08 April 2007
78. Cooper River Part Duh
Happy Heretics H3 - 28 March 07 to 1 April 07
TUESDAY MORNING
BEEP. “Hey Shit, this is L&F. Just a reminder. I’ll be at Jackoff’s place Thursday afternoon to scout for NC/SC. I should be at your house by 6.”
TUESDAY NIGHT
BEEP. “Hey L&F. For some reason I thought you were coming tomorrow. Drop what you’re doing. We have something huge planned. Get here by 5.”
WEDNESDAY MORNING
I’m out the door.
WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON
You’ve seen hash trashes for a trail before. Maybe even ones for a three-day weekend. Ever see one that includes five full days? I haven’t either. This could get interesting.
Atlanta to Charleston: Five hours. The perfect excuse for sitting in a car that long: Just like last year, the pull of the Cooper River Bridge R*n, the Happy Heretic’s Pub Crawl and everything going on at Shit's house. Talk about being a Too-Long. This was the first hash I did since Trash Prom in early December. That's what a needy house can do to you.
I screeched into Shit’s driveway at 3p and immediately started pre-lubing for whatever we were doing that night. I didn’t ask. It’s more interesting to find out as you go.
WEDNESDAY NIGHT
I’ve got a dress shirt and slacks on. And dress socks. My shoes clacked when I walked. This is serious.
We burst into Big John’s and start guzzling beer while we wait for Amkneesia. This is not a dress-shirt-and-slacks bar, but I manage. This was the place where I found out what we were doing. And we were doing a dinner cruise. Let me say that again so it sinks in: A Dinner Cruise.
Coincidentally, we got on the boat at the same place were the water taxi dropped us off from the Bridge R*n last year. But can you call this thing a boat? When I think boat, I think of some tiny vessel that takes on water when the wakes are too big. This thing isn’t even a yacht. It’s more like a mini cruise ship. A triple-decker orgasm on water, staffed to the hilt. There were servers everywhere, walking around calling me Sir and shoving silver platters of Crab Cakes and Olive-Something Crackers in my face. Over on the other side of the mini cruise ship was a table covered in white linen. But in all honesty, you could barely see the white linen because the whole table was piled with iced-down bowls of human-baby-sized shrimp, wasabi oysters and caviar sushi. To your left, an open bar. To your right, an open bar. And this was just the first level. The second level had dinner, a dance floor and a big bar. Yup, free booze here too. Oh, the shrimp and grits were phenomenal. A band was setting up. The third level was open-air, and it was gorgeous out. I normally don’t drink wine, but the cabernet was amazing, so I sipped that while we floated around the Charleston peninsula. At some point I considered offering up one of my testicles for the recipe to the cocktail sauce. Instead, I had the doting bartender pour me two fingers of bourbon and I forgot about the whole thing.
It was dark-thirty when the cruise was over, but there was still time for some quality drinking practice. We went back to Big John’s and ran into some younger guy with five tons of hair and a quarter-ounce of sense. We didn’t realize how much of a drag he was until after we gave him an invite to the pub crawl. This guy was the stereotypical stoner dude, with that muttering mush-mouth vocabulary and the familiar grating hard-luck story about getting busted for dealing. He was so bummed about his five-year probation that he didn’t even want to answer my questions about home marijuana cultivation. But for the price of a beer, he talked for a half-hour. I’d have to call that a lot of entertainment for three bucks. Tool.
THURSDAY MORNING
I woke up in a daze. That probably isn’t surprising now, is it? I gradually created some sort of food for myself and drank enough espresso to get out the door.
Yeah, I said espresso. And no, I’m not a pussy. I drink the shit straight, no sugar, no cream. It’s like mainlining caffeine. If that’s what it takes to get me out the door, fine.
I got to Jackoff’s place at around 11. It was bordering on cold. There was some sort of kingly-looking male goat in a fenced-in area at the front of his property. Then I saw it. . . and by “it” I mean IT. . . the world famous lake. A thing of beauty, I tell you. Many people got drunk here. And one person got injured.
I’m not going to go into detail about that fateful day a hasher broke her arm at Jackoff’s last event and sued him. I’ve actually met her, and her story doesn’t come close to the other version of the story I’ve heard from Jack’s legal team. All I’m going to say is that when NC/SC ’07 rolls around, Jackoff will be making a glorious return as host, and he can tell people he won the lawsuit. From what I’ve heard, he and his lake have been missed. There are tree stumps littering the area around his house, because you apparently have to cut down some of your tall trees when your insurance company dumps you for being a lawsuit magnet.
I parked the car, calmed the dog down and changed. Bug spray, sun block, a call to people to tell them I’m heading out into the wilderness. That whole prep thing. Oh, did I mention Jackoff’s back yard is a National Forest? Yeah. Finding shiggy didn’t take much effort.
THURSDAY AFTERNOON
Jackoff gave me one urgent clue on the phone a few days earlier: how to get to his trail that links to the forest trails. Armed with that knowledge, I burst into a full-on trot and began my three-and-a-half hour adventure. Much interesting landscape was experienced by me and my passive writing. Hamsterland, muck, swamp, creeks and a couple things I will keep secret for those of you who are cumming and want to do the long trail. I’ll let you in on one interesting tidbit: the last three-quarters of a mile will NOT be repeated. I ran into the most horrific undergrowth. Briars were scattered around here, and some of the thorns were of the curved variety that dug into your skin with a vengeance. There was even some hyper-dense dead-bamboo forest that nearly drove me to insanity. I think it took me an hour to get through that entire last part. Way too long. So unfortunately, I didn’t get lucky this time around, and will have to rescout.
I got back to Shit’s place dirty, smelly, semi-bloody and rather sore. Uranus had shown up early and had already downed so many beers, catching up would have been impossible. We were leaving for downtown in an hour.
THURSDAY NIGHT
There’s a place downtown where racists pick up their numbers on Thursday and Friday. Gaillard Auditorium, apparently. But it looked like a convention center. Who the fuck knows. Attached to this public service is EXPO. No definite article needed. EXPO. Shit was scheduled to work the Charleston R*nning Club’s table at EXPO, and Uranus and I were scheduled to walk around looking for beer at EXPO. And yes, there was beer. In fact, for Uranus, there was much beer. Refills upon refills. All provided for free from the r*ce sponsors.
It was here at EXPO that Uranus bought a Stick. The Stick was some sort of thin, elongated contraption that you apparently roll over the parts of your body that need a pleasurable feeling. Probably because The Stick was more than $40, Uranus talked about it many times over the next several days, but never took it out of its protective plastic sleeve. At least not that I saw. So maybe he was leaving it a Virginal Stick until he got back to the Spousal Unit.
Tangent. Sorry. EXPO is a place where r*ce-related people set up tables and what-not to sell and give away their shit. And EXPO even gives out free plastic bags so you can put your free shit inside. It was here at EXPO I experienced the joy of my first moisture-wicking shirt, which is now my favorite shirt of all time, ever. I also ate a dinner’s worth of protein bars, including one from Snickers. Odd.
EXPO closed at 8, and the Kool Kids immediately went to dinner at Applebee’s, because some of the locals knew the big-boobied bartender that works there. And they know to sit at the bar, right where the bib-boobied bartender leans over to wash the bar glasses. Are you getting the picture?
Next was Parson Jack’s and we shut that bar down. The guy who owns it used to r*n a Hooters, and he has the ladies dressed in similar attire. Charleston’s own Show Me the Bitches works there, and we saw her before closing. This was the drunkest I was all weekend. Thanks, Jameson Irish Whiskey. I love you.
FRIDAY MORNING
I slept until 9:25. At 9:30, things instantly became much more high-paced than the relaxed chill-fest from the night before. Shit called with shopping instructions, but I was nowhere near ready to shop yet. Caffeine please. I growled and downed a pot of espresso. Uranus and I quickly jumped into Thor to do some highly important shopping for the weekend.
FRIDAY AFTERNOON
We got back just in time to witness Shit in his van, and Bone Abuser in his truck, roll into the driveway with what could only be described as an Assload of Provisions for the weekend. With the speed of sloths, Uranus and I moved into action to aid in the transference of huge volumes of foodstuffs. Some would stay at the house. Other stuffs would be for the BBQ at the end of the r*n the next day at the R*nning Club’s area. And I still haven’t mentioned the 5 kegs that accompanied all the food. Tools flew every which way as taps were assembled and the 77.5 gallons of beer were swiftly moved into place. This was also a perfect time to finish assembling the hot-water outdoor shower.
OK, here’s the problem: I used the down time between us finishing and people arriving to make a half gallon of Key Lime Pie shooters. I still had to make the homemade Licor 43, it being an essential ingredient and all. Much tasting required. And I still hadn’t eaten. The KLP ended up perfect, and I ended up perfectly toasted. No more trips to the store for this guy.
FRIDAY EVENING
I was rubbing a red sharpie across the mesh of my r*nning shoes when hashers started showing up. I was getting ready for tomorrow. A red dress requires red shoes. Duh. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw tents spring up like. . . um. . . whatever springs up like tents. And the no-see-ums were out in force.
Suddenly, I look up to see the Augusta hashers arrive. The Peach Fuzz people are some of the most entertaining hashers I’ve met, and there they were, making their way to the back yard. Looking at four famous travel hashers walking together is like spotting four celebrities moving in unison. You know those Hollywood moves where the stars are all walking together toward a common goal? The slow motion, the cool lighting, the drum-heavy music. That’s what it looked like when Pixel, Queenie, Spud and Dixie made their Grand Entrance. Papsmear was with them, put he would need to prove himself before getting lumped in with the hardcore four. Spud had on leather biker chaps. A couple guys witnessed it and their knees buckled.
Commence drinking.
FRIDAY NIGHT
I was helping and getting ready for the r*n until maybe 9. Time to turn off the brain. The pack from Rumson arrived, and one of them was barely able to stand within 2 hours. Nice.
Definition of a good party: You lose track of all the people you haven’t seen in a year and need to catch up with. People are drunk, and just the right number of them turn into the court jesters. The one-liners are coming so fast, you couldn’t write them all down if you tried. There’s three-man going on somewhere. Hashers are zipped inside a tent doing something mischievous. Someone flies by naked, and in the ultimate coincidence, finds a hot tub. Scattered guttural belches of varying degrees are heard. A bonfire starts. The no-seeums stop biting. And there’s absolutely no drama to be found anywhere.
SATURDAY MORNING
I finally got to bed around 3:30, so of course I was still drunk when I woke up 2 1/2 hours later. I think the alarm made me cry. I somehow pulled my ass off the inflatable mattress and got my pretty red clothes on. There were about 20 zombies from Shit’s house who left at 7 in the morning to get to the start on time. And if I remember correctly, only a couple were sans-red-dresses. But one of the local papers said there were 125 of us in red dresses. So make your own estimates.
There are thousands upon thousands of people who do the Cooper River Bridge R*n every year. It’s one of top 5 largest 10k’s in the nation, and among the top 50 largest road r*ces in the world. These people pay $25 or $30 to register, wake up ass-crack-of-dawn early Saturday morning, deal with a logistical nightmare to get to the start, and then cram themselves together so tightly that many of them can’t even r*n if they tried. In other words, they become STARVED for entertainment. And we gave it to them.
We had a beer stop at mile one. It was cloudy out, and the no-see-ums were biting worse than they normally do in the evening. But the only thing I didn’t have in my purse was bug spray. Go figure.
Sticky, Amber Altert and I decided to r*n when we got to the top of the bridge. The closest marker as 2 3/4. That’s when it got interesting. We pulled away from the people who were used to us by now, and started hearing rapid-fire comments as we swiftly cut and weaved through the crowd. Three guys in red dresses, zig-zagging, criss-crossing and going twice as fast as everyone else. How do I describe it? Striking. Bad-ass. I pulled back a few times and watched Sticky and AA work their magic, and all I could do was laugh. It looked fantastic.
I had to step up this year, but once a dude puts on a dress, what else is there? I could have put on a wig and makeup, but the wig would have made me sweat more, and the makeup would have r*n. So I simply accessorized.
THE OUTFIT
--A dress that looked like a jumper. Very open-chested to show off the man-hair. Color? Not bright like a prostitute-red, and not dark red like a maroon. A good official medium-shade red. My mom found out I was cross-dressing for the hash and made it for me. I told her I was straight, but her tone didn't sound like she believed me. I just think she was so relieved that I wasn’t a transgendered hasher who was aching for The Operation.
--A matching belt. The dress is fairly straight-sided, so putting it on accentuates the figure.
--A matching bandana. The dress, belt and bandana all have this really cool subtle pattern on them. I have no idea where my mom finds her fabric, but she constantly comes through. The bandana is freaking huge, and when I put it on, there’s plenty of leftover fabric that hangs down in the back. Almost pirate-esque. Yaaarrrr. Bonus coolness: there’s a sweat-band sewn in.
--$100 Brooks Dyad’s. Now red, with red laces and black highlights. I mention $100 because people back at the house told me I was a borderline retard for sharpie-ing them. Hey, but I’m all red now, aren’t I?
--Red cotton bootie socks.
--Black shades with black lenses, to match the black in the shoes and the very subtle black swoops in the dress fabric.
--My hash necklace with the small-letter beads.
--My cross-dressing necklace with the giant-letter beads. This necklace comes out of the closet (pun intended) any time I wear a dress or lingerie for the hash. It doesn’t say L&F. It says Ellen F. Get it? The first and last names are separated by a huge round bead that shows a stick-figure woman with a red dress on. Brilliantly perfectly gorgeous.
--One red purse. And let me tell you fuckers something: That was the best 11 bucks I ever spent. Every couple yards of the r*ce I’d hear something like this behind me, “He’s got a purse” “Look at the purse” “Oh, they’re in dresses and that one guy has a purse.” “Ha, check out the purse.”
--And the show-stopper. The micro panties. Ultra-tight spandex boy shorts that are just big enough to hide what needs to be hid to keep from getting arrested. Every time we passed girls/women and a group of them screamed in approval, I’d take the hand that wasn’t holding the purse and lift up my dress so the crowd could see the micro panties. Wanna loud reaction, anywhere you go? This move is highly suggested. About a mile into our r*n, Sticky said, “ I don’t even need to look back to see when you’re doing that. I can tell by the screams.” Mission accomplished.
We were all “bandits” without r*ce numbers, but we ran all the way through to the finish line for maximum attention. The end was at some park. Marion Square, I think. The Charleston R*nning Club’s area had burgers, hot dogs and H3’s BEvERage of choice. And after a couple beers, I was cooled off and about ready to pass out. I found other exhausted red-dressers and got back to the house.
SATURDAY AFTERNOON
Noon. I had a quick, hot outdoor shower and passed out. Most everyone else did the same. Some minus the shower.
3p. Guess who was up and drinking? The Peach Fuzz clan.
5p. I was in charge of transporting all of us to the start of the pub crawl. I started making confirmation calls and getting dressed.
530p. On Out. Only two people from Shit’s stayed behind.
SATURDAY EVENING
About 30 of us screeched to a halt at the start of the pub crawl to find a lot more thirsty freaks. About 75 actually. We were minutes from circle. I ran around quickly to get my marching orders and found out who the co-hares were. ASSistance seemed to be coming from the same stellar beings as last year: You Had Me At Excuse Me, Amkneesia and Bone Abuser. Shappens circled us up, shouted a few words, grabbed his bag (of chalk and paraphernalia) and was off.
My turn. I walked into the middle of the circle, surrounded by 100 people. 100. One hunnert. How fucking sweet is that. The Greenville people represented well again, as did Charlotte. There was also a whole pack of youngish people from Charlotte who had never hashed before, but read about the pub crawl in a local paper. More? Of course. First timers to Charleston. Old timers, like AT&T. She apparently hasn’t hashed in a decade. I pulled her into the middle of circle and made her do the warm up song with me. To the melody of Father Abraham and Father Birmingham, I guess I should call this one “Father Shit.”
Poor Shit Happens
Had seven wives
Seven wives had Shit Happens
First they made him cum
Then they made him cry
When they took him for his money
He’s only had four wives, but you get the picture. For those of you how don’t know the original songs, you scream out a body part and move it violently while you sing the verse again. Then you scream the first body part and a second body part and sing the verse yet again. You end up with at least five violently moving body parts. For this warm up, the body parts are:
With a left hand [stick out your hand like you’re getting money]
With a middle finger [use the right hand]
With a left knee to the crotch
With a big fat right toe
With a tongue to the bunghole
By the time you do all that, you’re definitely warmed up enough to drink. On Out you sober wankers. Thanks to the people who gave me ideas on improving the song. For those of you who said Shit would kick my ass later, I hung my cranium low the next day and admitted I did a song about him and was forgiven. Sweet.
SATURDAY NIGHT
Here’s the good part about this pub crawl: There are a shitload of people. If you are so inclined, you can people-hop all night and still not hit everyone. That’s pretty much what happened. Like last year, people started swaying, slurring and generally getting piss-drunk at the fourth bar. And we had at least six. Big John’s was either sixth or seventh. That was the ending, and that was where the bar food appeared. Wings, tater tots and some other stuff. The clock struck midnight, and all the people staying at Shit’s house were chauffeured back. Drunk and happy.
SUNDAY MORNING PART 1
We applauded ourselves for getting back alive, and awarded ourselves with more booze. There was also more food of the fried and barbequed variety. I heard rumors of assorted sex and general mayhem. Holy crap, the poor neighbors. I started drinking at 3. Vodka. I made it until I saw the sun started to come up, rolled out of the hot tub and took a nap.
SUNDAY MORNING PART 2
9:30. Some non-booze liquids were consumed, and I started packing up. I saw mimosas. Notice I said SAW and not DRANK. Not ready. The water in the hot tub had a strange milky tint to it. OK guys, what happened after I went to sleep? Actually, I didn’t want to know. I asked about the strange tint from last year’s water and it scarred me for life.
SUNDAY MORNING PART 3
11:30. Shem Creek Bar and Grill. The seats at the back bar were full, so some of us sat at the tables in the same area. Rehydrated, I now needed Hair of the Dog and some grease. But our server had a different idea. She greeted us late, got our non-booze drinks late, never punched in my Bloody Mary order, and barely knew the menu enough to punch in our food order. The comedy of errors continued until I gave up and paid for what I got. I’ve been to Shem Creek before. And I’ll go there again. Hopefully I get a bar seat though.
SUNDAY AFTERNOON
I fled from our retarded server and started the drive home.
SUNDAY EVENING
My streak of zero speeding tickets holds for yet another road trip. Barely. I had just reached the edge of the Atlanta suburbs and moved out of the fast lane, unconsciously resigning myself to impending traffic and settling down behind some old fart going 70 in a Continental. And what was right there at the side of the highway? Two freaking cops, lasers blazing. I see one pull out into traffic and line up behind me, preparing for the kill. A string of swear words were uttered by a very unhappy bald dude, when the cop suddenly veered into the fast lane and sped past me, in search of his real target: A white Lexus. Thor squeaks by the cops again.
My room looked like it exploded once I got everything unpacked. Screw it. I had my daily obligatory shot of delicious booze and went to bed. I think I finally got up Monday afternoon.
EXECUTIVE SUMMARY
Hell yeah bitches.
May the Hash Get a Piece
TUESDAY MORNING
BEEP. “Hey Shit, this is L&F. Just a reminder. I’ll be at Jackoff’s place Thursday afternoon to scout for NC/SC. I should be at your house by 6.”
TUESDAY NIGHT
BEEP. “Hey L&F. For some reason I thought you were coming tomorrow. Drop what you’re doing. We have something huge planned. Get here by 5.”
WEDNESDAY MORNING
I’m out the door.
WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON
You’ve seen hash trashes for a trail before. Maybe even ones for a three-day weekend. Ever see one that includes five full days? I haven’t either. This could get interesting.
Atlanta to Charleston: Five hours. The perfect excuse for sitting in a car that long: Just like last year, the pull of the Cooper River Bridge R*n, the Happy Heretic’s Pub Crawl and everything going on at Shit's house. Talk about being a Too-Long. This was the first hash I did since Trash Prom in early December. That's what a needy house can do to you.
I screeched into Shit’s driveway at 3p and immediately started pre-lubing for whatever we were doing that night. I didn’t ask. It’s more interesting to find out as you go.
WEDNESDAY NIGHT
I’ve got a dress shirt and slacks on. And dress socks. My shoes clacked when I walked. This is serious.
We burst into Big John’s and start guzzling beer while we wait for Amkneesia. This is not a dress-shirt-and-slacks bar, but I manage. This was the place where I found out what we were doing. And we were doing a dinner cruise. Let me say that again so it sinks in: A Dinner Cruise.
Coincidentally, we got on the boat at the same place were the water taxi dropped us off from the Bridge R*n last year. But can you call this thing a boat? When I think boat, I think of some tiny vessel that takes on water when the wakes are too big. This thing isn’t even a yacht. It’s more like a mini cruise ship. A triple-decker orgasm on water, staffed to the hilt. There were servers everywhere, walking around calling me Sir and shoving silver platters of Crab Cakes and Olive-Something Crackers in my face. Over on the other side of the mini cruise ship was a table covered in white linen. But in all honesty, you could barely see the white linen because the whole table was piled with iced-down bowls of human-baby-sized shrimp, wasabi oysters and caviar sushi. To your left, an open bar. To your right, an open bar. And this was just the first level. The second level had dinner, a dance floor and a big bar. Yup, free booze here too. Oh, the shrimp and grits were phenomenal. A band was setting up. The third level was open-air, and it was gorgeous out. I normally don’t drink wine, but the cabernet was amazing, so I sipped that while we floated around the Charleston peninsula. At some point I considered offering up one of my testicles for the recipe to the cocktail sauce. Instead, I had the doting bartender pour me two fingers of bourbon and I forgot about the whole thing.
It was dark-thirty when the cruise was over, but there was still time for some quality drinking practice. We went back to Big John’s and ran into some younger guy with five tons of hair and a quarter-ounce of sense. We didn’t realize how much of a drag he was until after we gave him an invite to the pub crawl. This guy was the stereotypical stoner dude, with that muttering mush-mouth vocabulary and the familiar grating hard-luck story about getting busted for dealing. He was so bummed about his five-year probation that he didn’t even want to answer my questions about home marijuana cultivation. But for the price of a beer, he talked for a half-hour. I’d have to call that a lot of entertainment for three bucks. Tool.
THURSDAY MORNING
I woke up in a daze. That probably isn’t surprising now, is it? I gradually created some sort of food for myself and drank enough espresso to get out the door.
Yeah, I said espresso. And no, I’m not a pussy. I drink the shit straight, no sugar, no cream. It’s like mainlining caffeine. If that’s what it takes to get me out the door, fine.
I got to Jackoff’s place at around 11. It was bordering on cold. There was some sort of kingly-looking male goat in a fenced-in area at the front of his property. Then I saw it. . . and by “it” I mean IT. . . the world famous lake. A thing of beauty, I tell you. Many people got drunk here. And one person got injured.
I’m not going to go into detail about that fateful day a hasher broke her arm at Jackoff’s last event and sued him. I’ve actually met her, and her story doesn’t come close to the other version of the story I’ve heard from Jack’s legal team. All I’m going to say is that when NC/SC ’07 rolls around, Jackoff will be making a glorious return as host, and he can tell people he won the lawsuit. From what I’ve heard, he and his lake have been missed. There are tree stumps littering the area around his house, because you apparently have to cut down some of your tall trees when your insurance company dumps you for being a lawsuit magnet.
I parked the car, calmed the dog down and changed. Bug spray, sun block, a call to people to tell them I’m heading out into the wilderness. That whole prep thing. Oh, did I mention Jackoff’s back yard is a National Forest? Yeah. Finding shiggy didn’t take much effort.
THURSDAY AFTERNOON
Jackoff gave me one urgent clue on the phone a few days earlier: how to get to his trail that links to the forest trails. Armed with that knowledge, I burst into a full-on trot and began my three-and-a-half hour adventure. Much interesting landscape was experienced by me and my passive writing. Hamsterland, muck, swamp, creeks and a couple things I will keep secret for those of you who are cumming and want to do the long trail. I’ll let you in on one interesting tidbit: the last three-quarters of a mile will NOT be repeated. I ran into the most horrific undergrowth. Briars were scattered around here, and some of the thorns were of the curved variety that dug into your skin with a vengeance. There was even some hyper-dense dead-bamboo forest that nearly drove me to insanity. I think it took me an hour to get through that entire last part. Way too long. So unfortunately, I didn’t get lucky this time around, and will have to rescout.
I got back to Shit’s place dirty, smelly, semi-bloody and rather sore. Uranus had shown up early and had already downed so many beers, catching up would have been impossible. We were leaving for downtown in an hour.
THURSDAY NIGHT
There’s a place downtown where racists pick up their numbers on Thursday and Friday. Gaillard Auditorium, apparently. But it looked like a convention center. Who the fuck knows. Attached to this public service is EXPO. No definite article needed. EXPO. Shit was scheduled to work the Charleston R*nning Club’s table at EXPO, and Uranus and I were scheduled to walk around looking for beer at EXPO. And yes, there was beer. In fact, for Uranus, there was much beer. Refills upon refills. All provided for free from the r*ce sponsors.
It was here at EXPO that Uranus bought a Stick. The Stick was some sort of thin, elongated contraption that you apparently roll over the parts of your body that need a pleasurable feeling. Probably because The Stick was more than $40, Uranus talked about it many times over the next several days, but never took it out of its protective plastic sleeve. At least not that I saw. So maybe he was leaving it a Virginal Stick until he got back to the Spousal Unit.
Tangent. Sorry. EXPO is a place where r*ce-related people set up tables and what-not to sell and give away their shit. And EXPO even gives out free plastic bags so you can put your free shit inside. It was here at EXPO I experienced the joy of my first moisture-wicking shirt, which is now my favorite shirt of all time, ever. I also ate a dinner’s worth of protein bars, including one from Snickers. Odd.
EXPO closed at 8, and the Kool Kids immediately went to dinner at Applebee’s, because some of the locals knew the big-boobied bartender that works there. And they know to sit at the bar, right where the bib-boobied bartender leans over to wash the bar glasses. Are you getting the picture?
Next was Parson Jack’s and we shut that bar down. The guy who owns it used to r*n a Hooters, and he has the ladies dressed in similar attire. Charleston’s own Show Me the Bitches works there, and we saw her before closing. This was the drunkest I was all weekend. Thanks, Jameson Irish Whiskey. I love you.
FRIDAY MORNING
I slept until 9:25. At 9:30, things instantly became much more high-paced than the relaxed chill-fest from the night before. Shit called with shopping instructions, but I was nowhere near ready to shop yet. Caffeine please. I growled and downed a pot of espresso. Uranus and I quickly jumped into Thor to do some highly important shopping for the weekend.
FRIDAY AFTERNOON
We got back just in time to witness Shit in his van, and Bone Abuser in his truck, roll into the driveway with what could only be described as an Assload of Provisions for the weekend. With the speed of sloths, Uranus and I moved into action to aid in the transference of huge volumes of foodstuffs. Some would stay at the house. Other stuffs would be for the BBQ at the end of the r*n the next day at the R*nning Club’s area. And I still haven’t mentioned the 5 kegs that accompanied all the food. Tools flew every which way as taps were assembled and the 77.5 gallons of beer were swiftly moved into place. This was also a perfect time to finish assembling the hot-water outdoor shower.
OK, here’s the problem: I used the down time between us finishing and people arriving to make a half gallon of Key Lime Pie shooters. I still had to make the homemade Licor 43, it being an essential ingredient and all. Much tasting required. And I still hadn’t eaten. The KLP ended up perfect, and I ended up perfectly toasted. No more trips to the store for this guy.
FRIDAY EVENING
I was rubbing a red sharpie across the mesh of my r*nning shoes when hashers started showing up. I was getting ready for tomorrow. A red dress requires red shoes. Duh. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw tents spring up like. . . um. . . whatever springs up like tents. And the no-see-ums were out in force.
Suddenly, I look up to see the Augusta hashers arrive. The Peach Fuzz people are some of the most entertaining hashers I’ve met, and there they were, making their way to the back yard. Looking at four famous travel hashers walking together is like spotting four celebrities moving in unison. You know those Hollywood moves where the stars are all walking together toward a common goal? The slow motion, the cool lighting, the drum-heavy music. That’s what it looked like when Pixel, Queenie, Spud and Dixie made their Grand Entrance. Papsmear was with them, put he would need to prove himself before getting lumped in with the hardcore four. Spud had on leather biker chaps. A couple guys witnessed it and their knees buckled.
Commence drinking.
FRIDAY NIGHT
I was helping and getting ready for the r*n until maybe 9. Time to turn off the brain. The pack from Rumson arrived, and one of them was barely able to stand within 2 hours. Nice.
Definition of a good party: You lose track of all the people you haven’t seen in a year and need to catch up with. People are drunk, and just the right number of them turn into the court jesters. The one-liners are coming so fast, you couldn’t write them all down if you tried. There’s three-man going on somewhere. Hashers are zipped inside a tent doing something mischievous. Someone flies by naked, and in the ultimate coincidence, finds a hot tub. Scattered guttural belches of varying degrees are heard. A bonfire starts. The no-seeums stop biting. And there’s absolutely no drama to be found anywhere.
SATURDAY MORNING
I finally got to bed around 3:30, so of course I was still drunk when I woke up 2 1/2 hours later. I think the alarm made me cry. I somehow pulled my ass off the inflatable mattress and got my pretty red clothes on. There were about 20 zombies from Shit’s house who left at 7 in the morning to get to the start on time. And if I remember correctly, only a couple were sans-red-dresses. But one of the local papers said there were 125 of us in red dresses. So make your own estimates.
There are thousands upon thousands of people who do the Cooper River Bridge R*n every year. It’s one of top 5 largest 10k’s in the nation, and among the top 50 largest road r*ces in the world. These people pay $25 or $30 to register, wake up ass-crack-of-dawn early Saturday morning, deal with a logistical nightmare to get to the start, and then cram themselves together so tightly that many of them can’t even r*n if they tried. In other words, they become STARVED for entertainment. And we gave it to them.
We had a beer stop at mile one. It was cloudy out, and the no-see-ums were biting worse than they normally do in the evening. But the only thing I didn’t have in my purse was bug spray. Go figure.
Sticky, Amber Altert and I decided to r*n when we got to the top of the bridge. The closest marker as 2 3/4. That’s when it got interesting. We pulled away from the people who were used to us by now, and started hearing rapid-fire comments as we swiftly cut and weaved through the crowd. Three guys in red dresses, zig-zagging, criss-crossing and going twice as fast as everyone else. How do I describe it? Striking. Bad-ass. I pulled back a few times and watched Sticky and AA work their magic, and all I could do was laugh. It looked fantastic.
I had to step up this year, but once a dude puts on a dress, what else is there? I could have put on a wig and makeup, but the wig would have made me sweat more, and the makeup would have r*n. So I simply accessorized.
THE OUTFIT
--A dress that looked like a jumper. Very open-chested to show off the man-hair. Color? Not bright like a prostitute-red, and not dark red like a maroon. A good official medium-shade red. My mom found out I was cross-dressing for the hash and made it for me. I told her I was straight, but her tone didn't sound like she believed me. I just think she was so relieved that I wasn’t a transgendered hasher who was aching for The Operation.
--A matching belt. The dress is fairly straight-sided, so putting it on accentuates the figure.
--A matching bandana. The dress, belt and bandana all have this really cool subtle pattern on them. I have no idea where my mom finds her fabric, but she constantly comes through. The bandana is freaking huge, and when I put it on, there’s plenty of leftover fabric that hangs down in the back. Almost pirate-esque. Yaaarrrr. Bonus coolness: there’s a sweat-band sewn in.
--$100 Brooks Dyad’s. Now red, with red laces and black highlights. I mention $100 because people back at the house told me I was a borderline retard for sharpie-ing them. Hey, but I’m all red now, aren’t I?
--Red cotton bootie socks.
--Black shades with black lenses, to match the black in the shoes and the very subtle black swoops in the dress fabric.
--My hash necklace with the small-letter beads.
--My cross-dressing necklace with the giant-letter beads. This necklace comes out of the closet (pun intended) any time I wear a dress or lingerie for the hash. It doesn’t say L&F. It says Ellen F. Get it? The first and last names are separated by a huge round bead that shows a stick-figure woman with a red dress on. Brilliantly perfectly gorgeous.
--One red purse. And let me tell you fuckers something: That was the best 11 bucks I ever spent. Every couple yards of the r*ce I’d hear something like this behind me, “He’s got a purse” “Look at the purse” “Oh, they’re in dresses and that one guy has a purse.” “Ha, check out the purse.”
--And the show-stopper. The micro panties. Ultra-tight spandex boy shorts that are just big enough to hide what needs to be hid to keep from getting arrested. Every time we passed girls/women and a group of them screamed in approval, I’d take the hand that wasn’t holding the purse and lift up my dress so the crowd could see the micro panties. Wanna loud reaction, anywhere you go? This move is highly suggested. About a mile into our r*n, Sticky said, “ I don’t even need to look back to see when you’re doing that. I can tell by the screams.” Mission accomplished.
We were all “bandits” without r*ce numbers, but we ran all the way through to the finish line for maximum attention. The end was at some park. Marion Square, I think. The Charleston R*nning Club’s area had burgers, hot dogs and H3’s BEvERage of choice. And after a couple beers, I was cooled off and about ready to pass out. I found other exhausted red-dressers and got back to the house.
SATURDAY AFTERNOON
Noon. I had a quick, hot outdoor shower and passed out. Most everyone else did the same. Some minus the shower.
3p. Guess who was up and drinking? The Peach Fuzz clan.
5p. I was in charge of transporting all of us to the start of the pub crawl. I started making confirmation calls and getting dressed.
530p. On Out. Only two people from Shit’s stayed behind.
SATURDAY EVENING
About 30 of us screeched to a halt at the start of the pub crawl to find a lot more thirsty freaks. About 75 actually. We were minutes from circle. I ran around quickly to get my marching orders and found out who the co-hares were. ASSistance seemed to be coming from the same stellar beings as last year: You Had Me At Excuse Me, Amkneesia and Bone Abuser. Shappens circled us up, shouted a few words, grabbed his bag (of chalk and paraphernalia) and was off.
My turn. I walked into the middle of the circle, surrounded by 100 people. 100. One hunnert. How fucking sweet is that. The Greenville people represented well again, as did Charlotte. There was also a whole pack of youngish people from Charlotte who had never hashed before, but read about the pub crawl in a local paper. More? Of course. First timers to Charleston. Old timers, like AT&T. She apparently hasn’t hashed in a decade. I pulled her into the middle of circle and made her do the warm up song with me. To the melody of Father Abraham and Father Birmingham, I guess I should call this one “Father Shit.”
Poor Shit Happens
Had seven wives
Seven wives had Shit Happens
First they made him cum
Then they made him cry
When they took him for his money
He’s only had four wives, but you get the picture. For those of you how don’t know the original songs, you scream out a body part and move it violently while you sing the verse again. Then you scream the first body part and a second body part and sing the verse yet again. You end up with at least five violently moving body parts. For this warm up, the body parts are:
With a left hand [stick out your hand like you’re getting money]
With a middle finger [use the right hand]
With a left knee to the crotch
With a big fat right toe
With a tongue to the bunghole
By the time you do all that, you’re definitely warmed up enough to drink. On Out you sober wankers. Thanks to the people who gave me ideas on improving the song. For those of you who said Shit would kick my ass later, I hung my cranium low the next day and admitted I did a song about him and was forgiven. Sweet.
SATURDAY NIGHT
Here’s the good part about this pub crawl: There are a shitload of people. If you are so inclined, you can people-hop all night and still not hit everyone. That’s pretty much what happened. Like last year, people started swaying, slurring and generally getting piss-drunk at the fourth bar. And we had at least six. Big John’s was either sixth or seventh. That was the ending, and that was where the bar food appeared. Wings, tater tots and some other stuff. The clock struck midnight, and all the people staying at Shit’s house were chauffeured back. Drunk and happy.
SUNDAY MORNING PART 1
We applauded ourselves for getting back alive, and awarded ourselves with more booze. There was also more food of the fried and barbequed variety. I heard rumors of assorted sex and general mayhem. Holy crap, the poor neighbors. I started drinking at 3. Vodka. I made it until I saw the sun started to come up, rolled out of the hot tub and took a nap.
SUNDAY MORNING PART 2
9:30. Some non-booze liquids were consumed, and I started packing up. I saw mimosas. Notice I said SAW and not DRANK. Not ready. The water in the hot tub had a strange milky tint to it. OK guys, what happened after I went to sleep? Actually, I didn’t want to know. I asked about the strange tint from last year’s water and it scarred me for life.
SUNDAY MORNING PART 3
11:30. Shem Creek Bar and Grill. The seats at the back bar were full, so some of us sat at the tables in the same area. Rehydrated, I now needed Hair of the Dog and some grease. But our server had a different idea. She greeted us late, got our non-booze drinks late, never punched in my Bloody Mary order, and barely knew the menu enough to punch in our food order. The comedy of errors continued until I gave up and paid for what I got. I’ve been to Shem Creek before. And I’ll go there again. Hopefully I get a bar seat though.
SUNDAY AFTERNOON
I fled from our retarded server and started the drive home.
SUNDAY EVENING
My streak of zero speeding tickets holds for yet another road trip. Barely. I had just reached the edge of the Atlanta suburbs and moved out of the fast lane, unconsciously resigning myself to impending traffic and settling down behind some old fart going 70 in a Continental. And what was right there at the side of the highway? Two freaking cops, lasers blazing. I see one pull out into traffic and line up behind me, preparing for the kill. A string of swear words were uttered by a very unhappy bald dude, when the cop suddenly veered into the fast lane and sped past me, in search of his real target: A white Lexus. Thor squeaks by the cops again.
My room looked like it exploded once I got everything unpacked. Screw it. I had my daily obligatory shot of delicious booze and went to bed. I think I finally got up Monday afternoon.
EXECUTIVE SUMMARY
Hell yeah bitches.
May the Hash Get a Piece
# posted by L&F @ 6:58 PM 
