P2H3 Hash Trash Blog

The Muscle Wine Drinking Club With a Slimy Dyke Problem

Archive for March, 2010

Run #963 – Once in a Blue Moon

Posted by p2h3hashtrash on March 29, 2010

Date: 28/03/10

Hares: Blah Blah (running) Yap Yap (running/walking)
Run Report: Short Time

It was that rare event. A blue moon. The white unicorn. A four-leafed clover. A sober hasher.

It was a run without much complaint. The trail was marked. The truck arrived at the half way, without much incident. The circle started on time (early by Scoutmaster’s beer count). The walkers finished at almost the same time as the runners. Fester went to China. The hash truck was less populated than the cars providing seats for everyone. And as the sun set over the horizon, we did not run out of beer. Cheers!

Over a variety of terrain, including small resevoirs, evenly planted crops, mysteriously white spray-painted dogs, the pack went forth. Red ants not withstanding, we only witnessed blood on Herring Choker and Short Time’s legs. Through barbed wire and mango orchards, the pack eventually came to the half way, conveniently located next to a market for Laverne’s shopping habit.

As the pack came hobbling/limping/crawling back home, a rare site was seen in the sky, a sun with an almost full moon rising simultaneous. As a reward for a job well done, Scoutmaster did not make the circle get on their knees to recite a prayer. He said many of them probably spent more time on their knees this week than they were accustomed to. Especially May Not as he peeled the tape from his sore knee joints with a shit-eating grin.

The circle started with a call for virgins, returnees and foreign spies. Upon finding none, the hash realized that it is either a dying breed, or it’s just getting too damn hot outside in Cambodia. With Khmer New Year upon us, and the police lining their pockets for the big celebration, the pack had a certain modesty, a glazy-eyed look as they circled up. Maybe it was a fear of a driving while intoxicated charge, nah, maybe it was a week of hang overs, nah, maybe it was just a case of this being a good run that people were despondent, and tired. In the end, the run was rated a 3.9 out of 10 by Little Willy. But using Generally Accepted Cambodian Accounting Principles, it was reclassified as a 1.3, subtracting the 2.5 from 3.9?

For the walk, Hare Yap Yap was rewarded (penalized) with a down down on Blah Blah’s knee. And while Blah Blah basked in the glory of the ice and Yap Yap’s extra weight, Little Boy joined the down down on Blah Blah’s other knee. Feeling the discomfort/excitement from Little Boy, Blah Blah realized that Little Boy lived up to Mr. Tinkle’s illustrious reputation this week, but from the number two end, and quickly dismissed him. By the way, is Mr.Tinkle on house arrest?

The chief sinner had to be Sarsy. His sin was wearing the colors of a Thailand hash, knowing Anchor Beer to be the sponsor in Phnom Penh. Little Willy was accused of running while he should have been walking and walking when he should have been running. And Scoutmaster was accused of not paying the hash fee, even though this was his 320th run. But the point was, as the circle saw it, he didn’t offer to pay. And Runs Well took long cuts, not short cuts, imagine?

The ice, in the end, was used to chill beer. Not to compare Yogi Bra’s actual figure versus the imprint she left on ice last week. The pack broke into smaller circles, enjoying Anchor (not Singha, Sarsy) as night fell upon the mango fields, cow pastures and Little Boy’s cow paddy.

On on.

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Run #962 – A Youthful Embrace

Posted by p2h3hashtrash on March 24, 2010

Date : 20/3/10

Hares:  Big Girls Blouse & Camel Smurf (running) May Not (walking)

Run Report:  Blah Blah

And the hares did remarketh unto the Trail Master, “Ye, we are weary for it tooketh 6 hours to set.” And the Trail Master did look unto them and declare, “6 bloody hours, what the helleth did you get up to?  It’s only 8km and you had a moto!?!” And the hares did clasp hands and blush. [Malt 3:01]

It was a virginal run, a run of sweet innocence, of butterflies dancing, like the gentle kiss of cool mountain air and that icon of innocence, young love.  And like young love it was a confusing twisted affair that involved difficulty with the bra clasp and an awkward moment when the condom packet fell out of the wallet and had to be searched for under the bed.  Ah, young love.

Big Girls Blouse and Camel Smurf had set a trail in Akreiy Ksaat, where the trail was set amongst the fields and the plantations.  For both it was their first run, a giddying mix of enthusiasm and apprehension, where hormones were king and white paint merely the chaperone.

There was something in the air, something that made Botticelli unleash her hair and join the runners, something that made Laverne bypass raging bulls and sneak into the corn, something that encouraged Germinator to lift up her shirt with the ostensible excuse of rubbing sun-burn cream from her eyes.  The pheromones were wafting about with the ungoverned zeal of youth, infecting all.

Little Boy felt the weight lift from his knees and veritably skipped through the course, whilst Scoutmaster expressed his delight at the multiple crossing of a dusty road bridge.  “How wonderful,” he remarked, “it is so much more beautiful the fourth time over”.  Mr Tinkle was so caught in the moment he forgot to urinate, whilst Yogi Bra so driven by lust that she volunteered to permanently sit on the ice in order to cool her steamy ardor.   And given the impression she left upon the rapidly melting ice it was generally agreed that this was the sensible thing to do.

Ah yes, the circle.  The circle was called, however in the midst of passion someone forgot to tell GM Scoutmaster, so for a period the pack all stood around in possibly the most precise geometric shape ever attained, and admired each other from afar.  Sly winks were passed from Mumble Boy from Frankfurt and Hatlady from Tanzania.  They joined each other in the circle and gave each other such steamy looks that Scoutmaster was forced to intervene before their mere presence melted the ice.

And like young love it was suddenly all over, in some ways before it began,  with the pack sat staring at each other in an uncomfortable sort of way and wondered what the hell it was going to do next, never having planned any further than getting into bed.  So with that slightly awkward moment where the young lovers hoped like hell their friends wouldn’t find out what they’d been up to, and with who, the pack departed for the Golden Thatch, where tales of who did what with whom, and how often, were spread with gay abandon to friends and strangers alike.  Especially strangers.

And as one left one could hear the echo of the soft, gentle call of the young lovers; “whoohoo, did I get lucky last night or what!”

On On

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Run #961 – Bring Me My Lance

Posted by p2h3hashtrash on March 17, 2010

Date : 14/3/10

Hares:  Toxic Flop & Germinator (running) May Not (walking)

Run Report:  Blah Blah

And the hares did stareth at the boats and declared unto the assembled pack, “Yea, though may pass here at the canoe, which looketh leaky and costeth much.  Or ye may run just a wee little further to run around yonder water.  It’s not far, honest.  Would I lie to you?”  [Malt 3:10]

Grind.  A word which conjures images of large stone mills, of lines of humanity splayed along the endless wheel of manufacturing progress, as the soul is ground into a dull, malleable lump of jelly.  It is an art which the Dutch have mastered, with their tall windmills, their complicated payment systems at restaurants and their clash of the obscene with the virtuous, as scantily clad hookers sit in windows and knit sweaters for their elderly grandmothers.  It is also an art which Toxic Flop attempted to employ on the hash as he and Germinator set a 14km straight run with the now familiar 10km first half.

Yet hashers are not normal people.  For their patron Saint is none other than Jude, the Saint of Lost Causes, and their hero is none other than the scourge of windmills everywhere, Don Quixote.  It would be a battle to the finish.

The losses for the pack started early with May Not leading the entire walking pack up the garden path.   How he managed to go the wrong way when we started at the Bayon looking pagoda in Kien Svay is beyond me, especially given there was only around 200m between the highway and the Bassac.  The walkers managed to find the truck at least once and from my reckoning Hit on Me and Short Time managed to find it twice.

For the runners it was a war of attrition.  Three of the virgins (young attractive things that arrived with Frenchie if that’s any help) didn’t make it beyond the canoes.   After that Yap Yap decided she wanted to do an extra kilometer or so and disappeared though did find her way back later.  Next to drop off were Sarsy and Wanker Banker who opted to join the walk.  Little did they know there was no walk anywhere near them to join.  Scoutmaster and Runs Well forged ahead in the dust….. and missed the truck; the pack didn’t sight them until the end.  Not to be outdone Maxfly managed to get within 1km of the halfway before deciding he knew where the truck was and taking a short cut.  Needless to say that was the end of him.  The much reduced pack trundled into the halfway (well, 10km mark… or 11 for Yap Yap as the case may be) where Yap Yap, Elane and one visitor (again, apologies for not being at the circle) were lost to temptation as they boarded the truck.

Here Festering Chronic Masturbator joined the run.  For if anyone is experienced at tilting at the windmill of professional development it is he.  Why Fester chose to join the run, where he walked, for the final 4km as opposed to joining the walk, where he would have walked, for 6km or so remains one of those mysteries that will never be entirely solved.  The Yeti of Kien Svay.

Yet the remaining pack wouldn’t give up, despite losing members to the lure of the truck, the appeal of the walk and that most visceral of opponents, the ‘gut feel’ shortcut.  Kristina defied the laws of physics and hoisted her Smurf blue shorts just that little higher for the final surge.  Pol Job chose each check point with alacrity, which somewhat compensated for his constant poor choices. Shoots Blanks thought of his young daughter and ploughed on whilst Blah Blah more or less followed Kristina in a blue hazed stupor.

In the end the sun came down on the shaded, long stretch that is Kien Svay and the Saint Jude did look down upon the hash, with Dionysus by his side giggling and pointing out people he knew, and noted all the broken lances and chipped windmills and was satisfied.

On On

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Run #960 – Splash Splash

Posted by p2h3hashtrash on March 8, 2010

Date: 07/03/10

Hares: Herring Choker (running) May Not (walking)

Run Report: Short Time

Unopened beer cans do float after they sink to the bottom of the swimming pool. After the terrified eyes of the hashers cleared as their Anchor rose to the surface of the pool after initially sinking, it was just a matter of wiping the chlorine from the top of the can to restore calm.

Run 960 had a overriding theme of water. The pack started by riding the Naga ferry across the river, running 7 km through rice fields and finally ending up in the warm, yet refreshing, waters of the Mango Resort. The pool overlooked the river and the setting sun. The run is not what the pack will remember however.

Farmers remembered to water their rice paddies resulting in a run through green fields in the middle of dry season.

Little Boy remembered a shortcut to the finish from the previous day. He advised Sarsy to follow. They arrived out of breath, and in time to see the rest of the pack already floating in the pool for 30 minutes.

Scoutmaster remembered a box of KFC from the day before and thought it might reappear on Sunday. But it turned out to be an illusion, a figment of the imagination. As it was on Saturday.

Runs Well remembered the days when he actually ran. No more.

May Not remembered to welcome everyone to run 959, even though this was run 960. Unless you refer to Hash Stats which listed last week as 960 and this week as 959???

Did we mention beer cans float?

Herring Choker remembered the days when ice was punishment, not the equivalent of a floating matress in a swimming pool.

May Not remembered ice from the Vancouver Olympics and was reaquainted with it in the circle.

Wanker Banker remembered a conversation from the day before about the resort rooms being available on an hourly basis and a new name was given, Short Time, to Andrew Jeschke. Daphne, a virgin, did not understand.

Booker and Grapes remembered how they received their hash names in Canberra, but the pack wasn’t listening still in amazement that the Anchor cans actually float. Metal is heavier than water, but is beer lighter than water? If you fill a metal can with liquid that is denser than water, taking into account the surface tension … shit, the pool water warms up the beer if you let it float for too long.

The business owners on Street 104 however did NOT remember to pay their electric bills and the On On On, scheduled for the Velkommen Inn, was moved to another watering hole, Sharkeys.

Posted in Outstanding Haring, Run Report | 3 Comments »

Run #959 – A Rare Commodity

Posted by p2h3hashtrash on March 2, 2010

Date : 27/2/10

Hares:  Pol Job & Germinator (running) Botticelli (walking)

Run Report:  Blah Blah

And the pack did stareth at the wat for they knew there layeth the end of the run.  And the hare spoke unto them “yea we shall tread a difficult path, looketh at my legs for confirmation.” And the pack did so and marveled at her scratches, yet it was the carpet burn that staked a spear of fear unto the hardiest of them.  [Malt 3:13]

A rare commodity was on display as Pol Job set his first trail with the aid of the irrepressible Germinator in Ta Khmao.  Was it diamonds?  No, something much rarer.  Was it truth?  No, even in Cambodia a commodity rarer still.  Perhaps it was a clean Fester shirt?  No, though few things in the known universe are rarer than this garment of such mythical proportions that Jason’s Fleece is practically gospel truth by comparison.  It was white paint, in abundance.

Oh the joy, oh the humanity, of being able to follow a trail by actually following the marks as opposed to having to second guess the mindset and general incompetence of the hare.  The pack was delighted at the sight of Son of Bitch finding on-backs, whilst Scoutmaster was horrified to learn that holds were in abundance.  The trail was so well laid and planned that Little Boy stayed with the pack and Runs Well didn’t short cut.  It was so well laid that if the trail had shoulder blades they would be calloused.

In order to determine how the pack found this sudden turn of fortune a quick survey was undertaken, the results of which have been transcribed below in the interests of transparency and accountability:

[Mr Tinkle] “The pack was constantly on the move, I had no time to urinate.  It was a disgrace.”

[Toxic Flop] “Yaaa, it was well marked.  I always went the wrong way though so there must be something wrong with it.”

[Botticelli]  “I couldn’t lose the walkers.  I tried, it’s traditional after all, however they stuck with me.  I have lost face and now have to shave off all my hair.  Did I just say that?”

[STD] “The pack stayed together like a Chinese tour group.  It was so tight it was practically illegal.”

[Little Willy] “For me the trail was like making love. It started slow then finished with an exciting rush through the bushes.”

[Wanker Banker] “There are serious concerns that the amount of paint used will cause a consumer driven inflation spike.  I’m reporting the hares to the appropriate authorities.”

[Herring Choker] “I don’t give a shit.  Who’s hare for next week?”

As can be seen the pack was truly grateful for the experience and will no doubt repeat such a wonderful example of trail setting with religious fervor.   In fact there was so much religious fervor on display that the hares opted to finish the run in the midst of a nun-led Buddhist ceremony at the local wat.  Fortunately GM Scoutmaster saw that this lack of cultural sensitivity and ensured that the circle was moved to a far less sensitive area, being next to the crematorium and monk’s graves.

Eventually the circle came to a close and the pack wandered off to Irrawaddy where the food was prompt and the delicious as per usual.  Some didn’t come on account of the food being delayed and plain.  There’s no accounting for taste.

On On

Posted in Outstanding Haring, Run Report | 1 Comment »