NYCH3 # 1289

NYCH3 #1289

Doggy Style’s 3rd Anal 30th Birthday Bash

Sunday, October 19, 2008

Hare: Doggy Style

Start: Doggy Style’s Place

On-In: Doggy Style’s Place

Scribe: Doggy Style (No, wait, Bottom)

It was an October afternoon. The air was crisp. The sun came down at an angle. It warmed one side of the street but never both. It warmed your arms if you were lucky enough to be in for 3 minutes straight. Otherwise you were subject to chills, goose-bumps and all the other forgotten sensations of a New England winter. Like rock hard nipples and sticky underpants.

We’ve been doing it Doggy Style for the past three years. I’m not going to lie to you. It feels good. It felt good when she turned 30. It felt better when she turned 31. And now that she’s 32, it’s magic– Pure, raw, mystical magic. (Damn I love older women.) Magical mileage in Harlem. Yeah–something like that.

So a crowd of 30 or so gathered to do it Doggy Style in her apartment. Empenadas were in the oven. Billy Ocean was on the radio. And the beer was flowing. No one wanted to leave. Doggy gave us disclaimer. There will be ladders. There will be stairwells. There will be staircases, etc. etc. ad nauseum. And so we packed up our stuff and stepped into t he cold.

At this point I should give a lesson in the obvious—Harlem is Hilly. It’s got the kind of hills that go up and down. Yeah—those kind. The ones that need stairways to get people up and down them. So we headed out East down 146th with a warning that there were 322 Chicken Eagle Splits and 222 YBFs and lots of other annoying tricks that the experienced ladies will play when they want to party like it’s their birthday.

We went East over to Morningside Park, wound around in Morningside Heights before running down this street that connected to this other street that—get this—connected to this other street and then we were in like Columbia’s Medical School. And then there was this chicken / eagle split that could have like taken you to the Bronx but we were too smart for that so we just kept running up to 175th Street were we found some other hilly piece of shit park. And get this—it had hills… lots of hills, the kind of hills that you need staircases to get up. So we might have gone through Kingsbridge recreational area. And we might have gone through For Tryon and we might have had a really good view of the Croton Reservoir and we might have run down this dirt trail which was really very strategically positioned for the buying of drugs on a Sunday afternoon. Not that I know anything about that. I’d rather do it Doggy Style.

So then we found our way back to Riverside Park where we found—get this—some more fucking stairs. Amazing. So we went up them and down them and up them and down them and then back and forth and up and down and it was like Doggy Style. Not that I know anything about that. I’m just doing the write up, Ok? I got suckered into doing the write up OK? Is that so wrong. I don’t know hilly harlem or doing it Doggy Style or hard nipples or the October Sun hitting you at an angle. I’m just the guy doing the write up, OK. GOSH!

Ok—so there were a bunch of virgins who got lost and some veterans who got lost by running 20 blocks in the wrong direction. And there were some hills. So we made Doggy Style drink for putting too many hills in the course. And too many staircases. Way too many staircases. And then we made Darlene Drink for making us delicious Empanadas. And then we made AARP drink for doing absolutely nothing as a co-hair. Our Virgins all came to us from Pennsyltucky. There wa s a tall chick and a fast guy from Tennessee. Pretty par for the course. They want to be written up here but come on—I’m just the guy that got roped into doing the write up. What do you want?

Then we had a runner chick smackdown between Salt Lick and AARPenis over which wine was better—the cheap ass $2 buck chuck white wine or the cheap ass $2 buck chuck RED wine. They both had to drink because they both sucked. TubSlut had to drink for doing something for 28 years. I’m not sure whether that thing was his wife or hashing or just doing it doggy style but we were celebrating something… perhaps it was the fact that I’m doing the write up, not him.

Lunch had to drink for making a wrong turn and going – whoops—20 blocks in the wrong direction because that was the first chance to leave the park. Ever heard of turning around, Ed? Finally Dan came forward and accepted a downdown for skipping the GGFM and going to some party that he didn’t remember after the 3rd Drink. He woke up thinking that something was wrong. He looked for his keys? Check. He looked for his wallet. Check. He checked his bed—empty. Check. He checked everything and found it was all OK. Until his friend—the un-named hash party thrower—called him and asked him why Dan had thrown up all over his bathroom. Check please. So he got asshole of the week but I think the other hasher who threw a party that competed with the GGFM got his punishment too—a newly painted bathroom.

And then we started drinking for real. Why? Because Doggy Style was in the house and she was giving out cheap ass wine by the bottle and cool little wine openers with her name and the hash number on them. Cool—huh? And then many regrettable things happened. But I’m not going to tell you about them because I was doing this write up.