Run #925 - The Twilight Hash

June 5, 2000

Hare: Smirk, Ben Dover and Fuhkawee
Where: Weaselhead
On In: Tom and Jerry's, 1690 - 37 St SW
Attendance: 87

You are entering a world of imagination. A world not of sight and sound, but of mind. A place located between the pits of man's fears, and the summit of his knowledge. A place known only as, The Twilight Hash.

For your consideration: An ordinary circle of fanatics, with an apparent leader, but look closer. A young, over-sexed and verbally abused ringmaster, Oral Fixation, in a macabre one-ring circus. Her mission: to shout above the crowd with some important instructions. Instructions which, to many, would mean less than nothing. Incomprehensible perhaps, but important to the direction that our story must take.

Enter now, a small group of individuals, Smirk, Ben Dover and Fuhkawee, possibly those who were voted most likely to be arrested for wearing sandwich board signs that read: "Will masturbate for food." Once again, in the arcane language of this lost tribe, instructions are given, and verbal abuse tossed about liberally. This carries with it an ominous feel of foreboding, foreshadowing, and foreplay. Without further ado, this band of misfits begins their strange journey, without knowledge of where, without purpose of why, with no other motive than the monosyllabic call of: "Beer."

Submitted, for your approval. Shiggy. A word capable of inducing fits a fear in the common man. A fear so deep, the conscious mind cannot not even reconcile. Yet, within this misguided group of hashers, the word shiggy is simply a battle cry, a badge of honour to be worn on one's sleeve. So endearing is this experience to this band that they would go out of their way to travel through it, first the wrong way, then back across on the correct trail, thus doubling their shiggy exposure. To the uninitiated, the sight of such a thing can only render confusion.

The journey now over, at least for now, the circle of sweat-soaked, muddy and smelly creatures descend upon the last known refuge for this outcast tribe, Tom and Jerry's beer, food and fake tits emporium. One by one, like beaten, even spanked soldiers, they arrive at their refuge, eager to partake in the magical elixir that drives them on-on. The rain may have dampened the newly changed and dry clothed hashers, but not their enthusiasm for the strange mass to follow.

Enter stage left, R.A. Hardly, yet another de-facto leader from this aberrant group, willing to be subjected to continual abuse. Even in his generosity, providing large amounts of the beloved elixir, the abuse is hurled. Clearly we are encountering a culture not of this world.

Witness now, a group of newcomers to the society, with names like Christopher, Lory, Helen, Andrea, Julie and Laurel. A traditional down-down is the payment for their newfound loyalty. Also, those who have broken some long-standing and sacred oath, Randy Bastard, and Perfesser, they too are downed for their transgression. To this honour, they are sung a song. A song of otherworldly music, where all the rules of traditional music need not apply. Leading the group in song are two prominent members of the group, Pole Vault and Dreary, who were clearly chosen for reasons beyond that of good looks.

In a strange parade, a procession of sorts, several members all called forward, either in shame or in triumph, to receive the coveted elixir. ACD was downed for, apparently, being born and Suck No Evil for having completed 50 runs. Two rogue members, Hot Dog and Horny Shit, apparently showing off their swimming prowess, were downed for their impersonations of salmon swimming upstream to spawn. Strangely, they appeared just as desperate.

Krusty and Stinky, two well-known members of the group, were downed for their attempt to have "a quickie" out on trail. A quickie which, conversely, will be remembered for some time. The alpha geek of the group, King Shit, seems to have some determination to lead people to some alternate location, perhaps in the Northwest quadrant, and perhaps for some nefarious deeds. He was suitably punished, and talk of providing him with some new HTML scripting manuals was heard.

The convocation of silliness continued with Asslete who, it appears, would rather be doing something else on Monday nights for the next year. This was celebrated with a song so beautiful, so touching, so fucking long, that no one was left unmoved by it. Then Knobby, who clearly has some difficulty with his navigation skills, was downed for not realizing that objects in mirrors are closer than they appear. Closer even, then snapping turtles nipping at his body parts while swimming naked through shiggy, though that is beyond the scope of human understanding.

And further submitted, a couple of snitches, those who would witness, then reveal, things which happen on trail. Sir Hemorrhoid, being the first snitch, told a gripping story of negotiating with a drowning woman. The outcome: Hot Flashes may soon be mortgaging her house to buy a round of beer. The second snitch, Party Pumper, found what appeared to be a couple of chronic masturbators who could not endure the shiggy without a quick orgasmic interlude. Too Short and Always (with wings) were the transgressors, which is clearly obvious by their tired look and callused hands. They, too, were given their due.

And to close the festivities, in an almost circular structure, Oral Fixation is given a strange implement, a vessel of sorts, from which to drink her gift of ale. This is her punishment for having the limited cranial function to remember the sacred Hash Shit. Will this reminder help? Who knows?

All that is known is that there is so much of the unknown in this group of hashers. Shakespeare wrote: "It is only while wearing women's underwear on our heads that we truly known the meaning of self." Or was that Sartre? Either way, this strange group of hashers neither understands, not are they understood. A Paradox in spandex. They simply run, through shiggy and bush, between this world and that place that we call, the Twilight Hash.

On On!

Gnu Moon

Thought for the day

"People are more violently opposed to fur than leather because it's safer to harass rich women than motorcycle gangs."

Ask Right Bun

Q? RIGHT BUN... I am still confused over what hash cash is and what beer loot is.  Can you please clarify this for me?

Answer -

Our Space so Back Off!

You're Trying to Seduce Me, Mrs. Krabapple

Recently, while stretching and icing and rubbing a muscle, your editors took a good long look at the state of health care in our fair province. We noticed three pressing issues in the news: (only because editor number 3 got the wrong channel while taping World's Worst Wedding Week on the Lifestyle channel,):

  1. Healthcare workers are striking for wages that a Malaysian Gap seamstress would refuse
  2. Irreversible doctor shortages mean lower standards of treatment and longer wait times
  3. Private clinics threaten the concept of universal health care
And addressing these issues in a timely manner we agreed on one clear conclusion:
There's money to be made here.
If normally well-balanced people will pay real cash for a ginkgo root poultice to relieve a severed limb, and if health care plans will pay for echinacea injections into the recently dead, then surely there's a place in the New Health Care Pantheon for:

A Hasher's Guide to Running Injuries

(Before you question your editors' qualifications in this area, either as runners or as healers, please keep in mind that pound for pound we have more injuries than the rest of you lot combined, if only because of clumsiness, poor judgement and chemical dependencies.)

Over the next several weeks we will examine the following hashing/ running health issues:

  1. Soft tissue injuries
  2. Chronic hangovers
  3. Sexually transmitted running diseases (characterized by running sores)
  4. Other stuff
And consider each along with the following (billable) cutting-edge treatments:
  1. Beer
  2. Shiggy
  3. Sex
  4. Combinations of the above, particularly beer

Any contributions the rest of you may make to this noble project will be either omitted, edited beyond
recognition, mocked, or, in the best of worlds, gratefully included without credit or compensation.


Yer Editors

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