PHHH #1211.9 Date: Sun July 20 Hare: WeePee Hounds: Rambo (HIMZ wanted to but didn't) Son Of Rambo -- Not! Fie upon any who would suggest that I like, Solo, have offsprung spawn! I work alone -- no spawn, no seed. Into what kind of hash has PHHH deterioriated! !!??? All the poseurs, pretenders, pusillanimi, wannabe's and has-beens no-show Hjiouw-E'Pij's set and then don't even have the decency to get their facts correct regarding the presence of the Archetype of Hype, the Sinbad of Chad, the Czar from Afar, at the epic event!! Vituperative amertume. Yes, I can feel it welling, rising, boiling, FESTERING inside me. For ONCE, get your facts right! This is what actually happened: Tooling along Alexander Road looking for Roszel Road -- sure it is a mistake and that we are supposed to be directed to Roswell, and a rendez-vous with aliens at Area 51 East -- I see the sign for Carnegie Center and have a flashback to the last time I had trod this ground. I remember it well -- sort of. I had just returned from Ooliander Kebir with Rojo and A.G. Zaire and we had gone to the House of Hoover for some turkey tips. After I left them, I headed to the very same Carnegie Center parking lot where I was supposed to meet Sandal Man and Jim-Bob Pee to scout an upcoming epic we were going to co-hare. Because of an altercation with armed landowners who did not appreciate our trespass -- or my pigmentation hue, that hash never took place, but we did meet in that parking lot. I remember it well. Sort of. But I digress... At the start, with the weather oppressive for Princeton, but balmy for Baghdad, I waited for the pack. First to arrive -- after me, of course, was the Assassin. He announced his arrival with the crash of an empty Stegmaier on the ground in the parking lot. "Weer dat fggin Geezer? Him promeez me come hur-ley to dreenk beer from Bellemeade Inn before hash, buh aaw we ha' heer iss yune me, Rambo. Wa up wi' dat, hombre?" (Loud burp unrecreatable here). Zaire was the next to arrive, on foot, looking worse for wear. I greeted him with a hearty "On On!", while the Assassin laid into him with a blow to the face followed by a bottle crack on the head. Zaire was more incensed than stunned or injured, having survived far worse -- I'm thinking of that incident in Namibia with Jorge the Bellemeade bartender and Geezer back in '83 with the Bantu cannibals... He grabbed the Cuban Assassin by the neck and sputtered "where is my main man, Geezer? has he turned Canuck on us?" At this point, things get a little hazy for me, as Zaire continued to hold on to the Assassin, I tried to look for a possible stash of pre-departure beer, and who should pull in but Geezer the Graybeard. The rest of us stopped what we were doing to gape. A mere shadow of his former self, shins bloody as usual, of course, but with a hunched back and hollowed frame, almost skeletal in appearance. "Quit your staring! This is what YOU'LL look like when you have 1,816 hashes under your belt! Who's got the Steg?" The Assassin reached into his pickup and grabbed one for Geezer and two for himself, ignoring the rest of us.We ignored the insult. Sort of. Preferring to focus our attentions on the mutterings and mumblings of the nearly incohate Geezer as he began ordering us to look for flour as the hour was late, he had things to do and it didn't look like Ouipee would arrive to provide a chalk talk any time soon. We took off, having found the start of the trail. We could tell right away that a debacle was imminent, as the marks were sparse and slight, and the route more pathetic than diabolical. That said, we all got separated somehow, though for a while remained within earshot of one another -- except A.G. whose voice went quickly silent. He may still be out there somewhere... By dark, I was still wandering around in the hinterlands, my normally excellent sense of direction confounded. The marks seemingly led in circles, or into impenetrable thorn thickets the likes of which I had never known OuiPee to attempt to penetrate.There WAS a deceptive reverse check at the edge of BASF's soybean fields, that bore Ouipee's (or Wacko's) mark. It was difficult to tell. That too, led nowhere -- or at least, nowhere useful. Fast-forwarding my story, eventually, I reached civilization. Sort of. At least I was able to orient myself sufficiently to make my way back to the Rambomobile -- my trusty blood-red Land Cruiser pickup, parked at the Meadow Road Presbyterian Church. There was nothing to eat or drink that I could find. No other vehicles were there. No signs of life whatsoever. I was alone.... with a yearning for bitter melon. Shitty trail. On On Rambo The Swain of Pain The Hector of the Hot Lands The Ajax of Sfax The Brigadoon of the Sand Dune The Ali of Mali The Hamhock of the Landlocked The Rastafara of the Sahara The Grand Tsetse of the Sand Flea The Mercenary on a Dromedary The Tiger of the Niger The Overlord of the Deep Fjord The Nestor of the Nordique The Skidmark from Denmark The Black from Iraq The Boor of koh-i-nor The Hiking Viking The Black Horde of the Danish Fjord The Kewl Cat of the Kattegat The Main Man in the Palace of Sadaam The Nubian Nungchuk The Viscount of Virginia The Charlemagne of Charlottesville The Man With The Plan The Black Boy with the Big Toy The Prince of the Piedmont The Shah of the Shenandoah, The Pope of the Muddy Slope The Bwana of Ghana The Will-o-the-Wisp of the Tigris The Band Aid of Foreign Aid The Bobo Dioulasso of Ouagadougou