PRINCETON HHH HASH # 704.4


Date:   March 14, 1999
Weather:  Into Thin Air-Like
Venue:  Some School on Major Road
Days since the LRF has shown up:  63 (9 hashes)
Time:  30 minutes of finding the hare, 30 minutes of finding the trail, 30
minutes on trail, 30 minutes of wandering aimlessly in the woods.
Set By:  Hand Solo
Hashers:   Frost bit Table Toes, Ice Cold Blue Balls, X-mas Tree, Darby, Not so
Tropical Depression, Natural Born Lesbian, Llllllllloda, Rubber Alllen, Speed
Bumps, Pyroman, Steve Tyler (Hey doesn't he sing for Areosmith?)


Rookie:  Wish I could remember his name.....he saved us all!!!!



The Year of the Debacle Continues
or
That's IT!! This Hash is a Joke!! I'm NEVER Running With You Guys AGAIN!!!
OR
The Curse of the Bayou




They say that during a near death experience the mind sharpens and all
things become clear.  How true this is!!  


Not finding Solo at the start of his own hash is not all that unusual.  Look
back to the spring of last year when, sans Solo, we ran two, count them two
concurrent hashes.  Well this time, at least we knew were the start was (???)! 
A school with three parking lots, six soccer games, and a variety of minivans.  
As a few hounds headed for the end of Joy's last hash, others found the hare who
had finally returned to the scene of the crime.  After rounding everyone up
(some folks had a good half hour run in already), we were off.  Literally.  Off
trail for another half hour, then back on into some lovely woods where we caught
sight of the elusive hare.  Things became truly ominous when Solo handed his
wrist compass to the directionally impaired SpeedBumps with
instructions, should things get really bad.  Nevertheless, despite the
pelting snow, the hounds managed another 5 minutes on trail, before losing
all signs of the pink flour.


Finally, out of the mass confusion came reason in the voice of Ice Blue
Balls.  "I've had enough!!  I'm going back to the start... does anyone know
where we are?"  After regrouping and finding all alive (Bumps was near
death but still moving, wrist compass intact), the Rookie led us the entire
quarter mile back to the cars.  Yup,  we had covered a quarter of a mile in
two hours.  What a debacle!!!  At this point we huddled in the cars much
like climbers at camp four on Everest.  Talk turned to cannibalism.  Solo
returned with dry bags.  We took the beer and left.


BUT, As we were bivouacked in the cars, near death, in a dreamlike state,   
things suddenly became crystal clear:


1.  The LRF had cursed the hash with a Vodoo spell from the Bayous of
Louisianna.
2.  Rubber failed to mention that when seen at the grocery store, LRF was
purchasing a live chicken.



Just in from our Nomad Hasher:


Checking the address, I stepped tentatively through the door, leaving
behind me the raucous gaity of Bourbon Street.  The darkness in the small
room was palpable.  As I waited for my eyes to adjust, I heard a voice;
"Come, sit.  You are here on behalf of the PHHH?  RoJo told me you were
coming.  How can I help you?"


I knew, instantly, that I had come to the right place.  "Well, you see, " I
began, "we believe that a curse has been put on the PHHH.  It all started
on the first hash of this year, when the one we call the LRF declared that
we were an incompetent group, and that he would never hash with us again. 
Since then, every hash, with a few notable exceptions, has been a sheer and
utter debacle.  Even our beloved Solo, holder of the wrist compass, is now
two for two in aborted hashes.  At first we thought that his brain had
simply turned to mush after running one too many ultramarathons, but we have 
since come to the realization that the LRF, reverting to his upbringing in the
Louisiana Bayou, has put a curse on the Princeton Hash.  We need your
help!  We must lift the curse, and rescue the Year of the Debacle!"


At first I thought she had fallen asleep, but soon realized that Madame G.
was merely deep in thought.  "You do, indeed, have a problem here.  The
only one who can truly lift the curse is the LRF, himself."


My heart sank, I felt myself go numb.  "There must be something we can do!"
I implored.  Visions of animal sacrifices danced through my head; it
seemed an eternity before she answered.


"Well, there is one way.  You must win back the favor of Erinle, the god of
the forests.  Your timing is actually quite good; on the hash of the Vernal
Equinox, you will sacrifice the dignity of your hare.  In the same way that
an egg can stand on it's end only twice a year, a hare can balance himself
on a sheep in this springtime ritual of the Bayou.  Do you have sheep in
Princeton?"


"No," I replied, "but we have an assortment of dogs..."


Her voice had trailed off, and I knew that my time was up.  I walked back
out into the glare of Bourbon Street, pondering where to find a sheep, or
at least a wooly dog, in Princeton...


I knew that getting the cooperation of the Hare would be no problem.