Run #1028 - The 2002 edition of the Munchkin Run

January , 2002

Hares: Tiny, Hot Dog, Gopher Broke, Lost-It
Where: Suds 'n' Spuds, 5720 Silver Springs Bv NW
Attendance: 71

I check the thermometer again, hmmmm, still above 10 degrees. What to wear? While mulling over that atmospheric perplexity of not-Winter-not-Summer weather, I reflect on Munchkin runs of past years. I remember the run from last year, which was even warmer than tonight, winding its merry way through Westgate. That run was positively tropical in fact. What is it with munchkins and hot air? Hot air rises. Munchkins are short. Is there a relationship? Is global warming caused by an over abundance of short people? Nope, almost everyone I know is taller than I am, so that can't be the answer. Munchkins are hot. Yes! That's it!

Enough musing, I'm off to the Hash. Arriving at the appointed place I am met by an astonishing sight. The other Evils! Can it be? Are the stars in some kind of weird alignment? And hosts of other hashers (Dreary announces a crowd of over 80) ready to risk life and limb out on the streets and partake of the spa like atmosphere.

Some harey munchkins sketch out some mmmmarks that look suspiciously like the mmms in global warmmmming, while other munchkins hand out leftover Christmas Rum Balls, and we're off. The usual general milling followed by dashes of glee ensues and the pack winds it's way around Silver Springs.

A nice watery layer on top of ice makes the going distinctly trecherous and having to scour the bases of poles and fences for mmmminiature mmmmarks makes the going that much more interesting. Wetone, who appears to revel in slipperiness, gets quite up close and personal with a light pole.

The instruction from our hares that the trail is marked entirely in chalk doesn't deter some intrepid souls from searching vainly in the fields for a non-existent trail. Whale Wanker goes for a trip and ends up with his horn wedged in an unnatural position, while a good portion of the pack run a devilish checkback in the dark along the park. I come across Itsy Bitsy peering at the sidewalk a long way below and wonder again at the inequities of life.

Back on the trail, we wend our way a good way longer, eventually rediscovering the warm confines of the on-in.

Down downs presented by our stereo RA's turn into a raucous affair, with multiple namings and the usual heckling. Archives are announced and we welcome Dolly, the other Evils, Shit Slipper, Bobbin' Robin and Scared of Beer back into the fold. Dolly celebrates his return by receiving a delightful new corkscrew (personalized) for his 250^th run.

I thought I saw 2 new boots in the circle, but now I only see Danielle at the front. Whale Wanker, Knobby and King Shit are not so honoured for competitive hashing and Ringadangadoo is cited for playing something on her palm (!?). About now the choir (Pullit, One Nut Sue, Scully and King Shit) starts down that slippery slope called spontaneous composition. The hares - Tiny, Hare of the Dog and Lost It, are cheered for their rendition of this year's munchkin affair and Icedickle is parked on ice for a parade of offenses. A new hasher, who is always wearing the RA Porta-Chest, actually managed to slide/run into a metal post tonight (at chest level) and is thusly crowned "Iron Tits".

A pause here for the hash hymn 'Swing Low Sweet Chariot'. Danielle appeared again before the RA's for explaining in the circle how she has no handle. Voila &emdash; 'Handle Me'. Then, truly in the naming spirit, Allison is dubbed 'Professional Escorts' in anticipation of her upcumming trip to Bermuda courtesy of an ex. At this point Stranger leaves, presumably having been reminded by this to go home for some sex. TNT is dragged to the fore for kicking Icedickle in the Rum Balls while in a vulnerable position over a wire. I thought we're all friends here?

Lamb Chop gets downed for both leaving and cumming back without permission and Krusty is recognized for fropping with a dog. That sounds so disturbing that I won't even say whose dog. Lastly, Twisty is heard to repeat some endearing words from Burning Rubber &emdash; "Oh Oh, I have to strip now".

The choir is beyond redemption at this point and I'll spare their tender feelers by not repeating Wetone's opinion of their repertoire. Suffice to say "She sucks, she blows, she's bent down to her toes" isn't in any hash sheet I've ever seen.