I successfully completed run number one thousand five hundred and twenty-six with the Subic Bay Hash House Harriers. Well, a portion of it, anyway. Vienna Sausage (Guenter) was the Hare, so shortcutting by the “sane” group was inevitable. Sure enough, after completing the first climb, the trail immediately headed back down again. My group said, “nope,” and stayed up top. It wasn’t long before the Hare’s trail rejoined ours again. This happened twice more, and we didn’t fall for it. I laughed that we all know Vienna too well to get suckered into all those ups and downs. At one point, he had actually tied the tall thatch grass together in an attempt to hide the alternative path. I saw through that gesture and took some joy in breaking through the barricade while shouting a hearty “follow me!” to the rest of our group. Good times!
We took the next to last down and then shortcut our way back to the VFW for our On-Home festivities. The portion of the trail we did was familiar and mostly pleasant, except for the damned thatch grass. Well, ’tis the season and all that.
I didn’t have access to the photos Pubic Head puts together for the Hash page, so the viewing is a little sparser than usual. Sorry about that!
What? Are you wondering what this post has to do with four and twenty virgins? Glad you asked! The Hash Songmeister asked me to introduce a new song at the circle yesterday, and wanting to be a team player, I agreed. At least you didn’t have to hear me singing it!
Four and twenty virgins went down to Subic Hash And when the Hash was over, there were four and twenty less Singing, balls to your partner, ass against the wall If you've never been drunk on a Monday night You've never been drunk at all
You are welcome!
And here’s a quick peak into the future for y’all:
What was I doing fifty years ago? Pretty much what I’m doing now–enjoying my time in the countryside.
Of course, I wasn’t old enough to legally drink back then, but weed was readily available for ten bucks an ounce, so I got by.
At one point, he had actually tied the tall thatch grass together in an attempt to hide the alternative path. I saw through that gesture and took some joy in breaking through the barricade while shouting a hearty “follow me!” to the rest of our group. Good times!
It would never have occurred to me to think of the Hash as a battle of wits, but in a small town, what else are people going to do if not fuck with each other?
And here’s a quick peak into the future for y’all
Spot the untoward homonym!
Man, parts of that trail looked steep. As I mentioned before, I no longer have the balance for that sort of thing.
I guess I’ve reached my peek. How much lower can I go? I do know the difference between a peak and a peek, but damn, somewhere between my brain and my fingers, something always seems to go wrong.
Yeah, I think Vienna takes some joy in fucking with us, and we get pleasure out of trying to stymie his plans. But, all in fun. No one takes it seriously.
There’s lots of nice mostly flat trails around, so don’t worry!
sing a song of sixpence,
a pocket full of rye:
we’ve four and twenty Hashers
all baked into a pie.
when the pie was opened,
the Hashers sang, “On-On!”
now, wasn’t that a dainty dish
to eat before the dawn?
the Hare was on the toilet
and pushing out a shit
the virgin Hasher was outside
her new name: Stinky Clit
the Hash this time was grueling
with slopes and stairs galore
and Stinky Clit already was
reputed as a whore
she fucked the fast and slow ones
they all busted a nut
and some of us could not decide
between the pie or slut
but on we march, the Hashers
for none shall stop us now
not slopes nor stairs nor pies nor Clits
we soldier on, and how!
Well, there you go, you’ve written your first Hash song! Good job! You seem to have captured the essence of the Hash persona. I’ll forward this to the Songmeister for his consideration.
When I saw the phrase “four and twenty,” I immediately thought of “four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie” (from the old classic “Sing a song of Sixpence”), so I ruthlessly stole from that poem to make my own. Standing on the shoulders of giants, if you will.
Nuts.
“Sing a Song of Sixpence” (with Song capitalized)