Run #1768 - Oktoberfest Run - Pretzelling in (almost) Paradise

In yet another dizzying, who went where, where went who, which way is where, and a harriet that heard a whoosh... and they were gone... off the hash ran beyond the borders of Calgary Stampede grounds, the belt line, casinos and other places of ill-repute that would have spun out Billy Holiday (or Billy Graham for that matter).

Ah yes - it was another Shakesbeer run — ultra endurance urban hashing at its almost best, and a whole lotta' good ole fashioned orienteering. Flagging (wait... flagging, no one said there was flagging?!) through the Calgary outback bush, circle jerkin' the hash around the Talisman Centre for a couple of laps to have a looksee at the spandex clad spinning class and get high on chlorine gas, a glimpse to see if the zoo killed anything new lately, cruisin' for broke and desperate cowboys and cowgirls at the namesake Casino, uphill, downhill, zig zags, and white tank top and tight blue jeans groups of Dirks concert goers. Even a couple kids trying their first chaws of Red Man tobacco in the parking lot.

At the circle up, it didn't get a lot better. Debatable attire bordering on German schoolgirl fetish wear, and Lederhosen clad gents channeling more ACDC Angus Young than Hardly any Twisted German heritage, interspersed with the usual fashion-deaf clothing choice of harriers only the Calgary Hash could love. Hashers speaking in high tones to receive butterscotch schnapps, harriettes slapping away the schnapps and belting down swallows of Jägermeister. Lost in Space reverted back to George Bush or Ronald Reagan being responsible for the Canadian health care, or something political of the sort. Nightstalker started chanting "Can't we all just get along" in a yoga chant of the prophet Rodney King. The time continuum was disrupted, and today was tomorrow, and yesterday was today. Up was down, down was up. I hadn't been that confused since the Pink Floyd concert in 1985, and the same song was in my head, "Run Like Hell". Run away from it all — this time with my pants on, no swinging pink pig, and no girlfriend to lose later.

As I contemplated my escape, Mucky staggered in from some other part or the city. Some say Bridlewood, others Signal Hill, and a quiet few, Forest Lawn. No one will ever know, because it's Mucky Dip, and East becomes West, North winds its way South. She tried to blame her troubles on the moon not being bright, her brain still squished from becoming the mean queen of squash, and other such alibis... Skewbic still suspects she got caught "looking around" the mission to see what she could see, and before she knew it, was spanked right off trail. She gulped down a well-deserved beer (as it was still far more important to reach the regroup to eat a pretzel and drink a free beer than navigate to the safety of the on-in bar) and proceeded to tell her tale of adventure and misfortune, none of which related in any way, shape, or form to the possibility she could have lost direction. She still felt the wrath of Religion being handed out by Lost in Space. (religion being advised by Lost, another twisted and awful irony as well).

None felt the wrath harder than Mum and Roaring Nancy though. Roaring deserved in many hashers' opinion his hash shit for the pathetically awful jokes he is inclined to tell... a lot! Poor Mum, out of practice and MIA for a significant period of time, found she needed to work her way in... 3 blocks (could be an exaggeration, but this being the hash - is now the truth). Mum was blindsided with a robustly adorned hash shit beautifully accentuated with a turkey leg bone from the Thanksgiving Hash. Though she protested the grounds for being bestowed the treasure, one couldn't help but feel just a tinge of jealousy. I wanted to stay away from the hash shit, yet coveted it sitting in Mum's hands...

At the on-in bar, Vagabond, the scene deepened into a haze of images that I'm still trying to erase, and still more confusion and turmoil. One waitress was working on her English, the other on her camouflage — which she mastered... no one saw her almost all night. Pull My Woody was talking up the guy in charge, in an apparent attempt to convince him that we were a club of legitimacy and there was no reason to throw us out yet, no matter what was coming out of Lost's mouth. I turned to my left to see Daisy Duke wearing a pair of shorts that would have had him arrested for prostitution and lewdness anywhere out on the streets, and Men O Pause towering above in front of me with a demonstration of his 12 inches (or less — I couldn't actually bear to look). Voices were everywhere, white noise most of it. A ghost from the past rolled by me, drank a beer down-down, and I said to myself, "hell if that doesn't look like On-In". Dementia was wearing a graduation cap, which anywhere else might have seen odd, but was by far not out of place in this twisted Shakesbeerean tale gone horribly wrong. "She must have finally gotten her GED and finished high school, good for her" I assured myself, drinking deep, deep into my glass of magic powdered apple mandrake death drink. It was all too much to recall, and I can only guess that it's my mind protecting me from the awful things I would not want to recall again. This serves as the record to what I can remember or attempt to reconstruct from that night...

On-On!

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