PHHH #967.9 
Date: December 21, 2003 
Place: Sam's Soft Serve Ice Cream, Princeton Pike, Lawrence 
Hare: Hey YO! Paully 
Hounds: Minor Disappointment, Discomfort, Jan, Ouipee, Hand Solo, Polish Twin C, Pyroman, 
Speed Bumps, Little Blue Butt, The Red-Faced Chugger, Sweet Tea, Mike (Hostetler?), 
Phil Hughes nka Soda Jerk, Dancin' Fool, Rambo 
Time: 75-90 minutes 
The Holes at the End of Time 

He held a darkly thunderous, apocalyptically majestic, and cataclysmically unearthly power 
of one who, to me, seemed to hold the essence of cosmic mystery. . . He was, in a sense, a 
Milton among hashers. . . . 
    Thus we set out, on the Sunday closest to the Solstice, seeking a path to insights both 
eldritch and infernal.  It was madness to even consider following the path despite the 
return of some of the most renowned members of our unofficial group: Discomfort (822.4, 842.4) 
and Rambo (757.4, ), and Little Blue Butt (789.4), but as the whipporwills blackened an 
already unholy sky in search of souls we found marks in the darkly foul forest and began our 
descent. 
    Night falling; great desolate pillared restricted-access highways; unholy abysses and 
blasphemous torrents; terraced titanic toilets in shards, fragmented by what unholy creature 
of Dagon, that far, half-celestial Cyclopean plateau whereon shines the light of no familiar 
sky of men’s knowing; shrieking mortal hounds borne downward over vast waste treatment plants 
and cyclopean gulfs where Phlegmonme & Arrrghonon flow; these are the dominant impressions one 
(i.e., myself, at least!) carries away from the study of a Hey YO! Paully solstitial set.  
Only Ouipee, Rambo, and Polish Twin A chose to enter the gaping holes to primal sights unseen 
by modern men, the hole below the highway and the canal, and PTA, a virginal hound wearing the 
thin cotton clothes of his tribe, went mad with the chill that penetrated his legs to the 
red-brown marrow of his bones. 
    His peculiar behavior seemed to infect the pack as they gathered in a low place along 
fabled Business Route 1, a thoroughfare old when the Lenape were young, for there PTA became 
obsessed with the presence, or more insistently, as his raving grew higher in pitch and 
intensity, the absence of underclothing on the barmaid's nether parts.  For the Chugger decided 
to ask, a question that hardly sat well with the maiden's betrothed, then sitting at the bar.  
His grip on her forearm was vicelike, though Chugger was fond of vices, and he frogmarched her 
back to the assembled hounds while babbling in an some tongue not of this earth, but not before 
the crowd noted a curious light--just a hint of a color out of space--flash across the maiden's 
unnaturally dark, kohl-rimmed eyes.  It was enough to drag the men of the Princeton Hash deeper 
into the perverse habits of other, lesser, hashes with their obsessions with secondary sex 
characteristics. 
    The day drove many mad--not least the one known as Phil, who declined an opportunity to 
retrieve his ID and thereupon partake of the cafe's Bud Lite draft.  "No, I'm okay with this," 
he insisted, pointing to the foul, brown, bubbling, sucrosal fluid that ate at its plastic cup 
before his red-streaked eyes.  And so Mike and Jan, the latter still haunted by the call of 
Cthulhu, the evil elder God whose face and its dancing, probing, erect tentacles emerge from a 
soft, amorphous body, heard from beneath the farthest reaches of the South Pacific seas, 
returned to their reclusive abodes, pursued by a nameless dread at what eldritch incantation 
might be visited on them at the equinox.