Just returning from balmy shores of Tianjin after a short weekend get away, Nowhere Man still looked like the penultimate Hawaiian tourist. Where’s the campy Great Wall T-shirt? Right idea, NM, but this is Asia, damn it. Right next to Nowhere Man stood a bemused Creepy “MoFo” visiting from the Seoul Hash (sorry I never overtly denigrate mothers on THEIR day of the year) ashamedly spitting out his hash name as if he was proficiently mixing a Korean accent with his own perverted ex-pat accent.
A few additional things grabbed our attention during the pre-run, Pickle Boy still wears his blue running tie backwards so as to pretend he is never showing his ass to anyone in his wake?? and some high ranking government type graced our meeting point and run venue with a protective battalion of jack-booted midgets in black, blue or green. Luckily, these some 200 coppers and army dudes barely paid our randy hashers any mind. Perhaps the bright psychedelic yellowish green Norse maiden/ crosswalk guard Dog Pounder (once dubbed Puppy Pounder) distracted them as well as the rest of the hashers?
This reporter has just learned that Vaginamate, in fear of pissing off sweet Monica last week, refused to be true to hasherdom and make her drink for wearing NEW chartreuse running shoes on her second hash. “The Sheila’s from Austria not Downunder, you chivalrous love struck fool.”
On On to the run and walk, after dropping our bags at the restaurant we began running and walking under cloudy skies through the tree lined hutongs south of the old embassies and Silk Road/Yung An Li (YAL) to the riverside park on the other side of the flood control known as Tong Hui He. Next, we cleared the footbridge back to Jian Wai Soho so that we could stare at the McDonald’s of YAL or the cheap socks and sundries hidden in street vendors’ black trash bags.
Anyhow, we continued the trail and passed the now defunct ex-hash bar, the Mexican Wave (ha!). With a quick right, we made a quick loop through the hutongs/3rd beer stop before running past the British and Indian embassies which are less than 300 meters east of Maggie’s, an establishment for bigwigs and moonlighting Mongolian lassies. Not yet drunk we sang about the debauched glories of clap, drugs and Mongolian slams, bams and thank you ma’ams. Smittened Bjorn Again was busy seeking Ferrari’s hand, but of course, Maggie’s doesn’t have any aisles or church pews.
Meanwhile, Black Turd being more noble and moral showed some principle–rumor has it that he donated the hash cash to the destitute at some earlier beer stop rather than watch us wastefully blow it on some sweaty Mongol’s tart. Four or five hashers—male and female alike—got so jazzed at Maggie’s they pissed themselves right there (they drank for whoring in the toilet no doubt) Before returning back to the restaurant we did a group photo op at the stony hilltop pavilion of Ritan park. Apparently, Little Sai Wanker, Margarita Cunt and Placenta picked a trail Snot actually knew, J G Knobber.
Down Downs had a fluidity that only cheap holy water—like Yanjing—could cause. One grand GM Cowboy Dry Hole did the normal intro bits, and introduced super designer/RA Mr. Dazed & Confused who passed his duties on to Vaginamate and Snot for this time. Noted offenses that required the partaking of holy water included D&C for being late due to becoming an uncle —again (no.2)— Placenta running as if his virgin GF was still in his womb and still remained sex free, people dressed in black or white as if they were going to a Chinese funeral, Twinkle Balls for only running a Northface hilly10K in 38 minutes for 8th place instead of 34 mins. (oh the flood of tears for fellow racist, Cowboy DH in 13th); fashion on the hash: Hyde Spanker’s golden Cleopatra sandals as if Twinkle and Hyde were royalty (a bit posh for me), and most importantly, the hares who were brought in repeatedly for all capital offenses and drank extra every time they just sipped a little/lightweight’s down down. We all then sounded off in our best Chinese, Shui Yi, implying more holy water must be consumed.
Missed down downs included Black-eyed Tits for warning of the perils of whiskey dicks and bad sex at the first beer stop and Tri-athletic papa Sheep Shagger for pushing Lady Gaga around in a tricycle cum baby stroller with two fingers controlling and steering because it was safer than one f@#$#kin’ middle finger—crazy Kiwi. Due to the excesses of warm beer during this amusing mayhem at the end of our circle, the accusations were just a drunken blur.
Special thanks to Hard to Live With for not sharing the same apartment but still willingly providing great notes for this trashy newsletter.
Snot over, but not completely out!