BH3 #428

Brooklyn Hash House Harriers

Run # 428/ October 6th

Hare: FMIG, House of Weenies

On In: Pacific Standard

Scribe: Riding Big Jake 

Ah yes, and here we have the write-up for the Brooklyn Hash r*n #428. If you have been watching very closely, you will notice that this little missive is somewhat late. Perhaps this is why they call me the “Master of Suspense?” Master of something, anyway. Therefore, without further ado, I give you the write-up. I hope that this little exercise (hmmm, just like the Hash: little exercise!) will not give you VERTIGO. My apologies to Alfred Hitchcock, who most famously stated, “the Hash is life with the dull bits left out.”

The theme for this particular evening was SUSPICION. There was BLACKMAIL, MURDER!, and as many cried foul, even SABOTAGE!

The trail began amidst this veil of fear and mystery at the subway stop at 4th and 9th, with several virgins, all YOUNG AND INNOCENT, staring at each other like STRANGERS ON A TRAIN. The SPELLBOUND pack were r*n all around Park Slope, UPHILL and downhill and over to Sunset Park, where the PSYCHO hares teased us along the edge of Greenwood Cemetery. Alas, we hadn’t time to find THE FAMILY PLOT, as they diverted the pack at just the last moment. But not before innocent Brooklynites, quaking in their homes for fear of the braying pack, were seen to peer from behind their TORN CURTAINS, and witness the NOTORIOUS Blackout, whipping out his TOPAZ and christening a port-a-potty…on the outside. They were never the same again.

The hares tortured us around some circle-jerks like WALTZES FROM VIENNA, and across footpaths over the BQE, two of which looked surprisingly similar enough to be the same bridge. Were they? I’m still not sure.

Right around this time we decided this trail was for THE BIRDS, when the theme of paranoia arose: Blackout refused to follow our fleet of fast-of-foot virgins, who had been throwing down marks like LIFEBOATs.

“I don’t trust those guys!” he exclaimed, and soon we saw he was right: a SABOTEUR, perhaps a SECRET AGENT, had been laying down hare marks, as opposed to pack marks!

In a FRENZY, we attempted TO CATCH A THIEF, er, a virgin, to fix his mistake. Heading NORTH BY NORTHWEST on we ran, but alas, when we came even with our supposed offender we discovered he was THE WRONG MAN. There was nothing left to do but close the remaining 39 STEPS to the On In: THE MOUNTAIN EAGLE. Oh wait, no, Pacific Standard.

Our theme of suspicion continued when D’Stink accused FMIG (not a Hitchcock movie title, thank goodness. Don’t want to imagine what that movie would be like!). Of what did she accuse him? Inappropriate touching. Apparently, as rumors have it (or perhaps I was just eavesdropping from my hiding place in the bathroom), he tried to touch her REAR WINDOW. Her PLEASURE GARDEN. Her JUNO AND THE PAYCOCK. He wanted to play THE SKIN GAME. He tried to assail her EASY VIRTUE. Her REBECCA. Okay, now I’m just making things up to use up movie titles…

Soon, to the circle (aka THE RING), where over a glass of CHAMPAGNE FMIG, THE MAN WHO KNEW TOO MUCH, and never one for STAGE FRIGHT, doled out down-downs like so much ROPE.

  • FMIG and House of Weenies—the usual
  • Virgins Tara, Brian, Anna and Ben—the latter of whom without a SHADOW OF A DOUBT was also punished for paying hash cash in singles

 At this point, the McGuffin: D’Stink forever altered the story of the circle by having one pint too many, then piping in with frequent corrections to the down-downs.   

  • D’Stink—for being the source of those “squeaky-voiced complaints”
  • Virgin Ben—for yelling “On On!” at the first mark each time
  • Screaming O—for breaking the cardinal rule that you never follow a virgin
  • Blackout—his aforementioned trust issues, and watering the john
  • D’Stink again (again???)—for DIALing M FOR MURDER (okay, no, really just for being a buttinsky)
  • Splat, in a random abuse of power, to Cathy—for her 1st Brooklyn trail. This was followed by a dirty dirty song. For shame.
  • US Marine Whore—soon to be THE FARMER’S WIFE, for asking Noah’s Dinghy if he’d brought his metrocard prior to the run. Apparently she thought they were going to take the subway the 10 blocks to the start?
  • Little Miss Red Ride-Me-Hood—for, well, I CONFESS, my notes are illegible hereafter. The down-downs had risen to the NUMBER SEVENTEEN at this point. I’m sure the story of Little Miss Red Ride-Me-Hood’s transgression is RICH AND STRANGE.

 Having held true to Hitchcock’s dictum to “Always make the audience suffer as much as possible,” I sign off.  And THE LADY VANISHES.  


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