Run #1091 - Another Monday Night Run in the Frozen North

February 10, 2003

Hares: Dreary and P'Tooey
Where: Pete's Peanut Pub, #30 - 7337 Sierra Morena Blvd SW
People: 54

Where the hell are we now?, oh, that's right: the pub that was called something else last year, and now thinks that nudity and free peanuts don't mix, that's where!

Anyway, it's another Monday night, and the hashherd has filled the parking lot with a fabulous mix of new, barely legal, SUVs and crappy old vans. As usual. Yes a wondrous plethora of lost souls descended upon yet another pub where the dress code is, shall we say, RIGID. Oh'stiff, you say. Too right I say, and more of that later. But I digress (not Undress, as that would have been illegal in this bar).

Spewbitchair wandered into the circle and said something, I think, and then the hares said something else. Something about the poor sod who started all this hashing mess in the first place, and was fragged for his trouble. (see attached propaganda sheet). But eventually there were these marks, and there was the trail. Off we went.... much like a greyhound who finally realizes that the thing he's been chasing all his life is a fake rabbit doesn't.

More of an ambling affair actually, which is OK, as affairs go. This should discourage all those Running Room types, as the first mile could have been clocked with a calendar. Actually the second mile was quite exhilarating, for a tortoise in heat, which the general hasher is beginning to resemble at this point.

But wait, what was that? Krusty shoots by, causing a localized frenzy amongst the comatose herd, but that was soon quelled by the stern bark of the HashFuehrer. Soon enough the herd was motivated enough to wobble off into the night and uphold the fine Hashing tradition of terrifying neighbourhoods into slackjawed amazement.

Anyway, more r*nning, and checkchickening, and soon we were surprizingly back at the "no-nudity please, we're not that way" bar, at which time Krusty immediately found a room with a large window, and began to disrobe in a kinky, lithesome way. Most of the patrons immediately threw up.

KingShite was even more adventurous, having taken off his shirt in full view of the only other patron: Whale Wanker. Now the barkeep decided that having a flabbyman undressing in the main bar, in front of his patron (WhaleWanker) was not appropriate behavior, and tried to drag KingShite into a back room to have his way with him.

But anyway, by now the whole herd had arrived and the spectacle of nudity became suddenly commonplace in this bar of new found illrepute.

Someone dug up Gispert, and he did the downdowns, much to the amazement of Knobby and Neon, who thought their lines were Much funnier.

The choir were quiet, and the crowd wasn't. Soon enough out came a portrait that I painted for Tiny Bubbles' 500th run. I thought I'd had enough time to draw it from memory, and I captured his yellow top just right. Then TheBawdy decided she'd done 50 runs and demanded her glass of beer: who could disagree? Specimen took one home, a pewter tankard for 100 runs. Gispert got drunk and died again, we'll dig him up again for next year, I hope he looks better then.

I was so overcome with joy that I had to leave, so whatever happened next will always be secret.