Run #917 - The Warp Factor Run

Following a distress beacon sent from the planet Moose 7 in the S.W. quadrant in the constellation of Canyon Meadows, we came upon a strange gathering. Although they looked non-threatening, the landing crew of McCoy, Spock and myself decided to play it safe. We joined the group and tried to blend in.

We witnessed one resident by the name of One-Nut Sue, who was following some strange urge by stealing two items called hash-shits, and was nearly raped by Stinky and Icedickle who, for whatever reason, wanted them back.

Some midget, who said he was not Oral Fixation, but called himself Knobslinger, addressed the group. Apparently part of the culture is to verbally abuse anyone who is speaking, a practice that continued throughout the evening.

They have a process whereby new members are invited into the group, introduced, and then ignored. On this occasion, the new boots were John, Janie, Lee-Ann, Collin, and Miguel. Also introduced were archives Closet Queen and Goosebumps, who apparently had abandoned the group some time ago, and now must pay a price to re-enter.

An obvious group elder named Whale Wanker was introduced, and went on and on about his precious pair of shirts. He also explained his extended version of the rules of the trail. Muffy, his partner or mate (we could not determine which) just stood in the circle smiling and looking stunned. Tricorder readings indicated some form of self-hypnosis possibly brought on by chronic masturbation. Spock will check his readings further when we return to the ship.

Whale Wanker pointed us in a direction, and the group started running, and we played along. After following the trail marked in chalk, as indicated earlier, we ended up in a swampy area where we were forced to follow flagging, something not mentioned in the circle. Some confusion followed until the pack realized that, basically, there were no rules.

Kawky Whoreur was so happy about the lack of rules that he was seen hurdling over benches. The trail eventually became apparent, and the run progressed smoothly, although the number of checks on trail seemed to mystify an alien named Right-Bun. The sheer numbers, apparently, were just too much for her. She will remain in sick bay where Spock is teaching her how to count. Last time McCoy checked, she could get as far as 13, an awesome improvement.

The run ended and some kind of strange festivities started. A group Religious Advisor named Hardly called up a Choir, consisting of Ben-Wa, Flesh Wound, King Shit and On-In, to create some noise which, once everyone else joined in, resembled singing, to a degree.

The hares, Whale Wanker and Muffy were called up, and were forced to drink some Romulan brew. The new boots, minus one who decided that she just needed to run some more (do I sense a name in this?) were then forced to do the same, as were the archives.

The ritual seemed to follow a pattern.

Then Pole Vault was downed for looking like a Kamikaze and, by playing a dangerous game of chicken, possibly confused a shuttle trainee forever.

Then the short alien from the earlier circle was called up, along with what looked like his amazon sex-partner, possibly a disguised Klingon, and both were forced to drink the elixir because they contravened some sexual practice amongst the people by taking turns with another alien called Stranger. Something about Oral Fixation again, but the customs of the crowd were still vague at this point.

Apparently Tiny Bubbles thought that by running run a few meters with someone while chatting, then letting them pass you while slowing to a walk, everyone would assume that he ran all night. He was called something that sounded like "lazy f--k" and was told to down the brew like the others.

Then a female alien, known only as Specimen, was called up and told to drink the brew because she has a really cute, fuzzy little tail. The Prime Directive of non-interference with other cultures made it impossible for me to defend the Specimen, and so she downed the strong smelling mead like the previous detainees.

Then Smirk was downed for being deluded, something about a boxer named Rocky and wanting to have sex with senior citizens, and Hot Dog was downed for an infraction known only as Competitive Hashing. Spock noted this for future reference.

Liquor Outlet was a snitch, and got tonights scribe, Gnu Moon, to down the brew because he has such a perfect ass. My crew was still confused as to why this was a problem until the song was done and Gnu Moon lived up to his name and showed his perfect ass to everyone. Apparently this does not follow the culture's accepted protocol. We found no fault with this, but Spock found his behavior to be "odd."

Neon Stripper was also a snitch, but his alleged transgressor (cross-dresser?) who had something to do with a sex toy, had already left. Neon Stripper was still told to down his brew alone.

Now the proceedings got a little strange as items that looked like toilet apparatus, but were called hash-shits (see earlier entry) were brought out. Although the strong brew was put into these items, apparently it was not meant to be downed, but rather, poured on each other. After much flinging and dousing, there was a re-assignment of one hash-shit from Stinky to One-Nut Sue, but Icedickle was told he must keep his. The crowd seemed pleased with this. It looked like a scene from Amok Time to me.

And the final act of honour (embarrassment?) was given to P'tooie for, apparently, never letting the name of Crazy Horse to appear in the weekly Hash Sheet. Crazy Horse did not seem to

mind, but the name Crazy Horse is now to be mentioned in some hash sheet at least once. I don't know when Crazy Horse will actually appear in the hash sheet, but Crazy Horse will be mentioned soon. Good luck Crazy Horse.

The landing party left the tiny planet confused but sure that this primitive culture will survive. The lack of leadership or any significant level of intelligence may be a stumbling block in their development, but we will visit again in a few thousand years to see if they have advanced beyond their strange ways.

On-On,

Gnu Moon

Among the legends and fearsome stories and outlandish lies of the Calgary Hash House Harriers, there are mysteries that are threaded thickly through our history like green wool in the Mackenzie tartan, such as the magic behind Hardly's hat (is that a rabbit he just pulled out, or is that his hair?)

Or the question of how King Shit runs the length of Deerfoot twice a day without ever having a hair out of place.

Or whether Dreary was sporting pink lycra last week or just a bad rash.

But none of these compares to the myths rapidly forming around the recent absence of Tiny Bubbles.

Allegedly he went to the Australia Interhash, and then came back late after mandatory public service to work off a public indecency charge.

But everyone knows that no one wears clothes in Australia, so your editors bring you, in the interest of unfounded speculation and irresponsible rumour-mongering, some alternate theories:

1. Bubbles was Paul Hogan's stunt double in a Preparation H commercial
   
2. Bubbles spent a week in the belly of a crocodile, mistakenly blaming his travel agent for booking a room without a view and complaining
   
3. Foster's drafted Bubbles for their summer advertising campaign, thinking they could save some money by not hiring Kate Moss, who won't work for six-packs anymore since she got all health-conscious.
4. Bubbles has actually been here for several weeks, running Tuesday nights due to unresolved difficulties dealing with the international date line.
5. Bubbles' plane crash landed on an island of primitive, beautiful women, where he was worshipped as the god-king WahanuuAhanu and was hand-fed tropical fruit and fresh oysters and had his own volcano and a hammock big enough for eleven virgins. (*Editors Comment: this is our particular favourite, but we have yet to resolve why he returned to Calgary. Maybe he had air miles left!)

On-On,

Yer Editors