RUN #1019: The “FROM ONE KAGMAN BEACH TO ANOTHER”
Run
HARES: SHITSTAIN AND CHESHIRE PUSSY
BOX: LAU LAU DIVE BEACH
ON HOME: MARINE BEACH
CASUALTIES: JAPANESE FNG, Slimy, Ciega.
RUN: ***
RELIGION: **
DLMM Rating: 000
His Eminence Slimius Maximus (Haj, Von Slimetoven) as well as an ex-Agony/Las Vegas hasher named Mr. Fuck Face. There was Bernadette, Derek, a friend of Titty Sticker, and Keiko who were FNG’s. The box was announced as Lau Lau dive beach and everyone headed there in many directions. Once there, faux blonde Heavy Flow locked her keys in the car and everyone said don’t worry about it until we come back. The hounds assembled in the box and the hares gave special instructions. There would be flour, some new orange ribbon and some old orange ribbon. After that they took off and the Tyrant then ‘splained the instructions to the FNG’s. After the 10-minute head start the pack was off to the main road and split into two directions. However, there was a checking at the bottom of the hill at the Kagman intersection and most of the pack went straight out parallel to the beach, to an incredibly long on back. True trail went into the jungle at the intersection and then followed the ravine up towards the old railroad bed. This was as fine a ravine as I have seen in a long time, and there was much slipping and sliding, and working one’s way around nasty slimy ponds of who knows what kind of contaminated water. After about ½ mile we came on a box culvert, which was underneath the old Sugar King railroad bed. There was no checking here but we did find trail across the road in a beautiful bamboo forest. A little more jungle and we popped out just north of the Kagman Kiddie Jail. From here the trail followed the Santa Soledad road out to the main Kagman Road, where a clusterfuck had people standing around wondering which way to go. (As the assembled stood around with their thumbs up there collective Asses, the beer truck and hares (who had gone to Capitol Hill to take delivery of the pizza) drove by without anyone noticing them. Somehow, they lost the top of one of the coolers, but we found it on the first vehicle run). True trail went west up the main road to the ponding basin access road and then dropped into the Kagman Gulley. This is the famous double barrel run, where you have to duck walk the length of a flood control culvert that is only 3 feet high. I am glad I missed this part considering all the earthquakes we have been having. Eventually this trail came out at Marine Beach. The Tyrant and several other SCB’s who figures (NOT NOT NOT) that he know s what he is doing, stayed on the main Kagman road heading straight for Marine Beach and hoping that they had not made a mistake. The wise ness of the idea was validated when Chicken Lil Dick (who was the keynote speaker at HopHead Jr.High’s gradumation) tried to run over Donkey Dick and the Tyrant. We knew we were headed in the right direction because we know that he does not have anything better to do on a Saturday afternoon. On the dirt road above the beach we heard the “ON HOME” of those who arrived before us, and were greeted by boxes of pizza as well as regular hash snacks. As the sun slowly set in the west, it became apparent that some of the hounds were not going to make it in before dark so the hares began going out on mercy missions. Eventually everyone came in and the little Japanese girl, in as polite a way as possible, told the Tyrant how FUCKED UP the run was. On the last vehicle run, she, Derek, Qamar, and many others left and did not return (see editorial). The long missing firemaster Titty Sticker had returned and got a roaring fire started. The Tyrant piped up Religion and the hares called forward. In the absence of Dog Leg the Tyrant recruited Chicken Lil Dick as the RA and then began an evening of tit for tat between CLD and Cheshire Pussy. I mean there were marshmallow cannon, dunkings in the ocean, just general playing of footsies (GET A ROOM! -ed.). There were many courtesies were done to this rather pleasant run. There was lots of poor mans fireworks too. Eventually however, the festivities had to come to an end the vessel was retired. The area was policed, Swing Low was sung, and the assembled packed out to leave. Many went to Hamilton’s. The Tyrant of course went home.
The Saipan Hash House Harriers convenes every Saturday at 4:00 p.m. (3:30 during "winter") at the Bank of Guam parking lot in Garapan U.S. $10.00 (NON NEGOTIABLE)
MISMANAGEMENT
TYRANT/GM Haj, F. Kramden, Sir!!
RA: Dog Leg
AAAARA: OPEN
FIRE MASTER TITTY STICKERS
HASH CASH Ciega
TRAIL MASTER Dog Leg
DLMM TECHNICIAN Dog Leg
HASH SCRIBE DICK TENNANT
RECEDING HARE LINE...
1021 6/12 Red Squirrel & MHP
1022 6/19 Minnie Pearl
1023 6/26 Kinky Lay
1024 7/3 Sword Swallower and Pucker Boy
1025 7/10 Sasquatch and Costello
1026 7/17 Kramden & MHP
1027 7/24 Viagra
1028 7/31 FM 100 Sasquatch & Happy Pockets
CONTACT CIEGA TO SIGN UP. IT IS A HASHER’S DUTY
TO BE A HARE.
BE A HARE, SET TRAIL FOR YOUR FRIENDS
REMEMBER, IF YOU GO BACK TO THE REAL WORLD AND THERE
IS NO HASH, START ONE. IT IS A GREAT WAY TO MEET PEOPLE, AND SOME
ONE IS BOUND TO SHOW YOU THEIR TITS ONE OF THESE DAYS.
EDITORIAL
The hash, in my opinion, is a two-part affair.
Part one is the run part. This is the exciting part. Part two
is the Religion. Although not as exciting, it is equally important because
it gives the hounds a chance to either praise or chastise the hares on
the work they have done. To leave on the vehicle run and NOT come
back is SACRILIGIOUS. I am an all or nothing kind of a guy.
Stay for religion, or don’t run the hash.
RUN #1018: The “SHARP AND DANGEROUS COASTLINE” Run
HARES: VIAGRA AND DIRTY YELLOW BALLS
BOX: SAILING ROAD, DAN DAN
ON HOME: LAU LAU BEACH
CASUALTIES: KIWI
RUN: ***
RELIGION: **
DLMM Rating: 000
32hounds showed up at the BOG for another one of those
runs that had teasers galore on the yahoogroups for weeks on end. This
also included Kowpaddy who had been gone for some time. The box was
announced and detailed instructions were given. This was done AFTER
Tiny Dancer went home to get some clove cigarettes for CLD who promised
that he would wait for him (NOT NOT NOT). Everyone headed out to
the southern end of the island and found the empty lot where the box had
been drawn. Once everyone was in the box, the hares gave special
instructions about yellow ribbon, red ribbon, and escape routes as well
as warnings about the man eating holes that we were supposed to watch out
for. As soon as they finished they ran off in two different directions.
The Tyrant ‘splained the instructions to the FNG’s and waited along with
everyone else while the 10-minute head start was counted off. At the baying
of ON ON by the hounds, the pack was off and went immediately east (Bat
out of Hell who was late told us NOT to go out to the main road because
there was an FU on back on the road). The trail went past some homes on
the cliff and then down into the jungle behind the homes. This was
your typical limestone forest with lots of vines and trees spaced far enough
apart so that we could move pretty quickly through the trees. The
trail meandered for a long while going back in the direction that we had
come. We continued in the lightly forested jungle for a while and then
began our descent towards the ocean. We popped out on the cliff line
that runs along what is called Tuturam on the topo maps that are available.
Here the trail got more dangerous because we were now walking on razor
sharp limestone, with light foliage covering the man-eating holes and ankle
breaking cracks in the rocks. The going was much slower here.
Somewhere along this part of the trail, Sword Swallower took a nosedive
into one of the holes and almost got stuck forever. Cheshire Pussy
thought it was the funniest thing and related the story during Religion.
Eventually we went back into the jungle and on to an old dirt road, which
led us to the trail head of Cinco De Mayo beach. However we crossed
the upper part of the ravine and continued on along the cliff line until
we entered deep jungle, and then popped out on the Lau Lau Bay road. From
here it was just a short 10-minute walk to the On Home, which was on the
Beach. There was rice and Chicken Curry waiting for us when we arrived
as well as the usual hash snacks. The missing Titty Sticker was missed
but Cheshire Pussy, fire master by injection (from Oly) got a good roaring
fire going for us. A vehicle run was called and a whole bunch of
people hopped into MHP’s Blue Penis truck. Red Sasquatch and Kramden
were in the front (where there are springs in the seats), and everyone
else in the back. Mr. Happy Pockets thought he might add a little
excitement to the vehicle run and drove over the bumps as if everyone had
springs in their seats. Someone jumped up and started pounding hard
on (SHE WAS LATER CHRISTENED POUNDING HARD ON) the roof of the car.
MHP slammed on the brakes, shoved the gearshift into park, and proceeded
to ream the Kiwi at least 2 new assholes. For those of you who have
been gone from the mainland for a long time, this is called road rage.
Needless to say, we had to give the girl her name in absentia because she
did not return.
Religion was piped up and CLD was enlisted as the RA
in the absence of Dog Leg. The hares called forward and they gave
great honor to each other (except for DYB who worked at his real job and
missed all the work on the trail). Next the visiting hasher, newly
arrived Bloody Q-Tip came up and was welcomed to the kinder and gentler
hash. Next the FNG’s were called forward and they did not embarrass themselves.
The tourist even gave a small speech. Next there were many tales
from the trail about the markings or lack thereof. There was the
man eating hole story, and there we some other courtesies done to this
excellent run. Cheshire Pussy got up and told a joke about penises and
so we had a topic for humor. Several people got up and told penis
jokes. The Tyrant got up to tell his favorite and could not get the
punch line out, but everyone else did so it was not so bad. There
were more courtesies and Palauans, and more attempts to drag out Religion
way past where it was interesting. The Tyrant finally called for
retiring of the vessel, and policing the area. Swing Low was sung
and the assembled headed out in many directions. The Tyrant of course went
home.
The Saipan Hash House Harriers convenes every Saturday at 4:00 p.m. (3:30 during "winter") at the Bank of Guam parking lot in Garapan U.S. $10.00 (NON NEGOTIABLE)
MISMANAGEMENT
TYRANT/GM Haj, F. Kramden, Sir!!
RA: Dog Leg
AAAARA: OPEN
FIRE MASTER TITTY STICKERS
HASH CASH Ciega
TRAIL MASTER Dog Leg
DLMM TECHNICIAN Dog Leg
HASH SCRIBE ABOLHASSAN SMITH
RECEDING HARE LINE...
FM98 6/2 W. Von Brown – Wed. Full Moon
1020 6/5 Piss Break
1021 6/12 Red Squirrel & MHP
CONTACT CIEGA TO SIGN UP. IT IS A HASHER’S DUTY
TO BE A HARE.
BE A HARE, SET TRAIL FOR YOUR FRIENDS
REMEMBER, IF YOU GO BACK TO THE REAL WORLD AND THERE IS NO HASH, START ONE. IT IS A GREAT WAY TO MEET PEOPLE, AND SOME ONE IS BOUND TO SHOW YOU THEIR TITS ONE OF THESE DAYS.
EDITORIAL
Excellent run, glad no one took Mr. Happy Pockets outburst
too seriously. Glad to see that I am not the only one that has nothing
to do on Saturdays and Sundays. (SIHHH).
RUN #1017: The “OVER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY” Run
HARES: VIENER VON BRAUN, CRACKER JACK, AND RED SASQUATCH
BOX: CHEZ BRAUN, AS MA TOOIES!!!!!
ON HOME: GTC BEACH
CASUALTIES: NONE
RUN: ***
RELIGION: **
DLMM Rating: 000
28 hounds showed up at the BOG to run what had been billed as the Mother of All Hashes. Red Squirrel and Red Sasquatch returned from the land of the Big PX. Octopus’s Bitch also returned from a hiatus. We had an FNG Nori from Japan, and San Diego hasher Deborah. The box was announced as Vieners House (AGAIN!!) and everyone headed north. At the box, Deborah asked the Tyrant if he knew how to get to the cliff line just east of the box. He said he thought we would find out and we did. Confuse-us, even after having been warned by the Tyrant, stepped in dog shit. The hares gave special instructions and warned us about Barbed Wire (they have obviously never been in a firebase or a prison) and that the trail would be in toilet paper and flour. As soon the hares took off, the Tyrant ‘splained the instructions to the FNG Nori. When he had finished, Bite and Suck decided that the FNG needed to hear the instructions in Pennsyltucky English and explained them all over again. After the 10-minute head start, the pack split up going up hill because no one ever wants to check down hill. Well, down hill was the true trail and the FRB’s ran smack into an on back. Down the hill we went to the first cross street before La Fiesta. Around the corner and then back up the hill. We ran to a Cul de Sac and into a crowd of kids who told us which way to go (into the jungle). From here began a rambling, uphill climb, through some light jungle. Eventually we popped out on the top of the cliff (where the Tyrant told Deborah that this was the way to get to the top). A false trail almost led some of the dumber hounds to their death. But most followed true trail out to a jeep trail on top of the cliff. Eventually however, what goes up must come down, and we went back into the jungle and then started our descent. It was here that we found some barbed wire. But what the hares were talking about was CONCERTINA or razor wire. We had to climb over the wire, which sat on the edge of a 6-foot cliff, and climb down without falling or getting cut. It was not easy. After this was more downhill on a southerly heading. After a while we dropped into some familiar territory and realized we were in Paradise Valley. From here it was a straight shot out to the main road and over to Gregorio T. Camacho Memorial School beach. Because the Firemaster was not here, the Tyrant took it upon himself to begin gathering pine leaves as kindling. He also began dismantling the pallets and eventually shamed some other people into helping him. Before dark everyone came in and since Dog Leg was off island, the Tyrant enlisted the help of the full moon RA Crackerjack. Religion was piped up and the hares called forward. All three of them got up and talked about how hard they all worked on the run (NOT). During Religion there were shouts of “Kill the RA” (because she was worse than Kowpaddy when he is the RA). Crackerjack should teach at SAS (SHORT ATTENTION SPAN) School instead of SIS. Anyway, next the visiting hasher was called up and then the FNG. The Tyrant then asked for jokes or courtesies and there was a bevy of people who came up and drank to the run. Some complained about the concertina, some complained about the up hill, some complained about the markings. But I think everyone enjoyed the run. Someone called up the two Chinese girls (Oreana and Jessica) and asked them how they stayed so clean after such a dirty run. Oreana just claimed to be naturally clean and Jessica said she went and took a shower. Soooooo, Oreana is now Dirty Girl and Jessica is now Soapy Snatch. The Tyrant called for more courtesies and tales from the trail and some people got up grudgingly. Crackerjack decided that those hashers who left Religion early were crybabies and that she would start a no crybaby hash. This of course started a whole lot of whining and bickering on the yahoogroup. I for one was entertained by the talented parrying done by everyone. Eventually though, no one was getting up, and the Tyrant retired the vessel, because he is not paid enough to stand up there and entertain a bunch of morons who don’t have a life, even though they kept saying, “don’t retire the vessel,” no one got up to speak. Everyone decided that they would either go to Hamilton’s or to the Taste of the Marianas. The area was policed, Swing Low was sung, and everyone went every which way.
The Saipan Hash House Harriers convenes every Saturday at 4:00 p.m. (3:30 during "winter") at the Bank of Guam parking lot in Garapan U.S. $10.00 (NON NEGOTIABLE)
MISMANAGEMENT
TYRANT/GM Haj, F. Kramden, Sir!!
RA: Dog Leg
AAAARA: OPEN
FIRE MASTER TITTY STICKERS
HASH CASH Ciega
TRAIL MASTER Dog Leg
DLMM TECHNICIAN Dog Leg
HASH SCRIBE JEFFREY BUMMER
RECEDING HARE LINE...
1019 5/29 Messiah &?
FM98 6/2 W. Von Brown – Wed.
Full Moon
1020 6/5 Piss Break
1021 6/12 Red Squirrel & MHP
CONTACT CIEGA TO SIGN UP. IT IS A HASHER’S DUTY
TO BE A HARE.
BE A HARE, SET TRAIL FOR YOUR FRIENDS
REMEMBER, IF YOU GO BACK TO THE REAL WORLD AND THERE IS NO HASH, START ONE. IT IS A GREAT WAY TO MEET PEOPLE, AND SOME ONE IS BOUND TO SHOW YOU THEIR TITS ONE OF THESE DAYS.
EDITORIAL
There is only one Hash. The REAL hash. The
Saipan Hash House Harriers meets on Saturday afternoons in front of the
Bank Of Guam. The time depends on the season. All the other hashes
are not REAL hashes. We only allow them to exist to keep the rabble
down. No weenies, no cry babies, no pussies, no hair. Fahgetttaboutit!!
All the crap on the yahoogroups is very entertaining, but there IS ONLY
ONE HASH ON SAIPAN. THE REAL HASH.
RUN #1015:
The “you get what you pay for” Run
HARES:
Maxcheesemo & Splat
BOX:
Dai Ichi Beachside
ON HOME:
CUC Beach
CASUALTIES:
Cyber Bunny Pimp & Janet
RUN:
¶¶
RELIGION:
¶¶
DLMM Rating:
0
22 lucky hounds gathered at the BOG for the first ever, Hell-Has-Frozen-Over, FREE Hash Run. That’s right, no money at all was collected by Ciega, who has initiated a new “buy 1000, get 1 free” program. And what thanks did Ceiga get? Everyone moved as far away from her as possible and hid in the shade by the ATM machine, and left her alone to load the coolers with hares. Ingrates.
The Box was finally announced to be the Hobie Cat parking behind the Dai Ichi Hotel, and the crowd immediately became suspicious that we were, in fact, about to get exactly what we had paid for: a Garapan Box can mean only one of a few, marginal boonie trails (read that: Xterra), and lots of pavement to get there. So the crowd made their way to the BOG, where the beach boyz had clustered around to giggle at the haoles, perhaps hoping to see some tits, as has been widely rumored around the island lately. The Hares finally arrived with the coolers, and drew a quick box around the pack. Special instructions included flour and “two week old” red tape – ughhh….. Xterrraaaaaa………….
The only thing that saved this trail was that the new Xterra “sport” trail was unknown to many of us, or at least unknown in the respect that we didn’t know the Xterra had ripped off one of our more over-used boonie trails through the wetlands in American Memorial Park. So after running around pointlessly in central Garapan and lower MIHA, we entered the Park across the street from the Law Offices of Dickin’ Little Chicks and saw the HIGHWAY which had been carved through the wetland to accommodate the “sport” Xterriers. Dogleg was whining the whole way about how it had taken him two years to get a permit to cut a trail through the Susupe wetland, blah blah blah, until a thorny vine across his mouth finally shut him the fuck up and sent him into a Peter Sellers-like display of stumbling, spinning, tripping, and finally, falling on his face in the mud.
After a while, the trail exited onto the road by the Smiling Cove parking lot, as it always does, and the hounds searched for trail all the way out to the Army Reserve post before finding on-ons. An arrow was then found at the traffic light, pointing across the street to the Bank of Hawaii building. If it wasn’t for the fact that most of us knew where we had to be going, no one would have found the trail leading into the boonies behind the generator house, because there was no flour to be seen. In fact, some people did not find trail at all: Kramden himself was forced to fly to Annaks and then got on trail via another part of the Xterra highway, and Cyber Bunny Pimp and Janet wandered aimlessly along Middle Road until they were picked up later by the hare.
It was a grueling uphill death march from here up to the Navy Hill back road, through an admittedly nice forest. Cheshire Pussy showed off her power quads by raging ahead of Dogleg, MHP and Wong Way, but finally got her due when she came across a checking at the top of the driveway, which she believed had been intentionally marked by the hares (no thanks to suggestions from Dogleg, of course), and she ran half way to the light house in the opposite direction of the mark. This fortunate error allowed the MEN to finally take the lead, putting Cheshire Pussy back in her place. The MEN then casually jogged down the Navy Hill back road, stirring up the dogs for those behind them, who reportedly almost turned back in fear of being mauled. Trail came back up through the back roads of Puerto Rico to the Big Water Tank near where Fartacus now lives, where Wong Way bumped into Ciega and discovered why all the checkings had been marked. “Man, are you fast!” he said, revealing that he obviously isn’t. From here it was a short pavement pounder down to CUC (or DPW?) Beach, where Beerhead was already waiting, having also flown.
It was a hot day, and so Ciega was surprised when she saw Dogleg cracking open a beer as soon as he got in, and rightly wondered if he was developing a drinking problem, but he explained he was merely following the “Goals of the Hash” that had been recently appended to all shthree e-mails:
“To acquire a good thirst and to satisfy it in beer”
While we waited at the on-home for Maxcheesemo to find the remaining hounds, a ports police patrol boat approached from behind a visiting Navy vessel, and kept an eye on us with binoculars for a long time, probably waiting to see tits, as has been rumored around the island recently. Or, they may have just been concerned that something important was on fire, because the pallets that Maxcheesemo had brought were apparently saturated with his client’s waste oil, and were giving off a thick black cloud of smoke. Cheshire Pussy climbed into the tree from where she had pelted hashers with marshmallows a few months ago, and began pelting people with harder objects. This earned her an ice water Camelback shower from CLD and Dogleg. Live by the camel toe, die by the camel toe.
Once Cyber Bunny Pimp and his wife had been found, a vehicle run was performed, which is when we lost the visiting Hasher (a veteran Samurai Hasher) and MHP, who had to go brown nose at Bag Hag’s birthday party. Chicken Little Dick continued his assault on Hamilton’s business and began preparing food for the après Hash. The Hare then decided to stop subjecting us to the poisonous fumes from his pallets, and went off to get more. The Tyrant was finally able to get religion started just as the last light was disappearing from the horizon. The hares got up and told us how they had “set” the run in just one morning, to no one’s surprise. We had a couple of FNGs, including Lisa from China, and a Japanese tourist that Kramden named “Butt Fun” simply because he had said the run was “hard but fun”. Next, Dogleg called for tales from the trail, because he said he had to write the trash and needed some material. It should be readily apparent by now (if you’ve made it this far) that there weren’t many. A few jokes were told, including a good one by Cheshire Pussy. Bat Outta Hell told stories about the vicious dogs in Navy Hill, Maxcheesemo announced the Full Moon run, and Ladrone droned on and on and on from the rear. Eventually the vessel was retired, and CLD’s dinner was served, which consisted of burned shish kabob and some overcooked fish. Again, we got exactly what we paid for. Swing low was then sung, and most of the hounds departed, but a few stayed to party with CLD. “If you partied with CLD on the beach, and you woke up the next morning with a sore butt hole and no memory of what had happened, would you tell anyone about it?” Of course not…. “Wanna stay after the Hash and Party on the beach with CLD?”
The Saipan Hash House Harriers convenes every Saturday at 4:00 p.m. (3:30 during "winter") at the Bank of Guam parking lot in Garapan U.S. $10.00 (NON NEGOTIABLE)
REMEMBER, IF YOU GO BACK TO THE REAL WORLD AND THERE IS NO HASH, START ONE. IT IS A GREAT WAY TO MEET PEOPLE, AND SOME ONE IS BOUND TO SHOW YOU THEIR TITS ONE OF THESE DAYS.
MISMANAGEMENT
TYRANT/GM
Haj, F. Kramden, Sir!!
RA:
Dog Leg
AAAARA:
OPEN
FIRE MASTER
Dirty Yellow Balls
HASH CASH
Ciega
TRAIL MASTER
Dog Leg
DLMM TECHNICIAN
Dog Leg
HASH SCRIBE
Hooded Iraqi # 23
RECEDING HARE LINE...
1017 5/15 Wiener
von Brown &?
1018 5/22 Viagra
& Dirty Yellow Balls
1019 5/29 Messiah
& ?
FM98 6/2 W.
von Brown – Wed. Full Moon
1020 6/5
Piss Break
1021 6/12 Red
Squirrel & MHP
GUAM 1150th RUN Will be June 26th. Start planning
your trip!
CONTACT CIEGA TO SIGN UP. IT IS A HASHER’S DUTY
TO BE A HARE.
BE A HARE, SET TRAIL FOR YOUR FRIENDS
Run #1014 The “Rise and Fall of
the Roamin’ Hemp-hire” Run
HARES: Chicken Little Dick, Hemp Hump
BOX: Dogleg’s house
ON HOME: PIC Beach
CASUALTIES: Dog Leg’s Mammarometer
RUN: ?
RELIGION: ??
DLMM Rating: Pegged!
The sun glinted evilly off the windshields of the cars parked in the BOG parking lot. Even the usual layer of fine dust and dried, seaspray jizz on top of the amateur window tinting failed to cut the glare. It had been a terrible night—far too many Asahi Super Dry’s, Maker’s shots, and muscle relaxants mixed with bootleg Viagra—and almost nothing could stop it from becoming a terrible day.
To top it off, Leeetle Cheeecken Deeeck was one of the hares, and although his past several runs seemed to have redeemed him in the eyes of many, he is too twisted a person to walk the straight and narrow for very long. No, I envisioned a god-awful pavement pounder of Claymoric proportions, a frantic dash from one end of the island to the other, scurrying like a roach on a hot griddle in a 24-hour diner in downtown Harrisburg. There was no doubt in my trendy-recreational-amusement-aid-enhanced mind: this would be an epic CLD cluster-fuck.
There was the usual collection of misfits, whoremongers, retards, catatonics and poofters that showed up at the Bank. I almost felt sorry for the four FNGs from Japan, Saipan, the Philippines and Australia. They had no idea they were about to be roped into a garish night of swilling hot hog’s blood from a container designed to serve an entirely different orifice, or that they’d be barbequed by some sadistic pyro, gleefully piling dried Christmas trees onto a roaring fire, on a beach where the temperature was already 85 degrees. For them, the Hash would be an experience like prison rape: indelibly etched into their psyches, but impossible to talk about with anyone who hadn’t experienced it for themselves.
I discreetly retreated to my hash vehicle, where I lined out the last of the powdered muscle relaxant and Viagra cocktail onto my hastily removed rearview mirror, and snorted it up like Kramden inhaling bags of fruit and nut mix after a run. If I was going to survive this run, I would need the full measure of fortification the pharmaceutical industry could provide.
As I “got down from the truck” (as the local island-folk
say), I saw another stimulating rearview: Hemp Hump. She was the
cohare for this run, and I cursed my luck for not having cohared with her
when I had the chance, back before the evil Chicken had marked her with
crude, homemade jailhouse tattoos and, more importantly, with the type
of psychological trauma it takes years of therapy to overcome.
She was wearing a fall, made from seat-belt fibers, woven
into her hair in fine, gold-colored cornrows. She was the Rasta-Goddess
of the Bank of Guam. With each movement of her head (who said head?),
those semi-golden tresses would sway, and the gaze of every red-blooded
man in that parking lot followed, their heads swaying to and fro, like
snakes charmed by some fakir in a Delhi streetmarket.
Her voice hit me like a hot kiss on the end of a wet fist: “Are you going to sign in, Mr. Happy Pockets?” It was Ciega. She held the pen out to me, and for an instant, I considered snatching it from her grasp and doing her in with it before she could guess what I was up to. But I was too late. She stepped back almost imperceptibly, and laid her other hand on the Colt .45 she always carried on her hip. I knew then the jig was up, so I smiled sweetly, paid my $10 and leaned in for a kiss.
The box was announced as Dog Leg’s house. There were only two ways to go from there: either the long punishing run down to PIC, where Hemp Hump and her lean and tan clubmate buddies drank liquor, smoked weed and held nightly orgies on the company nickel (NOBODY works at PIC!), or the equally long, equally punishing road run over to the little Chicken’s new pad in San Vicente. My worst fears confirmed, I turned to go back to the truck. I thought I might have left a speedball and a set of works in the glovebox, and my intent was to wire myself like a Korean beer sign, and glide all the way into the on-home on the chemo-magnetic wave the drug would generate.
But what I saw next stopped me dead in my tracks: it was Hemp Hump. Her shirt was raised to shoulder level, as she showed off her new mermaid tattoo, high up on her left lat. My pockets definitely got happy.
We sped to the box, the hares gave special instructions,
then, in plain view of all, jumped into Maxcheesmo’s beer truck, and made
their getaway a mere minute and forty seconds later. The hounds ran
the trail, which went to PIC Beach, except for Kowpaddy and Crackerjack,
who ran to San Vicente. At least that’s where they said they ran,
but who can say? What with Kinky Lay in a family way and not even
on island, and Crackerjack trying to restore her virginity through spontaneous
hymen regeneration, I wouldn’t be surprised if they found a campsite for
illegals out in the boonies and availed themselves of a dank and stinking
mattress for an hour or two.
The religion was as uneventful as a marketing convention.
The hounds, long of leg but short of wit, brayed and bellowed what they
imagined to be clever banter, but succeeded only in pissing off those of
us who respected the vessel. The crazed Sasquatch was appointed RA.
Although not known for his intellectual prowess, he seemed even more distracted
than usual, and had to be reminded what the sacred questions were every
few minutes. That is, when the tyrant, DogLeg, could get a word in
edgewise. Sasquatch, his mind now gone, had been a clubmate, and
a good one, too. But after many years of the drinking, smoking, nightly
orgy thing at PIC, his wit was as dull as an oyster knife. Now, he
entertained himself nightly with his rambling, stream-of-consciousness,
meaningless verbal diarrhea, easing into and out of so many TV character
voices, it was as if he was possessed by all the lesser demons of hell.
Which is not far from the truth.
The mundaneness of it all depressed me terribly. As the muscle relaxants wore off, my legs started to cramp up with a vengeance. I started snapping at the revelers. Spanky tried to placate me by letting me use his chair. Crackerjack accused me of needing a tampon. Perhaps Kowpaddy hadn’t taken care of her business on that stained mattress after all. Swordswallower and Tiny Dancer, the Italo-Canadian beach-blanket bimbos, jabbered incessantly about nothing. I was eventually forced to retreat to the truck several times for heaping handfuls of Quaaludes, washed down with more of the magic Makers. At last, religion drawing to a close, my composure restored, Hemp Hump’s shoe down-down was announced.
This promised to be not much more entertaining than the
religion itself had been, except that Haj. Fucking Kramden, Sir! made a
cameo appearance as the Tyrant of the Saipan Hash, just like in the old
days when he wasn’t off with the triathlete poseurs every weekend.
I figured there’d be a few tearful farewells, and that I’d be lounging
naked in front of the plasma in an hour or so. Most of the guys who
stuck it out were just hoping for a little glimpse of the hemp-hooters,
and would gladly head home. How wrong we were.
Hemp Hump, Rasta Goddess of the BOG, welcoming angel
to the Paradise by the dashboard light, the divine image every man was
born to despoil, calmly doffed her top and announced she would “do this
topless.” As she raised her arms over her head to get her top off,
her fulsome breasts swelled and arced upwards, along with the spirits of
the hounds, and at least one of the other hares. A war whoop rang
out from around our fire. We were reborn.
***YELLOW JOURNALISM ALERT***
The sight of all that firm titflesh proved too much for
Cyber
Bunny Pimp. With a startled, gurgling cry in his throat, he clutched
at the front of his shorts, and found them wet in his grasp. The
poor little fucker came like a Viking, his first orgasm without the aid
of his own hand.
***HAPPY POCKETS CAN GO FUCK
HISSELF- CBP, HASH WEBMASTER***
I clawed my way to the front of the line. My vision
flushed red, and all I could see was a pair of mammalian protuberances
that might have launched a thousand ships, and caused the loss of many
Trojans in years past. I was a deer, caught in those succulent
headlights, a mouthful of grass still hanging from my open mouth.
I did her, Palauan style, in front of everyone. Even the ‘ludes couldn’t
keep me from feeling the heat of them as they flattened up against my chest
during our fleeting kisses.
One after another, hounds got up, and either did a Palauan, or drank from Hemp Hump’s shoes. After she had had enough sacred nectar, she began poring it over her breasts. The sheen of the golden nectar reflected the fire obscenely off her shapely body. My heart pounded in my ears, and the world slowed to a crawl. I watched every golden rivulet as it tickled and caressed her flesh on its way to the valley down under her sarong. Each droplet was a mini-body shot tempting me to slake my thirst before it flung itself to the sand. Each successive man-hound got up and paid lip-service to Hemp Hump, and homage to those beer-soaked titties. Even a few of the women-hounds got up and locked lips with her, a little girl-on-girl action none of the hounds will ever forget.
Sasquatch’s mind finally went South from the stress of it all. He ceased any attempt at making English words, and started making gutteral grunting sounds, and hunching over a little after each one. The Leeetle Cheeecken got up and gave a great oration, topped off by pouring sacred nectar over the Hempster’s foot and sucking on her toes. It started to get ugly after that. People tried to get in line a second time. Tourists walking down the beach started to get in line for a piece of the action. Tagamaniacs partying at the next beach came to their senses and realized what boring bastards they all were and tried to crash our exhibition.
Most disturbing, however, was a gathering group of HUGE fuckers, Tongans, maybe or Samoans, probably a rugby team or a group of white slavers. They stood around in the edges of the firelight, grim, unsmiling, their eyes flickering lustfully. As their numbers grew, I could see them whispering together, preparing to beat us senseless, run us off, and dance wif our dates.
Oh well, these bastards can take care of themselves, I reasoned. It had been a long day, and a long, pointless run, and I took my memories and my swollen pecker and went home. Hey, how about that? The Viagra was still working.
The Saipan Hash House Harriers convenes every Saturday at 4:00 p.m. (3:30 during "winter") at the Bank of Guam parking lot in Garapan U.S. $10.00 (NON NEGOTIABLE)
MISMANAGEMENT
TYRANT/GM Haj, F. Kramden, Sir!!
RA: Dog Leg
AAAARA: OPEN
FIRE MASTER Dirty Yellow Balls
HASH CASH Ciega
TRAIL MASTER Dog Leg
DLMM TECHNICIAN Dog Leg
GONZO HASH SCRIBE MHP
RECEDING HARE LINE...
FM97 5/5 Crackerjack – Wed. Full Moon
1016 5/8 Shit Stain & Cheshire Pussy
1017 5/15 Wiener von Brown &?
1018 5/22 Viagra & Dirty Yellow Balls
1019 5/29 Messiah & ?
FM98 6/2 W. von Brown – Wed. Full Moon
1020 6/5 Piss Break
GUAM 1150th RUN
Will be June 26th. Start planning your trip!
Just grab one of them velvety pillows, chilluns, and gather ‘round and listen to the story of the first time yo’ Great Grand Daddy Pimps Red Sasquatch and Donkey Dick set trail together. It’s soooo nice to be visited by so many chilluns, all wishin to learn the way’s of Pimpin’! But first, let us partake of some beverages. Where is that bitch? Bitch! Where’s my malt liquor? Damn!
Now listen, chilluns, there was a time when that bitch was the finest bitch y’all ever seen. Now, her ass be five times bigger than her titties! I told that bitch to stop eatin all my chicken, but she never listen. Chilluns, now listen to yo Grand Daddy Pimp, NEVER let yo bitch touch the fried chicken! I know a ho’s gotta eat, but, Damn! You know what I’m sayin?
Now where was I? Oh yeah. Bitch! Where the FUCK is my malt liquor? God DAMN that bitch is slow! Don’t you pay no mind, chilluns, cuz I got quite a tale for you today, and it starts like this:
You see, this run was on the day of some damn event called “X-trema” or sump’n like that, shit, it don’t matter what it was called now, because it was just a bunch of boring white dudes and skinny-ass ho’s runnin around in spandex, and no, I don’t mean like the 10 o’clock show down at the Starlight, so don’t be runnin’ off to the bathroom to jerk yo self off! But if you do, be sure and check out the May issue of Hustler – they’s three Korean ho’s in there that would make a grown pimp cry!
Bitch! Where the FUCK is my malt liquor? I hear you in there! You’re into my Church’s box again! God DAMN! Ain’t yo ass big enough already? Oh Lord! Child – give me that pill bottle there, this old Pimp’s heart just ain’t up to this Buuulll-shit no mo. Damn woman, make a grown pimp wanna die! Now where in fuck was I?
Oh yeah! So there they were at the Bank of Guam, 24 of our ancestors, most of them boring white dudes that all looked alike. Ahhh shit, I shouldn’t be so harsh on those white dudes, after all, if it wasn’t for them and all their messin’ with genetics, well, bitches would still be running around with nothing but itty-bitty titties and bad attitudes. Plus, it wasn’t their whiteness that was the problem, cause the Great Grand Daddy pimps theyselves was white, and come to think of it, so am I! But anyway, it wasn’t only a bunch of plain old white dudes there, there was also some damn fine bitches, and ho’s too, and of course, the other ancestral pimps, like Mr. Happy Pockets and the great Dirty Yellow Balls. And some of those bitches was old! But they was still fine, you know what I’m sayin? And they was even a few “athletes” there, from that X-trema thang, like Saint Peter, Fartacus, and a couple of “pro-fessional” athletes that came with them, and some dumb-ass named Tampon from Guam, who brought along his own ho. But ya’ll gots to remember: back in those days, our good pimps was still under the leadership of that Tyrant Kramden dude, so they had to let him tell everyone where to go, you know what I’m sayin? So that Kramden dude told them all to head to the house of another Great Pimp called Wiener Von Brown, and so they all got in they cars and shit and went there.
Goddamn, Bitch? Where you been? Ain’t you even gonna open it? Don’t make me fuck up my manicure! God DAMN! And where the fuck you goin’ now, and SHIT! You only brought one!!! How these chilluns ‘sposed to grow without they malt liquor?
Chilluns, I knows I keep sayin the same thang, but it’s only cause I want ya’ll to grow up right: You GOTS to control yo bitches! If you get too soft on ‘em, this is the kind of shit that happens. God, damn. It’s like the Great Grand Daddy Pimps said, don’t do as I do, do as I muthafuckin’ say, you know what I’m sayin? Good. Now where were we?
Oh shit yeah! How could I forget? So they get to the Box, and that ‘von Brown dude’s Ho gets all bent out of shape, cuz she’s like “Damn! What’s that white-ass dude Dog Leg doin’ in my yard?” And so she sends out this other pimp dude called “Marlboro Man” to kick Dog Leg off the lawn and shit, and when he won’t budge, he sends out his own ho, that “Balls of Steel” bitch, to do it for him! So finally this Kramden dude puts all the plain-vanilla types in the “Box” back behind the house with all the fine bitches, and the old bitches, a few ho’s, and the other ancestral Pimps, and then tells the Great Grand Daddy Pimps to start runnin’. No, they didn’t really run – they was Pimps, and Pimps don’t run no where! No sir, they strutted they shit back to the Pimp-mobile, and drove to the on-home like Mack Daddies, with all the malt liquor and everyone’s wallets! What the fuck do ya’ll think they did? Run?
Oh Beeeeeeeiiitch, these chilluns are getting thirsty! What the fuck are you doin back there? If you ain’t gettin the malt liquor, you better be shavin that nasty bush, you know what I’m sayin?
Damn! If only them white-coats down at the Samoyloff Institute had spent just a little more time with the bitch’s brain instead of her titties…. But I digress again! SHIT! So there they were: that Kramden dude ‘splainin’ the instructions to the spandex dudes, and then they all start runnin’ out the back of the house, with that PLF ho shoutin’ at them “That’s right! You mutha fucka’s stay the fuck outta my yard!” and sendin’ her dogs after them and shit like that! You know what I’m sayin? So they all go runnin’ up to the back road in As Matuis, you know, ‘cuz nobody was fooled into thinking they might be goin nowhere else. Then they ran past a whole bunch of these Thai ho’s that the great granddaddy pimps had gotten all stirred up and shit, and they hosed them all down with water and shaving cream and shit.
Well it’s about muthafuckin’ time, bitch! Now open up those beverages and give one to each of these fine chilluns. And pass around out some of them nice, folded napkins too. I mean, we gots to protect the furnishings! Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about, Bitch! You know yo Pimp Daddy loves you. Now go get that box of Church’s chicken I left back there. A Pimp cannot live on 40-ounces alone, you know what I’m sayin?
Now careful there, Child! Don’t spill! I’m sorry, I know those 40-ouncers are kind of top-heavy, but I’d just hate for you to stain my leaopard skin rug. Mm, mmm! You chilluns make yo’ Pimp Daddy so proud! What’s that? How in the hell should I know who yo daddy is? Shit, it might even be me, you know what I’m sayin?
Now listen up, chillun, cuz the good part’s comin’ up: now the whole time the Pimp Daddies are cruisin’ in comfort and style, they be runnin’ all them stupid mutha’s all they way up to the top of the mountain, then around the base of that mountain that looks like a big ol’ titty, and then right back onto the mutha-fuckin road, you know what I’m sayin? That’s right! A Pimp don’t do no work to set trail! All a Pimp’s gots do is get in his ride, and it better be a sweet ride, and throw flour out the side window. So after all that runnin’ they sent them down part of that X-trema trail, you know, like those dumbshits hadn’t gotten enough of that already! I tell you, the Great Pimps was just laughin’ they asses off down at the On-Home, except that one of those athletic-types was so goddamn fast that he damn near caught they ass, even though they was cruisin’ in the Pimp-mobile! I ain’t shittin’ you, chilluns! I mean, it just ain’t natural for a white dude to be so God-damn fast! And then he was followed close behind by that Fartacus dude, you know, the dude that invented the titty pills. You see, in those days he wanted so bad to be just like them athlete dudes, but he never quite made it, you know what I’m sayin’? What I’m sayin’ is, the dude never amounted to much more than an athletic supporter!
Oh, Goddamn, I make myself laugh sometimes. BITCH! Where you be with my fried chicken?!!!! Damn!
So they all ended up down there at that Hidden Beach place, but some of them started arguin’ about even that. You know, “Hidden Beach is over there, this is Jeffrey’s Beach” and “No it ain’t!” and shit like that. Fuck! And none of them knew what the fuck they was talking about, anyway! So then they all start bitchin’ about how far they gotta ride to get back to they cars and shit, and then them athletes start whinin’ about needing to get back so’s they can get the awards they all think they gonna be getting for runnin’ so fast and shit. Damn, it was enough to make a grown Pimp cry. So yo Great Grand Daddy Pimp Donkey Dick was forced to go back with them skinny dudes to take pictures and shit, cuz they ain’t nothing a skinny white dude wants more than his picture on the back page of the Tribune, you know what I’m sayin? And that Kowpaddy dude wanted to follow and video-tape it all, like he thought he was a Pimp, too, or sump’n! Sheeee-it! So they pack up about 20 of these dumb asses into the Pimp-mobile, and start drivin’ out to get the cars and deliver the skinny white dudes, and then the oldest Bitch Ciega starts goin’ on about how far it was to drive and shit, you know, like bitches do. But she was still fine, you know what I’m saying? Oh! That reminds me,
BIIIIIIITCH! How’s a Pimp spo’sed to school these chilluns without the fried chicken? God, DAMN! You been in there for ten minutes! You better not be eatin’ it all by yoself! You what? Don’t be givin’ me no lip, Bitch! I’ll whoop yo ass! Damn!!!
Marcus! MARCUS! Marcus McDonaldcus, when I call you, you better get yo pimply ass in here quick! Now, go in there and whoop that bitch’s ass! What? I don’t care if she’s yo momma!
Damn! Kids these days, think they’s too good fo Pimpin! But you’s a fine bunch of chilluns, I can tell dat! Awww now, don’t be cryin’ and shit! Don’t you mind yo Grand Daddy Pimp! I always treats my Bitches with respect, and you should too! But you cant be lettin’ them eat all the fried chicken like that, you know what I’m sayin? Now, DAMN! Where was I?
Oh yeah, so’s they get back from getting’ they cars and shit, and this Ciega Bitch starts to bitchin’ about how the vehicle run was like 16 miles or sump’n like that. But at this point, the only Pimp left was yo Great Grand Daddy Pimp Red Sasquatch, and they was nothin’ he could do. Y’all see, by this time, his own bitch had finished running, and so he was playin’ it cool, you know what I’m sayin? And she was this fine, red-headed bitch called “Red Squirrel”, named for the color of her squirrel, or so they say! Of course, the ‘Squatch didn’t know if that squirrel had red hair, or green hair, or what, you know what I’m sayin? So we may never know the true color of her squirrel. Nope, all that Pimp cared about was makin’ sho the bitch’s ass stayed fine, you know what I’m sayin? In fact, I can see more than a little bit of the Squirrel in a few of you chilluns! Damn, some of you gonna grow up to be fine Ho’s! Don’t forget yo Graddaddy Pimp when you do, y’all understand?
Oh there you be now, Bitch! Now don’t be just throwin’ the Church’s box down on the flo like that! Damn! What you want these chilluns to be learnin? Damn, let’ see what he have here…. the fuck?….. GOD DAMN! BIIIIIITCH! Get yo fat ass back in here! How could you eat all that goddamn chicken? Go get yo niece, Tandoora! Chilluns, I’ll show you what a ho ‘sposed to look like. Tandoora, get yo fine bitch-ass over here and show it to these chillun. See that, chilluns? Now that’s what an ass is ‘sposed to look like. Now Tandoora, I want you to go down to Church’s and get us another four of them 50 piece buckets – but don’t be eatin nothin! You hear me?!!
How am I sposed to be teachin’ you chillun all about Pimpin’ and Ho-in’ with all these distractions? Damn if I didn’t spend 15 years of my life at night school getting that Masters of Science degree just to have to put up with all of this buulll-shit. Now, let’s get back to our lesson here: You see, chilluns, normally the “Religion” was pretty wild, you know what I’m sayin? With titty flashin’, ass-flappin’, and all kinds of kinky shit. But this night was pretty lame, mostly cuz they was missin’ they main Pimp Donkey Dick, who normally got all the ho’s hot, and his co-Pimp was all shackled down by his bitch, you know what I’m sayin? So all they got to see was just a bunch of boring tales from the trail, and most of them was from the boring white dudes, complainin’ about too much trail bein’ set from the Pimp-mobile. Now, let me tell you a little sump’n about the owner of that Pimp-mobile: This was a Pimp named Mr. Happy Pockets, and he was all bent out of shape that night ‘cause he had been trying to win the award for Pimpin’ the most trails that year, but he had been stabbed in the back by that ‘von Brown Pimp. Now you see, chilluns, all’s fair in love and Pimpin’, and he shouldn’t of been all pissed off like that, cuz, you know, ‘von Brown was just lookin’ out fo his own Ho’s, you know what I’m sayin?
I ‘spose the best thang about that night was the name they gave to that Guam ho, who was bouncing around in the boonies with two holes in her hotpants, lettin’ her white ass shine through! Now, that dude Dog Leg had talked with Ciega, and they wanted Kramden to give her the name “Double Butt”, but Kramden was a pretty good Pimp hisself, and he took one look at the ho’s ass, and named her “Bubble Butt!” which she seemed to like, cuz they ain’t nothing a good ho likes more than a Pimp complementing her back side! Just try it, chilluns, and soon the ho’s be flockin to you!
So after a while with no one gettin’ up to say or do shit, they started makin’ people come up to drink the sacred malt liquor and shit, but it just wasn’t cuttin’ it, you know what I’m sayin? So that Kramden dude decided to pull the plug, and told everyone to start cleanin’ up they mess, after which they rapped the sacred hymn, and then made all the skinny white dudes carry out all the shit, cuz why’s a Pimp gonna carry shit when they’s always someone willin’ to do it for him? Damn! So’s then it was time to party, and some of them headed out to this joint called Hamilton’s, where other bitches and ho’s had gathered, to be ‘round the Greatest Pimp of them all, Ladrone. But first that Dog Leg dude had to put the Guam dude’s moped in the back of his truck, cuz he be all ‘fraid to drive it at night and shit. Shit, I’d be afraid to drive that thang anytime, cuz just like a fat chick, a Pimp ain’t got no business bein’ seen on a moped, no matter how fun they may be to ride! You know what I’m sayin?
Now, go on! Get outta here, chilluns! Before Sister Gene comes over here from the SIS preschool, and calls the PO-lice on me again! Yes, yes, the lesson’s over! Get the fuck out! What was the point? Fuck if I know! Now I mean it, get the fuck outta here! How am I ‘sposed to be Pimpin’ with a whole bunch of chilluns hanging around here, drinkin all of my malt liquor and shit!
BITCH! Get these chilluns out of here, and get me another Midnight Dragon! And where’s my God Damn fried chicken???!!!!
The Saipan Hash House Harriers convenes every Saturday at 4:00 p.m. (3:30 during "winter") at the Bank of Guam parking lot in Garapan U.S. $10.00 (NON NEGOTIABLE)
MISMANAGEMENT
TYRANT/GM
Haj, F. Kramden, Sir!!
RA:
Dog Leg
AAAARA:
OPEN
FIRE MASTER
Dirty Yellow Ball
HASH CASH
Ciega
TRAIL MASTER
Dog Leg
DLMM TECHNICIAN
Dog Leg
HASH SCRIBE
James not-so-Brown
RECEDING HARE LINE...
1015 5/1
Maxcheesemo?
FM97 5/5
Crackerjack –Wed. Full Moon
1016 5/8
Shit Stain & Cheshire Pussy
1017 5/15
Wiener Von Brown &?
1018 5/22
Viagra & Dirty Yellow Balls
1019 5/29
Messiah & ?
GUAM 1150th RUN
Will be June 26th.
Start planning your trip!
Holy hash trash
A Reading from the Book
of Kramden
(From the 27th century translation of the 22nd century binary edition. Widely believed to have been written by the Apostle Dogleg. Literal translations of the original Old English text noted in footnotes complied by Father Nelson)
CHAPTER 1012: The “Easter”
run
HARES: Mutt & Abbott
BOX: Morgen’s
Bluff (San Vicente)
ON HOME: Heidi’s
Beach
CASUALTIES: none
RUN: ???
RELIGION: ???1/5
DLMM Rating: 6
1 And on this tenth day of April in the 4th year of the 21st century, which was the afternoon before the Easter Sabbath, a crowd of 29 gathered at the Holy Bank of Guam in Garapan, for the 1012th running of the Saipan Hash House Harriers, then under the tutelage of the Prophet Haj F. Kramden Sir, who was their Tyrant. And seated at the right hand of the Tyrant was the Hash Cash Ciega, to whom all dues were owed. Among the crowd gathered before the Tyrant were such notables as Pegasus, the wife of the Saint Peter, and the Apostle Maxcheesemo, who had returned from a journey to the southern hemisphere. After some time the crowd became restless and began to demand “for what purpose do we wait?"(1) So the Tyrant stood atop the bed of a truck and said to the assembled: “Gather thy selves into differing cars and trucks, and go forth to the Box”(2) which was at Morgen’s Bluff, in San Vicente.
2 The crowd did what the Tyrant asked of them, and soon were at the Box, where they awaited further instruction, like good sheep. The Tyrant stood before them again and commanded: “Puttest thy bags into the beer truck, and getteth the fuck into the Box!” At the Box the crowd became unruly again, this time because the Tyrant Himself failed to heed his own words, and strayed from the Box. “Let us first witness the ascendance of that 747” he said, looking at the airport below, but Mutt and Abbott became impatient with His teachings, the no weenie tribe having never fully accepted the Tyrant’s teachings, and instructed the crowd in His absence that the true trail could only be found by following toilet paper and flour. The crowd looked to Kramden for guidance, and He concurred, and so the two Hares went forth. The Tyrant proceeded to welcome the crowd and instruct the new members, which in those days were called “FNGs”, in the ways of following true trail, and then He instructed the crowd to wait for a period of time.
3 Some of the crowd began to drift away from the Box, which greatly angered the Tyrant. “Place thy reproductive activities, whether they be for recreative or procreative purposes, back into the Box!”(3) he commanded five times, but many did not heed His words, and some were immediately punished. The Apostle Crackerjack, who had wandered away to soil the vegetation, was taken by surprise by another of the Tyrant’s followers who had also wandered away, and in her haste to cover her indecency, jammed her snatch full of pine needles as she pulled her panties up.
4 The Tyrant marked the end of the period of waiting by counting backwards from 10 to 1, and released the crowd from the Box. The crowd immediately came to the mark of the cross at the top of the stairs of the big house, which lead downward into Kannat Tabla. A newcomer named Bite’n’Suck was the first to descend the stairs, followed by the Apostles Dogleg and Maxcheesemo, both of whom believed deeply that true trail lay in the other direction, but they were overcome by uncertainty. Markings were found, but alas, after some distance they came upon an on-back in the jungle. The two Apostles were punished for their wrong choice and made to collide together violently. When Bite’n’Suck saw their entwined forms, he rightly wondered if he had seen a private moment of brotherly love, but the two Apostles insisted that their sweaty entanglement was purely platonic. When they returned up the stairs they saw that the beloved Tyrant had also come the wrong way. “Beloved Tyrant, Who knowest the true path, Thou stood silently by while we faltered. Why hast Thou forsaken us?” they asked the Tyrant, Who said: “Lo! I say unto you: Never follow the Tyrant.”
5 At the top of the stairs, the crowd waited without instruction and without progress, like aimless sheep, apparently under the influence of the curse placed upon the Box-strayer Crackerjack, who was with great discomfort because of the pine needles in her snatch. “Go forth and look for the true path! What are you, men who lay with other men?”(4) the Tyrant shouted, angered by their laziness. Having been enlightened at the stairs by the Tyrant, the Apostles Dogleg and Maxcheesemo were able then to clearly see the truth, and led the way on the true trail, which passed through the unfinished home of a man who wasted his riches on booze and cheap whores, and down through the Stanford Resort and onto the pavement.
6 At the bottom of this paved road the crowd came to another road which ran in two directions, which was called Isa Drive. The Tyrant, being all-knowing, ran towards the direction of the on-home, which He knew to be at Heidi’s Beach. However the woman Ciega, who despite being seated at the right hand of the Tyrant, was filled with a desire to deceive Him and filled His head with so much uncertainty that He relented on His course towards the truth, and turned back! The Hare Abbott witnessed His succumbing to uncertainty from the dugout of the little league field, where she was cowering in fear, and was then able to make her escape. As the Tyrant rejoined the crowd, he said to Ciega: “Let us now rest for a while, for I have now completed 15,000 steps since waking this morning.”(5) Though the woman Ciega was surprised by the precision of the Tyrant’s proclamation, she had become old and weary and in need of rest, so they rested.
7 The crowd, having listened to the lesson on the stairs, did not follow the Tyrant. The true trail took the crowd along Isa Drive, past the road to Lao Lao Bay, and onto the coral road going towards the house of the Apostles Pee Wee and Acute Angina. After passing through a great cleft in the rock where a railroad once was, the trail entered a valley in which a small stream ran, and it was here that the front runners were joined by the beast Tasi.(6) The true path descended through this valley, which contained many bamboo plants, until the crowd came upon the mark of the cross at the Lao Lao Bay Road. The Apostle Dogleg said to the other front-runners “fear not, my friends, for the Tyrant has shown me the truth, and the truth lies at Heidi’s Beach, to the right!” and was joined by a young follower of the Tyrant called Spank the Stick Up My Ass, known also as Spanky, and Pegasus, the wife of the Saint Peter. But the Apostle Maxcheesemo again succumbed to uncertainty, and checked the other way.
8 A short time later, the Tyrant came to the same marking of the cross, with a group of his followers. The Tyrant did not reveal the signs left by the front runners, and allowed his followers to choose. The Apostle Dirty Yellow Balls said “I will seek the true trail for you, Tyrant” and checked in the opposite direction of the FRBs, who were on the true path. A small group followed DYB, including Bite’n’Suck and the newest Apostle Titty Stickers, and they came upon a group of revelers at the beach. “Hark, fellow island citizens!” the Apostle Titty Stickers called, “Hast thou seen two women who run with bags of flour?” The revelers were filled with mischief and gave false witness to Titty Stickers and the other two, who nearly ran to their doom before realizing the trick that had been played upon them. When they returned, they asked the Tyrant: “Beloved Tyrant, who knows all the ways of trail, why did you not alert us that we had been deceived?” And the Tyrant said: “Again I say to you: Never follow the Tyrant.”
9 The young Hasher called Spanky was leading the way along the true path at that time, followed by the Apostle Dogleg and Pegasus, the wife of the Saint Peter. As they ran along the coral road, the endurance and faith of the Apostle Dogleg was tested. Four times, the Apostle Dogleg said “Continue without me, for I have become old and weary.” But each time, Pegasus, the wife of the Saint Peter, said to him: “If one as old and worn out as me can do it, so too can you.” The good woman’s encouragement enabled the Apostle Dogleg to continue running, until they saw the FRB stopped above them. “Look! The young Spanky has faltered on his way towards the truth!” said Pegasus the wife of the Saint Peter.
10 And it was true. At the top of a short hill where the true path again entered the jungle, beasts of the sky had splattered their excrement about in a manner that deceived the young Spanky and caused him to stray from the true path. “Blessed are the beasts of the sky, for their excretions resemble the mark of true trail!” exclaimed the Apostle Dogleg, who had regained position as FRB with Pegasus the wife of the Saint Peter. Together, they followed the true path to a cleft in the rock, through which they descended to a vegetated plateau, where the sea could be heard nearby. For the second time they were joined by the beast Tasi. Refreshed by their ascendance, the two continued with renewed vigor, and Pegasus the wife of the Saint Peter said: “These young Hashers; they know not the ways of trail. I lament the passing of the days when the Apostles Pee Wee and White Rice led the way to the true path, and dangled their ding dongs before the fires of the On-home.” (7)
11 It was not long before they came upon the Hares, Mutt and Abbott, at the head of a rocky valley that led to the sea. This was at a place named for Mutt’s previous identity, before she began following the Tyrant, called “Heidi’s Beach”, and it was the On-home. The Apostle Dogleg and Pegasus the wife of the Saint Peter knelt and gave thanks for finding the truth, and were soon joined by Spanky in the opening of the beverages. Other followers of the Tyrant soon arrived, and a great effort was made to transport the coolers of sacred nectar and pallets for the fire to the beach.
12 After some time, the booming voice of the Tyrant could be heard on trail. A loyal follower suggested that the crowd call out the location of the On-home to Him, but the Apostle Dogleg, having partaken of the sacred nectar already, said “No, let us fuck with him, and call ‘On Back!’ instead” which the crowd did. The Tyrant became enraged, and shouted at the crowd to reproduce with themselves like grown men who know only the love of other men.(8) The crowd giggled and laughed, making light of the Tyrant’s words and showing him great disrespect.
13 Members of the crowd began to walk into the nearby sea, including the oldest one among them, who had no shame and displayed his sagging brown undergarments to the crowd, as well as his sagging testicles. The Apostles Dogleg, Maxcheesemo, and Shitstain savored the perfect counteraction displayed by the bright green panties of the new follower Laila, who was disrobing and entering the water at the opposite end of the Beach, and they observed together, with great satisfaction, that everything in the Universe must exist in precise balance. A short time afterward, Bite’n’Suck called this theory into question by exposing his nakedness in the very spot where the green panties had been revealed. The Apostle Dogleg said “We must place our trust in the balance of nature. I say unto you, before this night is finished, we will witness the baring of female breasts, but they will be of an age and quality equivalent to the bare, white ass we have just seen.”
14 The Tyrant directed the newest Apostle Titty Stickers to start the fire, and was approached by the Apostle Dirty Yellow Balls, who had been replaced as Master of the Fire the week before: “Why hast thou fired me? Did not my fires meet with His Tyrannical pleasure?” The Tyrant sat DYB down and said to him straight: “Who was there to light our fire last week, and the week before? Thy choice was made by thy self: Thou choseth meaningless frivolity and the womb of a woman before the Hash. Your absence, much like a vacuum, had to be filled. The Hash must have fire.”(9)
15 Some of the Hash women, who felt pity for the beast Tasi, removed the lid from one of the coolers of sacred nectar for the beast to drink from. The Tyrant forcibly returned the lid to its rightful place and said: “Compromise not the thermal integrity of the sacred nectar for a filthy beast, for Hashers are humans and natural law is more than clear regarding the dominance of humans over the lesser creatures.”(10) In those days, the seeds of the great rift that would arise between Hash man and Hash woman had already been sown, and the Hash women disobeyed the Tyrant and used a bowl meant for the sacred salsa to water the beast, and then told the Tyrant to go fuck himself.
16 Unusual wisdom was with the crowd that evening, and a decision was reached to begin the religious ceremony without first departing to retrieve the vehicles. The Tyrant called for sacred nectars to be carried to the beer board, while the Apostle Dogleg, who at that time served as Religious Advisor, arranged the sacred icons before the fire. The Tyrant opened the ceremony in the usual way, and graced the crowd with the origin of the sacred blessing: “Here’s to us, and those like us. Damn few left!” which had come to him in a vision that He referred to as channel 34 on MCV.
17 The Hare Mutt was up next and was honored by the Apostle Dogleg for fulfilling her hare responsibilities. Mutt told of how a small band of children had helped her set the trail. “Blessed are the children, especially the ones who do whatever they are told” said the Tyrant, “But no goddamn Children on the Hash!” Mutt went on to lay blame upon unnamed followers of the Tyrant who, when called upon, had denied her second-hand request to assist in the laying of true trail. The Hare Abbott was next and was also honored by Dogleg for setting more than one trail in a year. Abbott spoke mainly of how little work she had done.
18 The Tyrant called for the baptism of His newest followers, which were still called FNGs in those days, and on this night included a woman called Katrina who was a friend of Pegasus the wife of the Saint Peter, and another young attorney named Brian. The Apostle Dogleg was taken by surprise and exclaimed “My name also is Brian” which angered the Tyrant, who said “I have given you the name of Dogleg, and thou shalt take no other name. ‘Brian’ may have once existed, but that person is not known to me.”(11) The baptism ceremony was started in the traditional way by the Tyrant, who gave the sacred instructions, and then carried out by Dogleg, who administered the sacred nectar and asked the sacred questions. Despite the age of the female FNG and Dogleg’s earlier prophecy, she did not bare her breasts.
19 As is the tradition, the Tyrant next called for testimonials about the trail, blessings, and parables. There being so many attorneys on the Hash in those days, the first business was an indictment from Bite’n’Suck. However, when he came up to accuse, his language was gibberish and no sense could be made by the Tyrant, and then he admitted to an infraction that he himself had committed, which obligated the Tyrant to indict him for being a dumbass. A number of parables followed.
20 The young Shitstain told the classic parable of three blonds who die and try to go to Christian heaven, only to discover that they know nothing of the prophet Jesus. This parable has been told previously with three dead Japanese golfers, which makes far more sense.(12) Spanky told the parable of the old bull and the young bull standing on the hill.(13) The physician Cheshire Pussy, sometimes referred to as a Mexican Doctor because of her fondness for, and pliability under the influence of tequila, told the parable of the husband who finds the secret trunk in the attic containing three ears of corn and $25,000.(14)
21 Finally, the Tyrant himself told the parable of the three Jews who see the sign on the catholic Church offering anyone $10 to convert to Christianity, one of whom goes inside to see if he can get the money. Upon his return, his friends ask him if he got the $10. “That’s all you people ever think about” he said.
22 Lo and behold, a bottle of tequila then materialized among the crowd, the first of four miracles that would occur that night. Cheshire Pussy came forward as expected, and the Tyrant instructed her in the true way of the Mexican Doctor. The Tyrant held her by the arms, while the Apostle Dogleg held her legs, and the Donkey Dick was called forward to expose her midriff and suck the tequila from her bared belly. This excited the newcomer Laila, wearer of the green panties, who volunteered to be next, and was similarly sucked upon.
23 Then the woman Beerhead came forward and performed the second miracle by baring her breasts, not once, but twice, in exchange for the Apostle Dogleg drinking Donkey Dick’s beer, which he did gladly, for the balance of nature had been restored. But the Hash women had become aflame with carnal thoughts, as Hash women are apt to, and could just not get enough of the young Donkey Dick. They demanded that Dirty Yellow Balls and the other young men be brought forward to expose their torsos. The Tyrant and the apostle Dogleg complied, but were quickly shunned by the women: “We said abs, not flabs!”
24 The fire began to die and the beer was running short, and the Tyrant responded by saying that the time had come to retire the sacred vessel. A great sadness fell upon the crowd. Seeing their sadness, the Tyrant waved his hand before them and, lo and behold! Another pallet appeared from the darkness, and another case of sacred nectar appeared underneath the soft drinks in one cooler. Two miracles at once!
25 Religion continued for some time. The Apostle Crackerjack told of how she was finally able to expurgate the pine needles from her snatch, but not before sustaining major labial irritation, and then attempted to libel the new Hash webmaster “Rick,” by bearing false witness that she had seen him picking his nose in the car, on the way to the Box. The Apostle Dogleg rose to his defense: “Thou shalt not accuse this man of such nastiness, without knowing his true purpose. And why dost thou continue to accuse me of being this man’s brother? Are we not all brothers, and sisters? Perhaps his brain was just itchy, and required scratching?” The Tyrant stepped in to quell the disagreement: “I say unto you, this man has done a great service by providing us with a new home on the world wide web, and by providing us with ridiculous paraphernalia that no one is ever likely to purchase. Therefore, I decree that henceforth and forevermore, this man shall be called ‘Cyber Bunny Pimp’.”
26 By this time the fire was dying and there was no more fire wood, and no more beer left, so the Tyrant wisely chose to retire the vessel, and commanded the crowd to clean up their empty cans and other mess. But first, the oldest among them requested the Tyrant’s permission to address the crowd, and then instructed everyone to stand and form a circle, which they did. He then asked everyone to move so that a woman stood between every man, which caused some difficulty because there were more men than women, and then instructed the crowd to twirl around each other and hook arms with the woman on their left, or was it their right? Soon the crowd became confused, and there were collisions, and the Tyrant stepped in and put a stop to the movements. “Marvel not why this man is known as Confuse Us”, He said.
27 After the area of the religious ceremony had been cleaned of all debris, the Tyrant led the crowd in the singing of the Hash Hymn, and admonished everyone to carry something out with them, and the crowd made their way to the top of the valley where the beer truck was parked. A chosen few were returned to the Box, to bring back trucks to carry the rest of the crowd out, so that they could proceed to the on on on at Hamilton’s. The Tyrant, of course, went to his home.
And so endeth today’s reading from the Book of Kramden.
(1) This was in the
form of a song, literally translated as “Why are we waiting? Should
be Masturbating.” The origins and tune are lost.
(2) Original text
referred to “carpooling”, an obscure word at the time, the meaning of which
has been lost to time.
(3) literally:
“get the fuck in the Box”
(4) literally:
“Don’t just stand around, you faggots, look for trail!”
(5) Historical references
speak of a step counting device worn by Tyrant Kramden during this time,
however there is also some speculation that the Tyrant suffered from autism.
(6) Sketches indicate
that the beast Tasi may have had as many as twenty heads, and stood as
tall as two men at the shoulder.
(7) Please see chapters
317 through 679
(8) literally:
“Fuck you, you faggots!”
(9) This is one of
many references in the scriptures to followers who erred by choosing “pussy”
and “partying” above the Hash.
(10) Literally:
“Put the goddamn lid back on the goddamn cooler! What do you want,
the drinks to get warm? For a filthy fucking animal?” Historical
records show that indeed, the beast Tasi was at times unclean.
(11) The practice
of assigning Hash names at birth did not start until after the ascendance
of the Saipan Hash during the great cataclysms of Bush.
(12) See the Book
of Hairy Psalms, Chapter 258, verses 49-95.
(13) Ibid, Ch. 56,
v. 1-4
(14) Ibid, Ch. 3499,
v. 608-645
The Saipan Hash House Harriers convenes every Saturday at 4:00 p.m. (3:30 during "winter") at the Bank of Guam parking lot in Garapan U.S. $10.00 (NON NEGOTIABLE)
MISMANAGEMENT
TYRANT/GM
Haj, F. Kramden, Sir!!
RA:
Dog Leg
AAAARA: OPEN
FIRE MASTER Dirty
Yellow Ball
HASH CASH
Ciega
TRAIL MASTER Dog
Leg
DLMM TECHNICIAN Dog Leg
HASH SCRIBE Father
Nelson
RECEDING HARE LINE...
1014 4/24 OPEN?
1015 5/1 Abbott &
Costello??
FM97 5/5 Crackerjack
–Wed. Full Moon
1016 5/8 Shit Stain &
Cheshire Pussy
1017 5/15 Wiener Von
Brown &?
1018 5/22 Viagra &
Dirty Yellow Balls
1019 5/29 Messiah
HASH TRAVEL AGENT:
Everyone is encouraged
to run with other Hashes when they travel. It is a great way to see
new places, and meet people other than tour guides and waitresses.
Especially when you go to Guam. Don’t be afraid of the Guam Hash
– they treat visitors with respect, and they are a fun bunch of people.
Their 1150th run will be on June 26th. Start planning your trip now!
FATHER NELSON’S BOX
It is often that I reflect on Chapter 1012 of the Book of Kramden. For it is only natural for me, having spent 10 years in seclusion at semenary studying this Chapter. You could say that I am the world’s foremost expert on it, but how I blush! And while this Chapter often brings me great comfort, it is troubling to many of our brothers, who find its many nuances too abstract and – yes – even contradictory! “But Father Nelson!” you say, “aren’t we all taught that every Word of Haj Kramden is the absolute Truth?” Yes, they are – but sometimes one must look deeply, and search one’s souls. Indeed, in this chapter are several passages in which the Tyrant speaks with apparent displeasure of the love of man for man, which has been our chosen lifestyle for centuries, handed down from the Great Tyrant Himself, and the Father-Mother Haj Claymore. My friends, you must look deeper than the surface of the Tyrant’s sometimes coarse words. You must know history.
I know it may be hard to believe, but the word “faggot” was a derogatory term during those times. How could the father of our people, the pioneer of male-male marriage, and the first husband of Claymore, the Holy Father-Mother, have spoken with such assuredness against it? Although the historical records are incomplete, they do offer some insight:
Kramden’s earlier years were a time of great conflict, prior to the great ascendance of the Hash, when all life on Earth was vaporized by the rolling clouds of radiation, with the lone exception of the Hash House Harriers of Saipan, who were standing in the single spot of earth that was spared on that horrible Saturday night. Yes my brothers, our dominance was foretold. The leader Bush, who brought the destruction, hated the thought of man’s love, and made it illegal. It is easy to forget that, prior to the radioactive clouds of 2007, men were required to lay with women, and only women, in order to bear children, just as it is easy to forget that the beast Tasi, from whom is descended all animal life as we know it, was once small and single-headed. It was not until the Hash women departed, following the Ciega Insurrection of 2035, that Kramden and Claymore began to experiment with anal cloning, and found that Claymore had been endowed with the ability to bear the Tyrant’s cloned children within his Holy rectum, an unexpected gift wrought by the glowing clouds of poison that destroyed so much else! The Hash women, under the name “no weenies,” a banner that betrayed their jealousy, rightfully feared that they had been rendered useless, and lashed out with the propaganda of evil, calling the Holy couple “mutant freaks”, and worse. But Man had forevermore been made in the image of his maker! It was the great leap forward that humanity had awaited, and they were blind to it! Praise the Holy Mother-Father Claymore!
Also, it is important
to remember that the Apostle Dogleg, recorder of so many of the Tyrant
Kramden’s words, fell under the evil spell of the no-weenies and chose
to depart with the women to the neighboring island of Lesbos, and was outright
critical of the Tyrant’s union with the Holy Father-Mother, which he called
“unnatural” in his later, more secular texts. Furthermore, it is
well documented that Dogleg’s accounts were not written contemporaneously,
and that he was fond of hyperbole. Therefore, one must not place
too great an emphasis on accounts of Kramden’s early use of the word “faggot”.
No, my brothers, it is clear from the Tyrant’s admonition to the
Apostle Dirty Yellow
Balls, that the Hash is always to be placed above woman.
And with that, I say peace be with you, my brothers. Please don’t forget to drop your donations in the sacred vessel on the way out, and we still have hundreds of stuffed hares for sale! All proceeds go toward helping the war orphans, and the purchase of body armor for our soldiers who at this moment struggle to re-take the citadel of San Jose on Lesbos. May they crush the Godless spawn of Dogleg with their righteous faggotness! I spit on their fast cars, their “parliamentary process,” and their filthy “indoor plumbing!” They will burn in the fires of hell, for it is we who are the Tyrant’s chosen ones! Suicide belts may be picked up by the door. Have a nice day!
On on!
Father Nelson
Grand Cardinal of the
Bank of Guam,
Holy City of Garapan
2904 A.D.
30 hounds eventually ran the hash, (although 6 of them got to the box late). We saw the return of Jordass who was house hunting in Hawaii (say that 10 times fast). We also got to see FNG’s Christina (who CAME with Fely), Rita (who Pucker Boy made Come) and Tina making Jessica 2 for 2 (she has brought FNG’s on the last two runs, this only being her 3rd).
The box was announced and confusing instructions given on how to get there. To make it easy, the Tyrant drove their first and parked at the bottom of the road, directing the following hounds (and their cars) up the road. Once there, the hares directed us to a rock pit reminiscent of the kind you see in old prison films (hard labor). Special instructions were that the trail would be in flour only, and then they were off.
The Tyrant ‘splained the instructions to the FNG’s and then everyone waited for the 10-minutes. Well, almost everyone. Only about 5 people actually stayed in the box, and traditionalist that he is, this really upset Kramden.
Anyway, after 10 minutes, the pack was off. Some went towards the road, but most ran straight into the jungle behind the Reyes home, which led us right down into Death Valley. This is Papago on the map, but then so is the whole area. It was in this thick underbrush that Kramden tripped on a big root and hurt his hand. As he was trying to leap to his feet as if nothing was wrong, he fell on the same hand again. Everyone felt sorry for him but laughed anyway. The trail continued down and eventually turned back on itself and took us back out to Isa Drive in Kannat Tadung Lau Lau. The trail then went into Fresco Pl., which is near some staff housing for one of the hotels. The trail went into some houses and then popped out on the road to Santos Acres and Ogso Laulau. We were greeted by Fender Bender who was driving out as we were running in. The trail dropped down toward Facey Farms but veered north and eventually popped out on Railroad Drive and to the on home. The On Home had been tried before Peewee lived there and we were chased off. But not this time since we were with the landlord. Eventually everyone showed up at the on home. Stanley’s Bitch, in lieu of paying $10 was recruited to help out with the vehicle run (one run instead of two). Once everyone was back, Sword Swallower distributed really rummy run cake in honor of Pucker Boy’s birthday. In the absence of Dirty Yellow Balls (AGAIN!!) the Tyrant appointed Titty Sticker as the new fire master, even though Cheshire Pussy, firemaster by injection, was doing a fine job.
The Tryant piped up Religion and the hares were called forward. Kramden blew great amounts of smoke up Pee Wee’s ass for being the designer of the XTERRA trail, which has become the Crown Jewel of the XTERRA circuit.
Then Acute Angina came forward and blew more smoke up her husband’s ass for doing the trail for her. The FNG’s were called up next, and although there was a great deal of tit to be seen, none was shown. Two of the FNG’s were TRAVEL AGENTS (one from Canada and one from China) and apparently it only costs US$200 to get here from Canada and US$100 to get here from China. (But that is at the hash conversion rate).
There were many courtesies to the run and even a few discourtesies to some of the people on the run. Kow Paddy kept trying to get credit for last weeks run but no one paid any attention since he was not even here. Red Sasquatch regaled us with his tale from the trail. In his version, he got lost at the entrance to the valley (where we all experienced a giant cluster fuck) and had to turn around and get out of the jungle before dark. Since he had already gotten the map out of the BOG mailbox, he knew exactly where to go.
During religion, the women? Who chased out and called the cops last time, were politely told to fuck off by Pee Wee. Then the cheap (ask my brother) Japanese lady stopped by to chase us out, and Pee Wee to the rescue again. Eventually, the vessel was retired, Swing Low sung, the fire put out and the ashes dumped over the side of the hill. A group of people were heading to Hamilton’s. The Tyrant of course went home.
The Saipan Hash House Harriers convenes every Saturday at 4:00 p.m. (3:30 during "winter") at the Bank of Guam parking lot in Garapan U.S. $10.00 (NON NEGOTIABLE)
MISMANAGEMENT
TYRANT/GM
Haj, F. Kramden, Sir!!
RA:
Dog Leg
AAAARA:
OPEN
FIRE MASTER
Titty Sticker
HASH CASH
Ciega
TRAIL MASTER
Dog Leg
DLMM TECHNICIAN
Dog Leg
HASH SCRIBE
McBund Georgie
RECEDING HARE LINE...
1012 4/10
Mutt
1013 4/17
Beerhead
1014 4/24
Pucker Boy
CONTACT CIEGA TO SIGN UP. IT IS A HASHER’S DUTY
TO BE A HARE.
BE A HARE, SET TRAIL FOR YOUR FRIENDS
REMEMBER, IF YOU GO BACK TO THE REAL WORLD AND THERE IS NO HASH, START ONE. IT IS A GREAT WAY TO MEET PEOPLE, AND SOME ONE IS BOUND TO SHOW YOU THEIR TITS ONE OF THESE DAYS.
EDITORIAL
It was so nice to finish at the On Home, WITH the property owners. Not like the last time when we were forcefully removed by the OTHER landowner for trespassing. Fear my friends. If they build that highway from Kalabera Cave to Kingfisher Golf Course, it is just one more piece of hashing history down the drain. One more place where modernization and civilization is going to intrude on our weekend past time, and take what was an awesome hash trail and turn it into a pavement pounder (although the vehicle run will be a lot shorter). I think someone needs to set trail here before it is too late.
40 hounds gathered at the Bank of Guam to witness the de-flowering of three very, very old virgin hares: the incomprehensible Bite'n'Suck, his better half Marian, and Agnes. Despite a tangible sense of dread, there was just enough curiosity to propel attendance into the magic thirties, mostly because of rumors that Bite'n'Suck had been working on trail for five months or so. The hare's dire warnings on the listbot failed to produce more than two or three camelbacks, and one adventure racer. The most positive sign was that Kowpaddy, who was supposed to be Bite'nSuck's co-hare, was stuck in Kinky Lay Japan and couldn't ruin the run. It also didn't hurt that Red Sasquatch showed up at the BOG with a Mohawk.
Being a hare is more than just setting trail, and in the absence of her co-hare, who was goofing off at the Box, Marian was left to flounder on her own with the beer truck arrangements, which had to be totally re-arranged once we got to the Box anyway after it was discovered that the "plan" was to leave everyone's bags behind, and distribute the coolers amongst several vehicles, only one of which was going to the on-home. Crackerjack got all bitchy with Dogleg because he refused to put his bag into Mr. Happy Pocket's truck until everything was straightened out, which caused everyone else to mill around and whine while Marian was getting the ice. Finally everything was sorted out, and the pack was moved into the Box, at the back of Mutt's house in Capitol Hill. Where the fuck was Mutt????
Bite'n'Suck presented us with a confusing set of special instructions about orange tape, double arrows, and detailed instructions about what not to do at the water stop, and then was off. Kramden 'splained the instructions to the diverse group of FNGs, which included a Chinese visitor, a garment worker, a frightened blonde woman, and a couple of Frenchies. The rest of us whiled away the time torturing spiders and shooting the water out of someone's carelessly un-attended camelback. Toward the end of the ten minutes, it was observed that there was no "Box", and the crowd began to wander out, before Kramden could even start the countdown.
A checking at Mutt & Cheetah's driveway sent some people up the hill towards nothing, and the smart hounds down hill to Isa drive, where another checking was found. This led to the first, and only real fuckup of the trail - a second checking on the right, with on-backs in all directions. A checking on a false trail! Sacrilege! A few smart hounds checked to the left, following Dogleg's hunch that we would be running through the Japanese Hospital cave. This turned out to be absolutely correct, and no mistakes were made all the way to the cave trail, where the second double arrow was found, making the cave tour optional. The first double arrow had been just above this area, leading to a big cave that was filled with bat-like swiftlets, apparently under the control of Tandoori Chicken. No one went to the hospital cave, of course, and instead followed trail down the hill and to the left, along the base of the cliff, past some piles of ordinance, an old developed Japanese spring cave, and back out onto the coral road that leads down to Talofofo.
We followed this road almost to the end, but turned off into the boonies on the right, and entered the big ravine where the old Japanese roads are. This is where the water stop was, and where we got onto a nice mountain bike trail that had been recently created by Billy Graham. This was also where the biggest clusterfuck of the run occurred, right at an old drainage culvert, where a checking was found, but no trail in any direction. Most of the pack just milled around in this area trying to figure it out, but a couple of idiots went way out their way to screw up, including Fartacus who ran out to the As Teo road, and Mr. Happy Pockets who went even further, to Donni Springs, for some unknown reason. Dogleg became convinced that the Hare had been caught and was in hiding, and dispatched several unfortunate hounds to search the tunnel. After about 10 minutes of searching, Dogleg found trail, just in time for Billy Graham, the last victim of the false checking on Capitol Hill, to arrive and become FRB. Trail doubled back along the base of the Japanese road, almost in the same direction from which trail had arrived, and followed a different branch of the ravine (Kannat Gloria) a long way toward the coast. Another double-arrow was supposed to take anyone who was interested down to the shoreline at the mouth of the ravine, but it was a long way and everyone just followed trail up out of the canyon, a steep climb up the sharp limestone, and onto the tangan-tangan covered plateau above. Trail meandered through here a bit, along the edge of someone's farm, until we popped out into a clearing at the on-home, were the hares were set up inside a brand-new pala-pala, preparing coals for the hotdogs.
The last part of the trail was rough enough and long enough to spread the pack out again after the tunnel clusterfuck, so it took a while for everyone to come in. An early vehicle run was dispatched, and returned before sunset, picking up Crackerjack's visiting sister Nicky on the way, who was just sitting at the last checking she found, like a good hash woman. Red Sasquatch, Dogleg, and Steve got tired of waiting for the hares to start cooking, and grilled up the hotdogs, using only their bare hands. Fire Good! Of course, those weren't the only wieners those three had been touching. Kramden bitched about the age of the mustard, which was a rich baby-shit brown, which got him started on one of his many baby-shit stories. A debate was then started about where the fire was going to be, with one group arguing for a pleasant spot in the short grass, and the other side arguing for lighting up a huge pile of brush that the landowner had left for us to burn in the long grass. In the end, both fires were started, but the big brush pile turned out to be the most satisfying, after the addition of the hotdog coals and some cave man sounds, and it damn near started the whole coastline on fire! Fire GOOOOOD! But religion was held by the small fire, in the nice grass with all the fire pussies.
Religion was called to order by the Tyrant, and the Hares came forward. Bite'nSuck attempted to give courtesy to Kowpaddy but was booed into silence on that subject. Marian complained about how hard it is to be a hare, and Agnes asked for the options, but decided to drink it anyway, and after finishing, complained about it all "dripping from her chin", and so was named "Dripping From Her Chin". There were no visiting Hashers, so the FNG's were called forward. No one disgraced themselves, but the blonde lady was visibly frightened and had to be dragged up (I bet she'll be back), and the two Frenchies, one of whom works for the Tyrant, did as well as could be expected. Dogleg was given first honor with the vessel, and regaled the crowd with his tales from the Agana Hash the week before, and how Berzerk Burke had admonished him to "tell the Saipan Hash what you saw here today!" after some truly dumb-ass military guy finished trail at 8:30 p.m. with a dislocated ankle, taking three hashers to help him, when he could have just turned around and gone back to the Box which was only a hundred yards away. Dogleg was booed down by the crowd for even mentioning the Agony hash. Next was Billy Graham with an indictment for the Hares for setting a checking on a false trail, which prompted a whole 'nother round of nonsense. Dirty Yellow Balls had to be called away from his Tandoori Chicken, repeatedly, to do something, no, anything, about the dying fire. A few courtesies followed, because despite the minor fuckups, it really was a good run. Of course, a few people got up to tell their tales about the fuckup, including Mr. Happy Pockets, who was unable to give a convincing explanation for his side trip to Donni Springs. The hares for the Full Moon were announced in-absencia by Dogleg, and Beerhead whined about being assigned to be hare on Xterra day, and got Red Sasquatch and Donkey Dick to do it for her. Speaking of Donkey Dick, he was in such demand by the ladies that night for Palauans, that the Tyrant and RA began to get concerned for the sanitary condition of the vessel. A jar of cold sore ointment will be available from now on in the first aid section of the accoutrements bag (as well as alcohol wipes for the hotdogs). Lots of trash talking ensued, but elements of the crowd had been drifting away, almost unnoticed, and eventually the Tyrant chose, against the wishes of some drunks, to put away the vessel. The area was policed, Swing Low was sung, and the remaining crowd hurried away to Ham's, while the hares stayed behind to watch the fire.
The Saipan Hash House Harriers convenes every Saturday at 4:00 p.m. (3:30 during "winter") at the Bank of Guam parking lot in Garapan U.S. $10.00 (NON NEGOTIABLE)
MISMANAGEMENT
TYRANT/GM
Haj, F. Kramden, Sir!!
RA:
Dog Leg
AAAARA:
OPEN
FIRE MASTER
Dirty Yellow Ball
HASH CASH
Ciega
TRAIL MASTER
Dog Leg
DLMM TECHNICIAN
Dog Leg
HASH SCRIBE
Omniscient Being #29567
RECEDING HARE LINE...
FM96 4/5
Pucker Boy & Sword Swallower
(Monday Full Moon)
1012 4/10
Mutt & ?
1013 4/17
Red Sasquatch & Donkey Dick
1014 4/24
Pucker Boy & ?
1015 5/1
Abbott & Costello
FM97 5/5
OPEN Wed. or Tue. (5/4) Full Moon
1016 5/8
Shit Stain & Cheshire Pussy
HASH TRAVEL AGENT:
Everyone is encouraged to run with other Hashes when they travel. It is a great way to see new places, and meet people other than tour guides and waitresses. Especially when you go to Guam. Don't be afraid of the Guam Hash - they treat visitors with respect, and they are a fun bunch of people. Their 1150th run will be on June 26th. Start planning your trip now!
EDITORIAL
For those who are new to the Hash and find our talk of
nonsense to be clique-ish, or exclusionary, please realize that every sport/hobby/cult
has its own "language", and that Hashers are always full of shit anyway.
That's the way the Hash is. As soon as you've done your first down-down,
you are a Hasher and you are welcome no matter how often you attend.
Sure there are further steps, like being a Hare, that gain you further
respect, just like in any group, or society in general. Of course
it would be nice if everyone hashed every week. After all, no one
wants to spend a lot of time setting a trail, just to have only a few people
show up because there was something "better" to do, but that level of dedication
is not genuinely expected from all but the most hardcore. So always
take what is said with a big grain of salt. What is said on the Hash
(and even the listbot) is almost always in the spirit of the Hash, and
even the harshest responses are usually just part of someone's "act" or
hash persona, offensive as it may seem. Just fire back with a "fuck
you" or a witty insult like Shitstain, and you will find the respect you
crave! But remember that when the Tyrant or RA tells you to shut
your filthy hole, they are DEAD FUCKING SERIOUS!