PRINCETON HHH HASH #735.4


DATE:     September 26, 1999
WEATHER:  Surprisingly warm
VENUE:    Heightstown bypass to a beerless beercheck to a peach stand and
bar somewhere else
TIME:     1:40
SET BY:   Hey Yo! Paully
HASHERS:  RoJo, Minor Minor Tom The Army Guy, OuiPee, TableToes, Throat
Deep, RubberAlan, LLLoda, Uranus Williams, Chris the other Army Guy, Tomoko,
Hand Solo,  Juicy, 242, Geezer, Throat Deep, WeePee, Booger 
ROOKIES:   Eugene Goei (Tomokospal), and Albert (242spal) 
NON-RUNNING INJURED HANGERS-ON:  Uranus Wiliams
(If you were there and fall into any of the above categories, but not listed
here, tell Geezer - this was so many weeks ago that this scribe's brain
can't remember that far back)


DESCRIPTIONS, LIES AND POLEMICS


When the annointed scribe procrastinates and shirks his hash-write-up
responsibilities, as this scribe has done for the past several weeks, well
first of all, you get what you pay for.  Secondly, the already mysterious
facts of the hash disappear into the nether regions of the mind, only to
likely someday resurface in my dementia-filled
older-than-the-Pleistocene-but-not-quite-as-old-as-the-Geezer old age.
Speaking of dementia, this scribe does recount the Geezer exclaiming in
disgust that he would "never run a Paully hash again" after this past
mid-summer night's eve hash, when Oberon, Bottom and Paully conspired to
send the pack slogging through miles of the Mekong River (no wait that was
Pyro's mid-summer hash with re-used write-up), or Assinpunk Creek Delta on
Paully's last set - which surprisingly had little pavement on it but seemed
a bit on the long side, especially near the end - but this is not the time
or place to debate the finer points of a mid-summer river-slogging hash).
Obviously neither party learned the lessons of the day as the Geezer
returned to run a Paully set (No LRF he - the Geezer apparently just forgot
that he had even hashed this summer), and Paully, who returned to his
pavement pounding setting ways - leading the pack down the turnpike by-pass
and many a country road (and yes the occasional field) to a bar in the
middle of nowhere inhabited solely by volleyball players of the type that
might not even be appreciated at the Belle Meade Inn (a comely bunch they
were not - and this is compared to hashers).


And when the facts and words escape this scribe, as they usually do, one is
left to make feeble attempts at jocularity and creativity by invoking poorly
written fiction, that upon first, let alone second reading (although why
anyone would read a hash report once, let alone twice is beyond me) that
really isn't amusing and really doesn't do anything except to occupy space
on the PHHH's hashnet server and website such as the drivel below which
really isn't worth reading except that, well it's written.
SCENE:  
An overpass on the turnpike bypass in central new jersey with five men in
tuxedos, each holding a martini glass, walking across the overpass with
shimmering heat rising off the pavement.  Blaring big band music plays in
the background - probably coming from a late model blue Oldsmobile parked
nearby.
DINO:  Hey Sammy, do you know where this bar is?
SAMMY:  No babe, I'm totally chillin' on it.  
PETER:  Hey Frank man, where is this place man.  This is no place to be
standin around in a tuxedo.
FRANK:  Hey babes, just keep walkin and keep with me - and maybe there's
some gin at the end of this road for ya.  
DINO:  Ba ba ba ba boom, Frankie, that gin's all-right man.
PETER:  Yea - we could at least stop off over there and see if we can pick
up some of those volleyball babes
JERRY:  Oooo yea, can we Dino, can we can we - Ohhh Laaaaaaaaaady, Oh
Laaaaaaaady 
[Jerry goes running toward a nearby bar with volleyball players and a
mingling group of decrepit souls wandering around looking for beer]. 
FRANK:  Dino, go fetch your crazy little friend there - 
At that moment, with Dino and Jerry crossing the seemingly deserted overpass
a band of post-apocalyptic-like bikers comes screaming out of nowhere across
the bridge and runs the two rat packers down - except of course that they
have no bikes and are speaking in some tongue-like language "on on, on on,
on on!!".  
A black hot rod comes screaming across the overpass, chasing the
post-apocalyptic pack, pauses for a moment near our dumbfounded heroes - a
headstrong yet dreamy Australian movie star steps out.
MEL: Ge'-Day, any of you blokes know where there might be a post-apocalyptic
oil refinery where I could fill up me tank and get a vegamite sandwich.  
None of the remaining dumbfounded rat pack answer.  MEL, our anti-hero steps
back into his car and screams-off after the poorly dressed and poorly
outfitted pack.
At that moment a British Army officer steps into the scene 
BRITISH ARMY OFFICER:  "Stop, Stop, Stop - This is just plain silly.
There's no point in going on - you never really had a good idea for a
write-up here in the first place, so just stop right now. Move along,
nothing to see here, move along. Right then. Back to that Discovery channel
piece on the Pleistocene."
Bad cartoon graphics show a man with a white beard and bleeding legs placing
flour marks next to sleeping dinosaurs.
End of write up. 


And if you've gotten this far, you can help answer the philosophical
question "If a hasher falls down in the woods while trying to write a hash
report, and no-one bothers to read it, did the write-up actually exist?  
Perhaps Joy can answer that question for us.



 PHHH 735.4