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Cloisterfuck Hash

So, I'm the designated "quote" secretary "unquote" of the local hash club, which means I write down the minutes of the run/bar crawls. Being that this is the only funny thing I've written since I've moved out here, and nothing's gone up since Freshman took off for Meheeco in July, I figured I'd post it to give our obsessive readership something new to look at.

First, the Good News:

The ever-striving perfectionists of the Metro Transit Authority decided to spruce up the A line for our arrival to the Cloisters this past Sunday. While they weren't quite able to finish on time, we understand that these things don't hold to a strict timetable, and we all look forward to seeing what they decided to do with the place. Fortunately the weather was just right for a 20-block hike up the mountainside.

Then everyone's favorite members of the local constabulary, Officers Nunez and Silvano stopped by to say hi and volunteered to give an impromptu lecture on local drinking regulations and good citizenship. They were so impressed with our group that they invited a select few of us to part 2 of the lecture series at the courthouse downtown. (For those of you who like Law and Order, part two is when the prosecuting attorneys browbeat you and any family members they can drag into the interrogation room with grade school level pop psychology while your defense sits dumbly in a corner until you fly into a rage and blurt out a full confession) A formal invitation was extended to the officers to join our club.

Finally the hash was off, over hill and dale, down cliff and up. I provided plenty of checks to keep the hahsers together and chit-chatting as well as to give them valuable looking for things practice. We all arrived at the City II Bar, which has amazing specials Friday night, or at least that's what I think the regulars were telling me through their tracheotomy holes. Beer was poured and fun was had, I imagine, being that I was immediately off. Just outside the door, the bartendress and her friend asked me how everyone knew to come to the bar. I directed her to the day-glo green chalk "On-In" written on the sidewalk with a series of arrows leading up to it that she was standing on, explained that that was us, and extended a formal invitation to the hash to both of these osteoperotic maids of the bar.

The hash then got a valuable lesson in history as they proceeded through New York's historic Spinning Rim and Car Wash and Sidewalk Sneaker Sale District. The headlines and great men and women to rise from this fertile soil are far too numerous to name here. They then proceeded into Hibridge Park and were sent up a cliffside covered in loose dirt. As they climbed huge sheets of topsoil and trash rained down over them, and they were able to get a look at both the geologic strata that make up our beloved island and valuable artifacts from yesteryear that demonstrated how people lived back in the olden times of yore. Once they got to the top, they traveled around ball- and BMX- parks looking for flour. Fortunately I had given the local children invaluable truth-telling lessons, as its never too early to instill good character. Hopefully they were of some help to the pack.

Finally, a mere 6 blocks away from the on-in, those crazy, fitness obsessed bravos that make up our hash decided to run in random directions for about 45 minutes, to really blast their glutes before they called it a night. Meanwhile I became fast friends with Jimmy, the local manager of Mi Nido Taverna who told me all about how to spot a whore (pretty much every female in the bar) and what to do in the sticky situation where what you thought was a regular girl turns out to be a whore and demands money. It was pretty much an hour of stories about for-profit blowjobs. Anyway, we got talking about soul music and he loaded the jukebox with money to give us free tunes for the rest of the night. Needless to say, a formal invitation was offered to Jimmy to join the hash.

By this time I had become so besotted that I forgot what was hash cash and what was my money and bought $30 worth of $2 beers because happy hour was ending and then used what was left in my wallet to buy fried chicken. The pack arrived right then, and there was much rejoicing. Stain sang his favorite lingering eternity of a song, Just Rick almost got his head bashed with a pool cue for addressing someone in Spanish, and Just Sean got a front row seat to the whole drunken mess.

All of which brings me, with great reluctance, to the bad news.

A bunch of whiny jerks made me drink beers for stuff I didn't even do and now it's morning and my head hurts.

Until next month, you bold centurions!

Type A-Hole



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