New Orleans Hash House Harriers
Hash No. 942 
The Fifty Second Week after Katrina
Hares:  Li’l Cocky & Two Picketts To Titsburg
Date: 7 August 2006

Venue:  The House of Two Pickets To Titsburg in Metairie the Americanized Suburb of New Orleans, Louisiana

The Trail:  Beneath benign clouds in a blue sky in air that was not exceptionally hot, but hot nonethe­less, the pack of hounds departed the digs of Two Pickets and Li’l Cocky on Ridgeway Street heading southward for a block, a left and a right to he par­allel street to a little bridge and a false trail on the other side, back again on a zigzag course that led to Veteran’s Boulevard, along same to the city-block-sized vacant lot to Ridgelake.   The trail led the hounds to a treacherous crossing of Causeway Boulevard to, and through, Lakeside Mall to the beer check on the far side near Penney’s.


From the beer check, the trail led the pack back across Causeway and a short jog back to the placed of the start and the On-in.


The Circle: Religious advisors: Piston Penis and Dental Damsel


New Boots:  Blowing Seaman’s GF, Just Leslie, who lives in Waggaman.

Reboots:  Blowing Seaman

The Hares and the Trail:   Of the trail it was said that it featured far too few stores and one harrierette stated that there was allowed far too little time to shop.   Some declared that the trail was so lame that one could do it on roller blades.

Awards:  Your faithful scribe, On Da Rag, received the award for two hundred Hashes, that award being the traditional wall sculpture by Father Scumbag.   Spread ‘Em serenaded with an adequately obscene song.

Visitors: manporn.cum, a NOH3 expatriate.

Party Crashers:  Li’l Cocky had invited some of his friends to see what his other friends look like so Just Kim and Just Mark showed up.

Travelers: Super Bitch and Mr Binky had just re­turned from a trip through Europe.

Non-Bead Wearing Hashers:  All who neglected to wear their Hash Beads with seniority blings in spite of Dental Damsel’s threats to neuterize for not doing so were called to the cir­cle for a down-down.

Most Notable On-On-In:   Li’l Cocky out-did him ­self with salsa and chips for an electrolyte snack, some wonderful home-cooked chili, a tray full of chocolate-chip cookies, also homemade.

Scribe: On Da Rag (Tom)
Errors? Omissions?  Send an e-mail to:

 attend the next Hash and make arrange­ments with the Religious advisor to bring it up in the circle.



Run #943Run #943

Hares: Ride My Pony and ????

August 21, 2006


First, let me get this out of the way for the home brewers/turkey fryers in the house: Now then. It was all a day of acting: Knave and I arrived at the box, the gym at the corner of Harrison and Marconi, to find a derelict passed out in his car. Fearful of what might happen if we stayed, Knave graciously offered to give me a car tour of that end of the park. We stopped to admire the horses at the stables on Franklin and stopped again to lament the ruins of a snowball stand. Knave laid down some sort of bulky offering at each, I couldn’t tell what it was, and then we went back. By this time, Tidy Bowl Man was there to protect us against the bum, who turned out to be Chicken Pot Guy.


Things picked up when a new boot in a stunning purple-feathered hat strolled out from the car of Releash Me, who portrayed the evening’s soccer mom and drove away because she had more important things to do. When asked to describe the strange word on the back of her shorts, Just Antoinette explained that since the costume of the evening was supposed to be one’s favorite ass, “callipygian” seemed to be appropriate. Google it. Her anatomy was upstaged only by the arrival of Doc Cousteau and a crazed, anti-Semitic Scottish warrior who bore a vague resemblance to one-third of the Blue Man Group or Dental Damsel, and that was only because Turbo Mardi was in tow. It was soon discovered, much to everyone’s chagrin, that Knave turned out to be playing the role of hare. After giving Knave his requisite six minutes, Ass Dandruff, Warrior Princess, CPG and the newly returned Manporn.cum gave chase, and the walkers ­–  including Bleeding Paloma and High Beams, Wet Blow, Sucks‘Em Raw, Twinkle Twat, Lusty Lady and Olympic Cock Ring – very convincingly acted like they’d rather swallow battery acid than follow a PSK trail. How right they were.


The pack’s hopes rose as flour was spotted roadside heading toward the lake, but as our luck would have it, trail soon turned east into the prairie deluding itself that it was a golf course. After a perilous creek crossing on a log (that for some ended unsuccessfully, see later), matters quickly degraded as we got pulled over by the cops at the NOPD stables. Smarting from the cuts of vines and dripping from a creek crossing sans bridge, several of us quietly fled, leaving Jackoff Lantern to explain. Once we’d lost his eagle eyes, CPG, Warrior Princess, Ass Dandruff and I had trouble negotiating the trail because nearly every tree appeared to be marked with flour until you got within three feet of it. Finally we made our way out of the peril and into the beer check at the former Bayou Oaks Golf Club.


Meanwhile, Hansel (Hand Job) and Gretel (Piston Penis) seemed to have ample time from herding hordes of possum to live up to each of their respective names and take a “Brokeback Mountain” moment on Fag Island, as they were spotted holding each other’s hand skipping into the beer check; with hardly any pause they chugged their beverages and skipped away again into the quickly falling sunset. The second half of trail was unremarkable except for the fact that it was about three miles shorter than everyone expected and that evidently Manporn felt like a pussy shortcutting the first half and so in the final 400 yards he dutifully followed the marks along the retaining wall instead of taking the road, thereby adding 20 minutes.


Although it seemed like she’d been doing nothing but prancing around in tarty little camo shorts (incidently, she’s kinda callipygian too if you know what I mean), Ride My Ass, I mean Pony had been busy in the kitchen like a good bitch and still had time to pick up stragglers on trail. She served the hungry with a filo-dough spinach thing and an eggplant, moussaka-like thing, and red wine, and High Beams had brought food from the previous weekend’s party, so it was all good. However, she was made to remain on her nees and drink whenever the RA told her to as payback for her choice of mystery hare.


In the circle, it was discovered that Tighty Whitey had a birthday the next day, and so was made to imitate a birthday cake (with some help) and then forced to remain there slowly congealing into a doughy mass while Gooey Blow, in a Newsweek photog moment, wrestled with the camera. International House of Vagina showed her cuntinental side by doing her best impression of a disaffected, French, non-writer of a Full Moon hash trash, incessantly chain-smoking and muttering things like, “You all are fuckeeeng peegsahnd I love eeet.” At this point Jackoff Lantern and Mrs. Lantern, still with stars in their eyes after all these weeks, snuck off to be alone, an excellent choice of timing because some crazed, anti-Semitic Scottish warrior who bore a vague resemblance to one-third of the Blue Man Group started shouting about beads and blood and Welshmen, which prompted Ice Balls to show the results of what happens when you try to have an

orgy on a log over a creek. Puppy Pumper, in town for an unprecedented 10-day conjugal visit, and party crasher Butt Gravy, en route to Baja, both leaped upon the crazed, anti-Semitic Scottish warrior as they defended Wales’ honor. Which makes no sense to me seeing how they’re both Irish. This Erin Go Brouhaha had little interest for Cockwork Orange and his little friend, who took phone calls during the ruckus. Or maybe they were calling in the Coast Guard.  That’s exactly how I remember it,




One final word: if you see me in front of you and I’m not calling “On On,” that means I’m not on trail no matter how fast or slow I may be skating. And if you see me flapping my arms up and down, like a bird’s wings, that means I’m “flying,” (Guam) or “zenning” (Austin - go figure) aka LOST, so don’t follow me unless you’re a glutton for unnecessary punishment or feeling extremely lucky. And don’t ask me if I’m on. Because I’ll tell you.


P.S. Joachim, I have my eye on you.