15 May 2008
88. The Hired Pit Bull
Happy Heretics H3 - 02 April 08 to 06 April 08
THE CALL
Boop. Boop boop boop. Boop.
Ring.
Shit Happens: Yeeeessss?
Amkneesia: Hey, Shit. Problem. I can’t make it to the Cooper River Bridge Run this year. You’ll need to find a replacement.
Shit: Well, if I’m going to find a replacement, I want the Ultimate Helper. Someone normally calm enough to blow off drama but hyper enough to turn it on when pushed.
Amkneesia: Sounds like you need a Hired Pit Bull. Can you find anyone?
Shit: Yeah. I know who we need.
Boop. Boop boop. Boop boop.
Ring.
L&F: Talk to me.
Shit: Hey, fuckhead. You’re needed.
L&F: Woof.
-----
THE DRIVE
All the evil fuckers who make mountains of money off crude oil and gasoline forced me to keep Thor home this time. $110 was more than I was willing to shell out for road-trip fuel. So I bribed Read My Boobs to get the time off. For her time and her hybrid, she would also get to help us set up Chez Shit and police the grounds. But I learned during our intense negotiations that I would have to sweeten the deal. I’m certain you’re shocked at that one. OK, I’d pay for gas, I’d play tour guide and she’d get invited to the super-cool super-secret Wednesday extravaganza. Bring non-hash clothes, please.
We were approaching the final hour of our drive from Atlanta to Charleston when our forward motion was suddenly not forward anymore. A truck got twisted around and spewed its contents all over I-26. (Yes, I said spewed.) Suddenly we were on some frightening detour, that for 20 torturous minutes, took us farther away from beer. I found out later that I was subconsciously pointing to where we should be heading with the same look that little kids give when you pull them away from the cereal aisle. “But… But… I want…” RMB succeeded in calming me down by noting that we had enough booze in the car to kill an army of people several times over.
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THE SUPER-COOL CRUISE
We pulled into the driveway at 4p a little fried. But the perfect weather energized us as soon as we got out of the car. Cooling cloud cover, low humidity and the faint smell of pluff mud drew us to the back yard, and a huge surprise: Shit no longer had the Last Dock on the Right. There was now a dock farther down Shem Creek. But our devious plots of stealthy destruction were derailed by our brains demanding some sort of numbing beverages.
And we were very lucky to be numbed, because what we saw an hour later was too much of a shock to take sober. Shit arrived, dressed in a gorgeous suit that he had worn to court that day. This marked the first time I had ever seen the distinguished gentleman in pretty clothes, and I think I gasped. He was going to keep what he had on because we had to go.
“When are we leaving?” I asked.
“10 minutes, not hash time. Ship leaves with our without us.”
No time to exchange pleasantries, but there was just enough time to exchange gifts. RMB and I gave Shit some additions to the Beer Can Room: Budweiser cans so old, they don't even have pull tabs. Can opener only. The cool part is that they were never opened, so you actually get to witness the freakish design. As for me... I'm holding in my hand, right at this very moment... a joke-bid t-shirt for Interhash 2010. For Baghdad. On the back it says "It'll be a fucking blast." Not too many of those made, as you can probably imagine. (I wore it on the pub crawl.)
If you read last year’s opulent opus, you know there was a moment on Friday afternoon when the Peach Fuzz arrived and time slowed down for their Grand Entrance. It was our turn for slow motion this year. Cue the music. Shit, RMB and I walked into the ship and outdid EVERYONE. Him with his suit, me with my slick-looking shirt and Italian slacks, and RMB… well, she pretty much stopped guys cold everywhere she went with this thin little dress that clung to her in a way that made all the guys stare in all the right places. You have to love guys who are trying to talk to women as they’re staring full-on at heaving fun-bags. While mumbling. That’s some entertainment, you party people.
What’s the cruise for? Every year, the race committee invites the sponsors to a dinner cruise on the Wednesday before the race. The ship has three levels of free food, open bars everywhere, and no tipping, all while cruising around the Charleston penis. I mean, penisula. I mean, peninsula. Just look at a map. Charleston is a dick, OK?
The beer was better this year, and the food was about the same ridiculous high quality, although this year they added a huge hunk of melt-in-your-mouth tuna to the carving station. If you’re imagining something that doesn’t suck, you would be imagining correctly. The shrimp are so big, popping them in your mouth feels like you’re giving head to a shark. The sauces are incredible. And look over there. That’s an unlimited supply of sushi.
Wait, what’s that horrific sound? No way. It’s the crazy, yammering woman from the starting line last year, emceeing the sponsor awards ceremony. And they were piping her obnoxious, grating voice to every level of the ship. Have you heard Hillary Clinton when she starts yelling? Imagine a cringe-factor that’s 5 times worse. Luckily, this insane yammerer had just started to drone on as we were getting back to the dock, so the three of us made a quick departure.
Bar hopping. Hot tubbing. Bed. We were sleeping across from Shit’s room, in Little Shit’s old room. The ceiling is blue with clouds painted on it. When you turn the lights off, stars glow back at you, and there’s even some glowing stars spinning on the fan blades. Very cool. Day one, a success.
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THE MENTAL BLUR
Everything from Thursday morning to late Friday afternoon is a little foggy. There was a lot going on, and I think it all blended together and got lost amid all the other crazy mental images from the weekend. Maybe I can fish around for some detail:
--Sleeping in.
--Expo, to get free stuff at the place where the tens of thousands of r*nners pick up their numbers.
--Fort Moultrie and hanging out on the beach.
--Sullivan’s Island, Isle of Palms and more beach.
--Checking out the gorgeous architecture downtown at the Battery.
--Shopping. Market Street. King Street.
--Getting the lowdown on my Pit-Bull marching orders for the next 48 hours.
--Cleaning up some of the house to get ready for hashers. That includes the beer coolers and the covered deck.
--A little yard work.
--Helping set up the hot shower outside.
--Coning off the driveway.
--Tags, tags and more tags, on and off for two days.
--Prepping some shooters.
We saw a metric fuck-ton of Charleston, and for the first time, I drove enough to become familiar with the area. That day and a half definitely rocked.
We had keys this year, meaning Shit gave a certain number of drunks a key to his house. No one else was allowed in. This is to cut down on theft and general mayhem. Yes, I said theft. Because as you know, there’s always one normally trustworthy person in the crowd who can turn into a thief if they have enough booze. Very sad, but very true. Everyone with a key was to help keep everyone else out. To drive the point home, everyone who got a key also got yelled at. Me, RMB, Spud, Queenie, Pixel, Geno, Blows the Candles… everyone. And hearing it multiple times might have been my favorite part of the entire trip. You have to imagine a look of anger and lots of pointing:
“Keep. The. Doors. LOCKED! If you see anyone in here that shouldn’t be here, kick them out. If you let them stay, I’m kicking them out, and YOU out. And if Slappy gets in here, every single person is getting kicked out. EVERYBODY! You can sleep in your fucking cars!”
We got back to the house for good about 6p Friday, finished tags, helped get coolers and other crap ready for the morning and brought streams of food out to the masses. I was too wired to chill out once that was over, so I made pitchers of Banana Cream Pie shooters and walked them around. Made with real bananas. But our host apparently doesn’t like bananas, so he swatted me with a rolled up newspaper and said I was in the dog house. Key Lime Pie next year, or he’s throwing me in the creek. I think I’ll bring the KLP. Pluff mud is nasty.
Since there are now pictures floating around the internet showing a certain t-shirt, I’ll bring up one final thing about Friday night. RMB and I were in the house getting red dresses ready for the morning when Shit, Blows the Candles and Queenie walked out of Shit’s room wearing the exact same white, long-sleeved shirts. And they were surprising to say the least. Because they had my name on it. Specifically, the large black type on the front said:
“I HATE L&F BECAUSE HE WON’T SHARE.” And these three shirts would come out again for the pub crawl the next day, giving the three of them great stories to tell the inquiring public. And did I hear this right? He had orders for 20 of the shirts? 20?
Sorry guys, just not much into threesomes.
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CANINE TEETH
I’m the dog they call Pit
I’m the Bull that throws fits
To protect and to serve the hash-master named Shit
So don’t fuck with me kid
Or it’s gonna be YOU that gets bit.
(The fellas, they get jealous
Of my tight, spiked collar and wicked acapellas.)
I won’t get into most of my Pit Bull details from the weekend. That’s the un-fun part. Let’s just say there was some barking.
-----
THE RED DRESS RUN
“Fuck fuck fuck.” Those are the only words that escaped my mouth as I forced myself out of bed and clawed my way to the kitchen. First one up. Fuckity fuckity fuck fuck fuck. 5:45 a.m. is way too early to think about anything hash-related that requires leaving camp. But the masses needed a Coffee Bitch.
6:45 a.m. Shit was trying to get the help out the door and get downtown. The bridge was closing in 15 minutes. There was screaming and chaos. I was not involved though; I was going to take care of any walkers at the start. He had just given me extra post-r*ce wrist bands for beer, maps to his house for people who needed them, and a race packet for someone I hadn’t even met yet. Thumb & 1/2 was nowhere to be found and was obviously not going to grab a cooler in time for the first beer stop. The Peach Fuzzers were leaving for the second beer stop. Quick math helped me realize they would now be the first and only beer stop. Yes, Thumb would be punished later.
7:05a. The pack from Shit’s began the quick journey to the start. Maybe a dozen of us. We were pretty.
7:45a. We finally hit the hash meeting spot at Starbucks, just shy of the official start. We ran into the rest of the pack, some of them relieved they found me before we took off. Wristbands = beer.
7:55a. On out, fuckers. Time goes by quick on this thing. There’s so much to see. Thousands and thousands of people, the view from the bridge, the occasional non-red-dress person dressed up in something interesting. We talked smack to the giant Chik-fil-a cow wondering around and we obviously struck a bovine nerve; it started using me as a punching bag. There were some crazy people on top of the bridge towers, more than a tenth of a mile up. Elevators or Stairs? Answer: elevators.
?:??a. Beer stop. And the first of many BEvERages to be consumed throughout the day. The Fuzzers had set up right off the bridge, and it was a perfect place to check everyone out. And to be noticed. When we weren’t getting enough attention, we would simply show random body parts and get the crowd going. I was wearing this really short spring dress, and lifting it up to show the tiny red spandex man-panties was not much of an effort. The purse I bought last year proved its worth again, because it seems to match any color of red I can find. I even found a flower-print bandana that almost exactly matched the dress. Spots of white on the bandana and the dress went with my white r*nning shoes. Are you getting the picture here? Coordination. Inspiration. Jubilation.
Beer:30a. We were munching on hot dogs and hamburgers and a bunch of other stuff at the Charleston Running Club’s area at the end, when we realized something disturbing: There was no beer. I tried to remember if Shit had mentioned this earlier, but as you know, Pit Bulls don’t have the impressive memory of most humans. So we plopped down in the shade and attempted to get our brains working. Some hashers decided to walk to Big John’s, but the rest of us knew this was a bad idea for two reasons: It required energy to get there, and it would be more difficult getting back to Camp. This is why we were sitting. So we could concentrate on the task at hand: Liquid Acquisition. I heard someone mention a bar across the street from the park. Knights of Columbus. Then it clicked. Shit had said something the other day about beer being there, but I had assumed he was talking about the pub crawl. Nope. After a short sprint, you can sing it with me: “Free… Beer for All the Haaaashers…”
What’s the definition of surreal? Who the fuck knows. Maybe “something that makes your brain spin around.” If that’s it, then we saw something surreal: We looked across the huge hall that leads back to Calhoun street and saw a large-ish group of people with this phrase emblazoned on the front of their shirts: “A Drinking Team with a Running Problem.” Um, huh? Someone from our Drinking CLUB with a Running Problem finally approached them and found out some guy hashed overseas somewhere and came back to start something similar. I don’t think he knew there were hashers in Charleston. Well, they all know now.
I have to give it up for whoever organizes the transportation for this damn r*ce. Best. Ever. There were cops and neon-vested grunts everywhere. They herded us all into a line and shoved us into buses for a ride back to Mount Pleasant. So easy a drunk could do it. A mile and a half later, we were back to beer.
1p. Nap.
4p. Just as predicted, the roof over our heads was jeopardized. A slightly intoxicated Slappy tried to get into the house, even though Shit gave him a heads up about the rule. Someone had left the side door open and he was about ready to go in, when I happened to walk by.
"Hey, L&F... I need to go on the internet and find out what this pill is. Can I come in really quick? Just really quick."
Since I love Slappy to death, I have him a gentle "Oh, I'll go on the internet for you" versus a "Holy crap, dude, there's no fucking way I'm letting you in there."
Crisis averted.
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THE DRAMA
This was my third year as Taxi Bitch for the Pub Crawl. Here’s the way it’s supposed to work: Shit leaves for downtown early to set up. I re-confirm pickup with the cabbies to make sure there are enough vans lined up to get all of the Chez Shit Campers to the start. I do the normal countdown shout-outs around camp, round everyone up and we all pay the cabbies and leave. That’s the way it’s SUPPOSED to work.
Even though I had called this company two previous times over the past two days, and even though I’m pretty good at handling problems, I was not prepared for this dispatcher. I wouldn’t even describe him as the generic “______ from Hell.” He was quite simply a living, breathing penis tip. Our first contact of the day was at 4:45p, when he said there would be three vans at 5:30. I figured they were giant vans because I’ve dealt with 15-seaters before. We had 45 people. All good. But starting at 5:30, I lived the Longest Hour in Human Existence. It was everything I could do to keep from screaming at this penis tip for continually lying to me about their arrival time, about how many vans he had coming, etc. These fuckers have radios and GPS’s in their cars. They know EXACTLY what the ETA is. I was calling every cabbie I had numbers for, and got the same answers from everyone: “No, I can’t help you” and “Yeah, that dispatcher is a dick.” At 6:10, when I found out each of the three vans would only holds 8 people (EIGHT???), I stopped breathing fire long enough to call Shit. He sent someone with his van. Then one taxi/van came. Everyone else drove. Here’s the comment from the taxi driver who actually showed up: “I just contract through that company. You should have just called me directly. I would have been right over.” I immediately had the intense mental imagery of me jumping across the van and strangling him. And while I was imagining choking him, I was imagining pounding his cranium against the door and yelling, “Don’t… you… think… I… would… have… called… if… I… had… your… number… Fuck Nut?!?!” But he was an ex-marine who was much bigger than me and probably would have pounded me into a pulp without even having to take his seat belt off.
-----
THE PUB CRAWL
I was deliriously angry, mostly because dealing with this kind of bullshit is currently what my job in Corporate America is all about, and I hadn’t been on vacation long enough to release the bitterness. My Achilles Heel: stupid, lazy people. But just like at work, there are times like this where I have to shake off the rage. I had been on the phone to Shit so he was timing it perfectly. We squeeled on to George St. to see him r*nning the other way with flour. We flew into a parking spot, I jumped out of the car and immediately barked one clear, very loud order that got almost everyone out of their coma: “All right you fuckers, circle uuuuuuuuup! I’m fucking THIRSTY!”
Let’s get something clear: sobriety is fine. I have no problem with it, and a large portion of my life is spent embracing it. But at this moment, sobriety sucked ass. My brain was spinning and I couldn’t focus. But I somehow remembered to go around and get everyone to shout their names and where they had cum from. There is close to three times as many people who do the Pub Crawl than cum from Shit’s house, and the increase in people rocks. As always, shout-outs for big turnouts go to Upstate H3 from Greenville, SC; Rumson H3 from Jersey; Charlotte H3, and Peach Fuzz from Augusta, GA. And of course, the local Happy Heretics H3. I put my head down for a few seconds to collect myself… an eternity when you’re in the middle of circle… then shouted “warm up!” and launched into the official Pub Crawl Warm Up Song with zero warning. And everyone jumped in without hesitation. Sweet. Thank you to everyone from last year who offered improvements to the song. Melody: Father Abraham. The chorus and the start of each verse:
Poor… Shit… Happens
Had Seven Wives
Seven Wives Had Shi-it Happens
First They Made Him Cum
Then They Made Him Cry
When They Took Him For His Money
With a greedy, grabbing left hand
With a right middle finger
With a vicious left foot to the gut
With a right knee to the crotch
And a wagging tongue to the bunghole.
By the way, it’s up to you to figure out how many wives Shit’s actually had. On-Out.
One bar, then another, then another. Food. Then another bar, then another, then another. Then a last one. It is a dizzying number of bars to cram into an evening. But we did it. In fact, we made up all that lost time at the start within the first couple bars. We didn’t even feel rushed. And luckily, no rain. Perfect weather, perfect company. And since we had collected some quality cab numbers, the trip back was drama-free.
RMB and I gave several people a ride back, one being Barefoot and Stupid, who had just been honored with a quality renaming at one of the bars. It appears that at some time in the past year, she had been busted for some sort of nudity at a public pool during a hash on-after and continued to eat while the cops were figuring out what to do with her. One of the cops said “Ma’am, put down the corn.” Then, in a more authoritative voice, “Ma’am, STEP AWAY FROM THE CORN.” If that doesn’t deserve a renaming, what does? Infamy, I tell you.
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THE COPS
The po-po. Not that I should be surprised to see them, but I was surprised. Shit didn’t have any neighbors home on either side of him, and we hadn’t been in circle that long. Ten minutes, maybe? It was somewhere between midnight and 1a. My back was to the grass strip where you get from the driveway to the back yard. Erm, I mean, where the COPS get from the driveway to the back yard. And I was wearing shorts, thank G. Because not too long before, RMB and I had just streaked past this same area.
Screw it, let me just start from the beginning. We had just gotten back from the Pub Crawl and I was sober. Dead. Fucking. Sober. What better way to catch up than hang out for a few minutes in the hot tub? But there seemed to be two other wankers with the same idea. These extremely horny individuals shall remain nameless, but I can tell you that they apparently had more than enough to drink on the pub crawl and were in no mood to share the water. So as RMB and I got in, they started making all sorts of entertaining moaning noises. And when we ignored them, the drunk-female portion of that equation drifted over and attempted to have her way with Boobs, asking some sort of question that generated a polite negative answer. So back she went, to her drunk-male portion of the equation, to make even more noise than before. Now don’t get me wrong, I’ve been in hot tubs where a lot more crazy shit than that was going on. A LOT more. But there was never this blatant attempt to either get attention or have us leave. OK, we’ll leave. But wait, we forgot our towels. So we’ll just streak.
We sprinted past the enclosed deck, down the steps, past the fire, to the strip of grass and into the side door. Past hasher after hasher, in a scene that would be quite common at a campout. But remember that little story about Step Away from the Corn? Apparently, the po-po would have frowned at clothes-less perps since there are other houses close by, and the lawyers of the group agreed: naked is bad.
A large portion of us were surprised we were getting a circle, not only because it was late, but because it so rarely happens after the pub crawl. So there we were, belting out hash song after hash song, recapping the day of Rule 6’s and random feats of Super Human Retard Strength, when I look behind me and there are two of Mount Pleasant’s finest. And one of them uttered a phrase that I’ve heard way too many times: “We heard you xxx blocks away.” Oh Jesus, here we go. They proceeded to take Shit somewhere private, and as I watched the three of them disappear into the darkness, I realized something amazing: Shit had a sarong on. In fact, there wasn’t a naked person anywhere. Unbelievable luck. Turns out a friendly neighbor across the street was having a late-night mean streak and was the one to call the cops. Shit wiggled his way out of this thorny legal problem and let everyone know that for the rest of the night, Q didn’t stand for Double Q lounge, it stood for Quiet.
Hey, is that rum? Don’t mind if I do. I didn’t try to catch up, but I was proud of my progress.
Things happened, and then other stuff happened, and then all of a sudden there were maybe 10 of us naked in the hot tub, whispering limericks and insults. FACT: trying to whisper limericks is actually funnier than screaming them. Someone snorted beer out their nose. Someone did a silent spit take.
A reviewer of porn films named Louie
Critiqued the release “Hung Kung Spooey.”
He noted with scorn
That porn isn’t porn
Unless everyone ends up gooey.
Ay, ay ay ay…
Give me five more beers your still ugly.
So sing me another verse that’s worse the other verse
And waltz me around by my willie.
I was almost too tired to move. RMB and I went to the Cloud Room and were carving a path to the air mattress when Shit appeared. We started talking about what went down all weekend, and got so far into it that we all gave up on the whole vertical-standing thing and sat down on the carpet. After a long weekend like this one, it’s nice to go back-and-forth for a while about what worked and what didn’t. Especially when so much of it worked. I took out the bottle of Crown Royal I had been saving and passed it around. And around. It was about this time that Shit reached over and handed me a box. Inside was a gorgeous Kenneth Cole watch, with a champagne face, a copper-gold dial and a silver band. On the back was an engraving of the bridge and the words Cooper River Bridge Run. For a job well done.
First Blows the Candles appeared, then Queenie, then Step Away from the Corn. Looks like everything was winding down. So we all just sat there and bullshitted for a while. I’ll always consider myself lucky that this is how so many last-nights-at-road-trips end. I wonder if the people who invented campfires and camping chairs had super-chill hangouts in mind when they got their patents.
Is there a patent on campfires?
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THE FINALE
I might have set the alarm. It may have gone off. Or I may have crawled out of bed because the sun was shining into the Cloud Room and I heard someone breaking down a tent at the side of the house. Maybe I wanted to see what was going on. Or maybe I just had to take a leak. Who knows.
The first thing I remember was being out on the deck, looking at the hot tub. It was only about a third-full of water. And the remaining water didn’t look good. I pushed the power button and nothing happened. Actually, it looked like a party happened.
There was only one tent outside, but a lot of… um… stuff. Everywhere. Abandoned clothes, trash, food… I looked at everything for more than a minute before my brain processed the fact that I should probably start cleaning up. Pixel stumbled out of the house and he looked worse that I felt. Everyone else who was at the house was still asleep. Sunday’s always rough.
I remember pounding down a couple bottles of Gatorade, but I don’t remember finding any caffeine. There must have been some though, because by the time we hit Shem Creek Bar and Grill, I was ready to go. I ran to Al’s back bar just before the restaurant opened and grabbed three bar seats, setting up our perches for the next couple hours. Hashers flooded in and The World’s Best Bloody Marys were flying.
This is one of the best bar hangouts you can imagine, surrounded by booze and oysters inside, sun and water outside. The quickly moving staff is tempered by the slowly moving drunks. The full replay of the r*ce was on one of the TVs, no red dresses in sight. Hmmm. But we did get to see the two UH3 hashers who finished in the top 50. NFHN Tim got 40th place with 33:55 and Little Prick got 44th place with 34:03. Much cheering was heard in the bar, and we sang and drank in their honor. And then we drank some more in their honor. Congrats.
(More drinking in their honor.)
I was caught off guard for maybe the fifth time during weekend when we were downing Oyster Shooters and I was asked to say a toast. I suck at remembering them, so Shit had to take over once again. And woah, the Oyster Shooters are worth a toast. Oysters, cocktail sauce, horseradish, Tabasco and beer.
The big brunch was making me so tired I wanted to pass out, so we went back to Shit’s for a quick nap. I passed by the Beer Can Room and noticed one of the strangest human odors I’ve ever experienced. It was a combination of things so random that I stood there sniffing in complete fascination, at least until the need for sleep was too overwhelming.
It took us an hour to pack up and get everything into the car. Half of the problem was that there was stuff scattered everywhere in the Cloud Room. Everywhere. I don’t think we put a single thing back into a single bag all weekend. The other half of the problem was that we had so much stuff. Food, snacks, a cooler full of booze and mixers, clothes, sleeping stuff, red dress stuff. To get to an event hooked up with everything, I guess you have to take… everything. Worth it.
The obligatory shot to celebrate the official end of a successful event came at 9p at RMB’s house. And it was here that I finally redeemed myself by remembering my favorite toast:
HERE’S TO ALCOHOL… THE CAUSE AND SOLUTION TO ALL OF LIFE’S PROBLEMS.
May the Hash Get a Piece
THE CALL
Boop. Boop boop boop. Boop.
Ring.
Shit Happens: Yeeeessss?
Amkneesia: Hey, Shit. Problem. I can’t make it to the Cooper River Bridge Run this year. You’ll need to find a replacement.
Shit: Well, if I’m going to find a replacement, I want the Ultimate Helper. Someone normally calm enough to blow off drama but hyper enough to turn it on when pushed.
Amkneesia: Sounds like you need a Hired Pit Bull. Can you find anyone?
Shit: Yeah. I know who we need.
Boop. Boop boop. Boop boop.
Ring.
L&F: Talk to me.
Shit: Hey, fuckhead. You’re needed.
L&F: Woof.
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THE DRIVE
All the evil fuckers who make mountains of money off crude oil and gasoline forced me to keep Thor home this time. $110 was more than I was willing to shell out for road-trip fuel. So I bribed Read My Boobs to get the time off. For her time and her hybrid, she would also get to help us set up Chez Shit and police the grounds. But I learned during our intense negotiations that I would have to sweeten the deal. I’m certain you’re shocked at that one. OK, I’d pay for gas, I’d play tour guide and she’d get invited to the super-cool super-secret Wednesday extravaganza. Bring non-hash clothes, please.
We were approaching the final hour of our drive from Atlanta to Charleston when our forward motion was suddenly not forward anymore. A truck got twisted around and spewed its contents all over I-26. (Yes, I said spewed.) Suddenly we were on some frightening detour, that for 20 torturous minutes, took us farther away from beer. I found out later that I was subconsciously pointing to where we should be heading with the same look that little kids give when you pull them away from the cereal aisle. “But… But… I want…” RMB succeeded in calming me down by noting that we had enough booze in the car to kill an army of people several times over.
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THE SUPER-COOL CRUISE
We pulled into the driveway at 4p a little fried. But the perfect weather energized us as soon as we got out of the car. Cooling cloud cover, low humidity and the faint smell of pluff mud drew us to the back yard, and a huge surprise: Shit no longer had the Last Dock on the Right. There was now a dock farther down Shem Creek. But our devious plots of stealthy destruction were derailed by our brains demanding some sort of numbing beverages.
And we were very lucky to be numbed, because what we saw an hour later was too much of a shock to take sober. Shit arrived, dressed in a gorgeous suit that he had worn to court that day. This marked the first time I had ever seen the distinguished gentleman in pretty clothes, and I think I gasped. He was going to keep what he had on because we had to go.
“When are we leaving?” I asked.
“10 minutes, not hash time. Ship leaves with our without us.”
No time to exchange pleasantries, but there was just enough time to exchange gifts. RMB and I gave Shit some additions to the Beer Can Room: Budweiser cans so old, they don't even have pull tabs. Can opener only. The cool part is that they were never opened, so you actually get to witness the freakish design. As for me... I'm holding in my hand, right at this very moment... a joke-bid t-shirt for Interhash 2010. For Baghdad. On the back it says "It'll be a fucking blast." Not too many of those made, as you can probably imagine. (I wore it on the pub crawl.)
If you read last year’s opulent opus, you know there was a moment on Friday afternoon when the Peach Fuzz arrived and time slowed down for their Grand Entrance. It was our turn for slow motion this year. Cue the music. Shit, RMB and I walked into the ship and outdid EVERYONE. Him with his suit, me with my slick-looking shirt and Italian slacks, and RMB… well, she pretty much stopped guys cold everywhere she went with this thin little dress that clung to her in a way that made all the guys stare in all the right places. You have to love guys who are trying to talk to women as they’re staring full-on at heaving fun-bags. While mumbling. That’s some entertainment, you party people.
What’s the cruise for? Every year, the race committee invites the sponsors to a dinner cruise on the Wednesday before the race. The ship has three levels of free food, open bars everywhere, and no tipping, all while cruising around the Charleston penis. I mean, penisula. I mean, peninsula. Just look at a map. Charleston is a dick, OK?
The beer was better this year, and the food was about the same ridiculous high quality, although this year they added a huge hunk of melt-in-your-mouth tuna to the carving station. If you’re imagining something that doesn’t suck, you would be imagining correctly. The shrimp are so big, popping them in your mouth feels like you’re giving head to a shark. The sauces are incredible. And look over there. That’s an unlimited supply of sushi.
Wait, what’s that horrific sound? No way. It’s the crazy, yammering woman from the starting line last year, emceeing the sponsor awards ceremony. And they were piping her obnoxious, grating voice to every level of the ship. Have you heard Hillary Clinton when she starts yelling? Imagine a cringe-factor that’s 5 times worse. Luckily, this insane yammerer had just started to drone on as we were getting back to the dock, so the three of us made a quick departure.
Bar hopping. Hot tubbing. Bed. We were sleeping across from Shit’s room, in Little Shit’s old room. The ceiling is blue with clouds painted on it. When you turn the lights off, stars glow back at you, and there’s even some glowing stars spinning on the fan blades. Very cool. Day one, a success.
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THE MENTAL BLUR
Everything from Thursday morning to late Friday afternoon is a little foggy. There was a lot going on, and I think it all blended together and got lost amid all the other crazy mental images from the weekend. Maybe I can fish around for some detail:
--Sleeping in.
--Expo, to get free stuff at the place where the tens of thousands of r*nners pick up their numbers.
--Fort Moultrie and hanging out on the beach.
--Sullivan’s Island, Isle of Palms and more beach.
--Checking out the gorgeous architecture downtown at the Battery.
--Shopping. Market Street. King Street.
--Getting the lowdown on my Pit-Bull marching orders for the next 48 hours.
--Cleaning up some of the house to get ready for hashers. That includes the beer coolers and the covered deck.
--A little yard work.
--Helping set up the hot shower outside.
--Coning off the driveway.
--Tags, tags and more tags, on and off for two days.
--Prepping some shooters.
We saw a metric fuck-ton of Charleston, and for the first time, I drove enough to become familiar with the area. That day and a half definitely rocked.
We had keys this year, meaning Shit gave a certain number of drunks a key to his house. No one else was allowed in. This is to cut down on theft and general mayhem. Yes, I said theft. Because as you know, there’s always one normally trustworthy person in the crowd who can turn into a thief if they have enough booze. Very sad, but very true. Everyone with a key was to help keep everyone else out. To drive the point home, everyone who got a key also got yelled at. Me, RMB, Spud, Queenie, Pixel, Geno, Blows the Candles… everyone. And hearing it multiple times might have been my favorite part of the entire trip. You have to imagine a look of anger and lots of pointing:
“Keep. The. Doors. LOCKED! If you see anyone in here that shouldn’t be here, kick them out. If you let them stay, I’m kicking them out, and YOU out. And if Slappy gets in here, every single person is getting kicked out. EVERYBODY! You can sleep in your fucking cars!”
We got back to the house for good about 6p Friday, finished tags, helped get coolers and other crap ready for the morning and brought streams of food out to the masses. I was too wired to chill out once that was over, so I made pitchers of Banana Cream Pie shooters and walked them around. Made with real bananas. But our host apparently doesn’t like bananas, so he swatted me with a rolled up newspaper and said I was in the dog house. Key Lime Pie next year, or he’s throwing me in the creek. I think I’ll bring the KLP. Pluff mud is nasty.
Since there are now pictures floating around the internet showing a certain t-shirt, I’ll bring up one final thing about Friday night. RMB and I were in the house getting red dresses ready for the morning when Shit, Blows the Candles and Queenie walked out of Shit’s room wearing the exact same white, long-sleeved shirts. And they were surprising to say the least. Because they had my name on it. Specifically, the large black type on the front said:
“I HATE L&F BECAUSE HE WON’T SHARE.” And these three shirts would come out again for the pub crawl the next day, giving the three of them great stories to tell the inquiring public. And did I hear this right? He had orders for 20 of the shirts? 20?
Sorry guys, just not much into threesomes.
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CANINE TEETH
I’m the dog they call Pit
I’m the Bull that throws fits
To protect and to serve the hash-master named Shit
So don’t fuck with me kid
Or it’s gonna be YOU that gets bit.
(The fellas, they get jealous
Of my tight, spiked collar and wicked acapellas.)
I won’t get into most of my Pit Bull details from the weekend. That’s the un-fun part. Let’s just say there was some barking.
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THE RED DRESS RUN
“Fuck fuck fuck.” Those are the only words that escaped my mouth as I forced myself out of bed and clawed my way to the kitchen. First one up. Fuckity fuckity fuck fuck fuck. 5:45 a.m. is way too early to think about anything hash-related that requires leaving camp. But the masses needed a Coffee Bitch.
6:45 a.m. Shit was trying to get the help out the door and get downtown. The bridge was closing in 15 minutes. There was screaming and chaos. I was not involved though; I was going to take care of any walkers at the start. He had just given me extra post-r*ce wrist bands for beer, maps to his house for people who needed them, and a race packet for someone I hadn’t even met yet. Thumb & 1/2 was nowhere to be found and was obviously not going to grab a cooler in time for the first beer stop. The Peach Fuzzers were leaving for the second beer stop. Quick math helped me realize they would now be the first and only beer stop. Yes, Thumb would be punished later.
7:05a. The pack from Shit’s began the quick journey to the start. Maybe a dozen of us. We were pretty.
7:45a. We finally hit the hash meeting spot at Starbucks, just shy of the official start. We ran into the rest of the pack, some of them relieved they found me before we took off. Wristbands = beer.
7:55a. On out, fuckers. Time goes by quick on this thing. There’s so much to see. Thousands and thousands of people, the view from the bridge, the occasional non-red-dress person dressed up in something interesting. We talked smack to the giant Chik-fil-a cow wondering around and we obviously struck a bovine nerve; it started using me as a punching bag. There were some crazy people on top of the bridge towers, more than a tenth of a mile up. Elevators or Stairs? Answer: elevators.
?:??a. Beer stop. And the first of many BEvERages to be consumed throughout the day. The Fuzzers had set up right off the bridge, and it was a perfect place to check everyone out. And to be noticed. When we weren’t getting enough attention, we would simply show random body parts and get the crowd going. I was wearing this really short spring dress, and lifting it up to show the tiny red spandex man-panties was not much of an effort. The purse I bought last year proved its worth again, because it seems to match any color of red I can find. I even found a flower-print bandana that almost exactly matched the dress. Spots of white on the bandana and the dress went with my white r*nning shoes. Are you getting the picture here? Coordination. Inspiration. Jubilation.
Beer:30a. We were munching on hot dogs and hamburgers and a bunch of other stuff at the Charleston Running Club’s area at the end, when we realized something disturbing: There was no beer. I tried to remember if Shit had mentioned this earlier, but as you know, Pit Bulls don’t have the impressive memory of most humans. So we plopped down in the shade and attempted to get our brains working. Some hashers decided to walk to Big John’s, but the rest of us knew this was a bad idea for two reasons: It required energy to get there, and it would be more difficult getting back to Camp. This is why we were sitting. So we could concentrate on the task at hand: Liquid Acquisition. I heard someone mention a bar across the street from the park. Knights of Columbus. Then it clicked. Shit had said something the other day about beer being there, but I had assumed he was talking about the pub crawl. Nope. After a short sprint, you can sing it with me: “Free… Beer for All the Haaaashers…”
What’s the definition of surreal? Who the fuck knows. Maybe “something that makes your brain spin around.” If that’s it, then we saw something surreal: We looked across the huge hall that leads back to Calhoun street and saw a large-ish group of people with this phrase emblazoned on the front of their shirts: “A Drinking Team with a Running Problem.” Um, huh? Someone from our Drinking CLUB with a Running Problem finally approached them and found out some guy hashed overseas somewhere and came back to start something similar. I don’t think he knew there were hashers in Charleston. Well, they all know now.
I have to give it up for whoever organizes the transportation for this damn r*ce. Best. Ever. There were cops and neon-vested grunts everywhere. They herded us all into a line and shoved us into buses for a ride back to Mount Pleasant. So easy a drunk could do it. A mile and a half later, we were back to beer.
1p. Nap.
4p. Just as predicted, the roof over our heads was jeopardized. A slightly intoxicated Slappy tried to get into the house, even though Shit gave him a heads up about the rule. Someone had left the side door open and he was about ready to go in, when I happened to walk by.
"Hey, L&F... I need to go on the internet and find out what this pill is. Can I come in really quick? Just really quick."
Since I love Slappy to death, I have him a gentle "Oh, I'll go on the internet for you" versus a "Holy crap, dude, there's no fucking way I'm letting you in there."
Crisis averted.
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THE DRAMA
This was my third year as Taxi Bitch for the Pub Crawl. Here’s the way it’s supposed to work: Shit leaves for downtown early to set up. I re-confirm pickup with the cabbies to make sure there are enough vans lined up to get all of the Chez Shit Campers to the start. I do the normal countdown shout-outs around camp, round everyone up and we all pay the cabbies and leave. That’s the way it’s SUPPOSED to work.
Even though I had called this company two previous times over the past two days, and even though I’m pretty good at handling problems, I was not prepared for this dispatcher. I wouldn’t even describe him as the generic “______ from Hell.” He was quite simply a living, breathing penis tip. Our first contact of the day was at 4:45p, when he said there would be three vans at 5:30. I figured they were giant vans because I’ve dealt with 15-seaters before. We had 45 people. All good. But starting at 5:30, I lived the Longest Hour in Human Existence. It was everything I could do to keep from screaming at this penis tip for continually lying to me about their arrival time, about how many vans he had coming, etc. These fuckers have radios and GPS’s in their cars. They know EXACTLY what the ETA is. I was calling every cabbie I had numbers for, and got the same answers from everyone: “No, I can’t help you” and “Yeah, that dispatcher is a dick.” At 6:10, when I found out each of the three vans would only holds 8 people (EIGHT???), I stopped breathing fire long enough to call Shit. He sent someone with his van. Then one taxi/van came. Everyone else drove. Here’s the comment from the taxi driver who actually showed up: “I just contract through that company. You should have just called me directly. I would have been right over.” I immediately had the intense mental imagery of me jumping across the van and strangling him. And while I was imagining choking him, I was imagining pounding his cranium against the door and yelling, “Don’t… you… think… I… would… have… called… if… I… had… your… number… Fuck Nut?!?!” But he was an ex-marine who was much bigger than me and probably would have pounded me into a pulp without even having to take his seat belt off.
-----
THE PUB CRAWL
I was deliriously angry, mostly because dealing with this kind of bullshit is currently what my job in Corporate America is all about, and I hadn’t been on vacation long enough to release the bitterness. My Achilles Heel: stupid, lazy people. But just like at work, there are times like this where I have to shake off the rage. I had been on the phone to Shit so he was timing it perfectly. We squeeled on to George St. to see him r*nning the other way with flour. We flew into a parking spot, I jumped out of the car and immediately barked one clear, very loud order that got almost everyone out of their coma: “All right you fuckers, circle uuuuuuuuup! I’m fucking THIRSTY!”
Let’s get something clear: sobriety is fine. I have no problem with it, and a large portion of my life is spent embracing it. But at this moment, sobriety sucked ass. My brain was spinning and I couldn’t focus. But I somehow remembered to go around and get everyone to shout their names and where they had cum from. There is close to three times as many people who do the Pub Crawl than cum from Shit’s house, and the increase in people rocks. As always, shout-outs for big turnouts go to Upstate H3 from Greenville, SC; Rumson H3 from Jersey; Charlotte H3, and Peach Fuzz from Augusta, GA. And of course, the local Happy Heretics H3. I put my head down for a few seconds to collect myself… an eternity when you’re in the middle of circle… then shouted “warm up!” and launched into the official Pub Crawl Warm Up Song with zero warning. And everyone jumped in without hesitation. Sweet. Thank you to everyone from last year who offered improvements to the song. Melody: Father Abraham. The chorus and the start of each verse:
Poor… Shit… Happens
Had Seven Wives
Seven Wives Had Shi-it Happens
First They Made Him Cum
Then They Made Him Cry
When They Took Him For His Money
With a greedy, grabbing left hand
With a right middle finger
With a vicious left foot to the gut
With a right knee to the crotch
And a wagging tongue to the bunghole.
By the way, it’s up to you to figure out how many wives Shit’s actually had. On-Out.
One bar, then another, then another. Food. Then another bar, then another, then another. Then a last one. It is a dizzying number of bars to cram into an evening. But we did it. In fact, we made up all that lost time at the start within the first couple bars. We didn’t even feel rushed. And luckily, no rain. Perfect weather, perfect company. And since we had collected some quality cab numbers, the trip back was drama-free.
RMB and I gave several people a ride back, one being Barefoot and Stupid, who had just been honored with a quality renaming at one of the bars. It appears that at some time in the past year, she had been busted for some sort of nudity at a public pool during a hash on-after and continued to eat while the cops were figuring out what to do with her. One of the cops said “Ma’am, put down the corn.” Then, in a more authoritative voice, “Ma’am, STEP AWAY FROM THE CORN.” If that doesn’t deserve a renaming, what does? Infamy, I tell you.
-----
THE COPS
The po-po. Not that I should be surprised to see them, but I was surprised. Shit didn’t have any neighbors home on either side of him, and we hadn’t been in circle that long. Ten minutes, maybe? It was somewhere between midnight and 1a. My back was to the grass strip where you get from the driveway to the back yard. Erm, I mean, where the COPS get from the driveway to the back yard. And I was wearing shorts, thank G. Because not too long before, RMB and I had just streaked past this same area.
Screw it, let me just start from the beginning. We had just gotten back from the Pub Crawl and I was sober. Dead. Fucking. Sober. What better way to catch up than hang out for a few minutes in the hot tub? But there seemed to be two other wankers with the same idea. These extremely horny individuals shall remain nameless, but I can tell you that they apparently had more than enough to drink on the pub crawl and were in no mood to share the water. So as RMB and I got in, they started making all sorts of entertaining moaning noises. And when we ignored them, the drunk-female portion of that equation drifted over and attempted to have her way with Boobs, asking some sort of question that generated a polite negative answer. So back she went, to her drunk-male portion of the equation, to make even more noise than before. Now don’t get me wrong, I’ve been in hot tubs where a lot more crazy shit than that was going on. A LOT more. But there was never this blatant attempt to either get attention or have us leave. OK, we’ll leave. But wait, we forgot our towels. So we’ll just streak.
We sprinted past the enclosed deck, down the steps, past the fire, to the strip of grass and into the side door. Past hasher after hasher, in a scene that would be quite common at a campout. But remember that little story about Step Away from the Corn? Apparently, the po-po would have frowned at clothes-less perps since there are other houses close by, and the lawyers of the group agreed: naked is bad.
A large portion of us were surprised we were getting a circle, not only because it was late, but because it so rarely happens after the pub crawl. So there we were, belting out hash song after hash song, recapping the day of Rule 6’s and random feats of Super Human Retard Strength, when I look behind me and there are two of Mount Pleasant’s finest. And one of them uttered a phrase that I’ve heard way too many times: “We heard you xxx blocks away.” Oh Jesus, here we go. They proceeded to take Shit somewhere private, and as I watched the three of them disappear into the darkness, I realized something amazing: Shit had a sarong on. In fact, there wasn’t a naked person anywhere. Unbelievable luck. Turns out a friendly neighbor across the street was having a late-night mean streak and was the one to call the cops. Shit wiggled his way out of this thorny legal problem and let everyone know that for the rest of the night, Q didn’t stand for Double Q lounge, it stood for Quiet.
Hey, is that rum? Don’t mind if I do. I didn’t try to catch up, but I was proud of my progress.
Things happened, and then other stuff happened, and then all of a sudden there were maybe 10 of us naked in the hot tub, whispering limericks and insults. FACT: trying to whisper limericks is actually funnier than screaming them. Someone snorted beer out their nose. Someone did a silent spit take.
A reviewer of porn films named Louie
Critiqued the release “Hung Kung Spooey.”
He noted with scorn
That porn isn’t porn
Unless everyone ends up gooey.
Ay, ay ay ay…
Give me five more beers your still ugly.
So sing me another verse that’s worse the other verse
And waltz me around by my willie.
I was almost too tired to move. RMB and I went to the Cloud Room and were carving a path to the air mattress when Shit appeared. We started talking about what went down all weekend, and got so far into it that we all gave up on the whole vertical-standing thing and sat down on the carpet. After a long weekend like this one, it’s nice to go back-and-forth for a while about what worked and what didn’t. Especially when so much of it worked. I took out the bottle of Crown Royal I had been saving and passed it around. And around. It was about this time that Shit reached over and handed me a box. Inside was a gorgeous Kenneth Cole watch, with a champagne face, a copper-gold dial and a silver band. On the back was an engraving of the bridge and the words Cooper River Bridge Run. For a job well done.
First Blows the Candles appeared, then Queenie, then Step Away from the Corn. Looks like everything was winding down. So we all just sat there and bullshitted for a while. I’ll always consider myself lucky that this is how so many last-nights-at-road-trips end. I wonder if the people who invented campfires and camping chairs had super-chill hangouts in mind when they got their patents.
Is there a patent on campfires?
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THE FINALE
I might have set the alarm. It may have gone off. Or I may have crawled out of bed because the sun was shining into the Cloud Room and I heard someone breaking down a tent at the side of the house. Maybe I wanted to see what was going on. Or maybe I just had to take a leak. Who knows.
The first thing I remember was being out on the deck, looking at the hot tub. It was only about a third-full of water. And the remaining water didn’t look good. I pushed the power button and nothing happened. Actually, it looked like a party happened.
There was only one tent outside, but a lot of… um… stuff. Everywhere. Abandoned clothes, trash, food… I looked at everything for more than a minute before my brain processed the fact that I should probably start cleaning up. Pixel stumbled out of the house and he looked worse that I felt. Everyone else who was at the house was still asleep. Sunday’s always rough.
I remember pounding down a couple bottles of Gatorade, but I don’t remember finding any caffeine. There must have been some though, because by the time we hit Shem Creek Bar and Grill, I was ready to go. I ran to Al’s back bar just before the restaurant opened and grabbed three bar seats, setting up our perches for the next couple hours. Hashers flooded in and The World’s Best Bloody Marys were flying.
This is one of the best bar hangouts you can imagine, surrounded by booze and oysters inside, sun and water outside. The quickly moving staff is tempered by the slowly moving drunks. The full replay of the r*ce was on one of the TVs, no red dresses in sight. Hmmm. But we did get to see the two UH3 hashers who finished in the top 50. NFHN Tim got 40th place with 33:55 and Little Prick got 44th place with 34:03. Much cheering was heard in the bar, and we sang and drank in their honor. And then we drank some more in their honor. Congrats.
(More drinking in their honor.)
I was caught off guard for maybe the fifth time during weekend when we were downing Oyster Shooters and I was asked to say a toast. I suck at remembering them, so Shit had to take over once again. And woah, the Oyster Shooters are worth a toast. Oysters, cocktail sauce, horseradish, Tabasco and beer.
The big brunch was making me so tired I wanted to pass out, so we went back to Shit’s for a quick nap. I passed by the Beer Can Room and noticed one of the strangest human odors I’ve ever experienced. It was a combination of things so random that I stood there sniffing in complete fascination, at least until the need for sleep was too overwhelming.
It took us an hour to pack up and get everything into the car. Half of the problem was that there was stuff scattered everywhere in the Cloud Room. Everywhere. I don’t think we put a single thing back into a single bag all weekend. The other half of the problem was that we had so much stuff. Food, snacks, a cooler full of booze and mixers, clothes, sleeping stuff, red dress stuff. To get to an event hooked up with everything, I guess you have to take… everything. Worth it.
The obligatory shot to celebrate the official end of a successful event came at 9p at RMB’s house. And it was here that I finally redeemed myself by remembering my favorite toast:
HERE’S TO ALCOHOL… THE CAUSE AND SOLUTION TO ALL OF LIFE’S PROBLEMS.
May the Hash Get a Piece
# posted by L&F @ 9:10 AM 
