (encore)