PHHH #993.9 
Date: Wednesday, June 16, 2004 
Weather: Miasmic 
Place: Princeton University, Sarnoff, Firmenich 
Hare: Bjorn Dork 
Hounds: Hey YO! Paully, Wacko, Jan, Ouipee, Jimmy Ruckfutgers, Nuttin' Stuck, Mark the 
Pilot, Stigmata, Kathleen Coggeshall (second hash) 
Time: 1:15 
Descriptions, Polemics, and Lies: 

Heart of Murkness 

    No surprises, just another tedious trail meandering through campus, allegedly past 
Prez Tilghmann's front door, doing the usual foolishness down to the tow path off 
Washington Road, where any sensible veteran would have headed directly for West Windsor 
fields.  But Jimmy, Jhwippee, Stigmata, and finally even Kathleen took the plunge in the 
refreshing waters of the Delaware heading to the Raritan, clamboring over the lost ruins 
and potshards of olde PU before reaching . . . a beercheck?  Well, there was one beer, 
Dork's beginning to get the hang of this, and if he ever learns to lay trail he won't 
try to blame the pack for running late to the softball game that had allegedly concluded 
only moments before the hounds arrived. 

    "No, really!  They just left!  Yeah, they drank all the beer except this one." Yeah, 
right.  And then, 

    "Sorry about that.  Maybe we should just stop here because you're only halfway.  
There's some seeerious mud ahead unless you like climbing trees." 

    And this is the pedagogue of the future?  Tomorrow's shaper of young minds?  Sweet 
Jesus in a cicada shell, we should all just walk into the ocean off Atlantic Highlands 
right now.  But first there was the traipsing across the fields, where we saw Nuttin' 
Stuck and his pilot buddy Mark and then we didn't and no one knows what became of them.  
The rest rambled around Sarnoff, Ken the security guard always happy to see Ouipee give 
one of his patented tours ("this is where they invented light before they thought of 
color.  And over there, Harry Olson invented sound") as they foolowed trail into the 
woods overlooking the Millstone. 

    The trail plunged down, down, down toward the swamp, well away from Route 1 or the 
Plainsboro Road bridge.  Dork does have a knack with water crossings, the rented canoe 
on #944.9 keeping him from even worse deductions.  Yet only Stigmata, Kathleen, Jimmy, 
and Weepppeeee carried on, Wacko and Jan being carried off by giant mutant cicada-sized 
mosquitos and Paully going all the way around via the Boy Scout bridge, only to miss 
the on-in on the other side.  There was a fallen tree to traverse much of the future 
peat bog but not all, and Jimmy and Weepii permanently stained their brand 
spankinryansprivates new PHHH wifebeater tees (STILL ONLY $11!!!  Gotta Get'em All!) 
with the hip-deep ook.  Well, hip deep if you're tipping the scales at 225 like Jimmy; 
Weepee was doing fine on the surface tension until he slipped.  And finally, there they 
were: not quite the great gray greasy Limpopo River (see #894.4), but the Millstone 
runs a close second. 

    Dork's not entirely dim; the on-in was placed between the scent centers of FMC and 
Firmenich in a secluded dell known only to him and two or three millions flying insects 
and redolent of something sweetly artificial.  Hard to see from Plainsboro Road, and 
the roar of giant evaporators distilling artificial hamburger and gym sock flavors 
rendered all cries of "On In!" futile.  So the 44.4444% of the pack that finished 
enjoyed another Dork specialty: the revolting on-in goodies: Triumph beer that tasted 
exactly like wet rye bread, the point of which escaped everyone but the hare; pork and 
beans in not one but three cans; and even more crummy tortillas.  Maybe one day he'll 
bring a hot greased rock. 

    "I'm so tired of chips," explained Dork. 

    Well, we're not, and get that goddam corn out of the salsa before you sweep honors 
for worst on-in food.