Run No: 425 - 28 Jul 07 - Cum Shot's Last Stand - Go-kart track, Coloane

Cum Shot's Last Stand:

We all know that hashers have split personalities, so nobody was surprised at the mismanagement b***s-up which would have had us running in 2 places at the same time. The die-hards who could be bothered to work it all out did turn up in true Hash spirit, with Betty especially volunteering to be Beer Queer’s assistant for the week, which unfortunately meant driving the van rather than running.

In the case of our illustrious hares, the Hash spirit turned out to be Tequila, still being administered as part of a dubious experiment into alternative forms of haring which had started in D2 very early that morning. I understand that the hares’ spiritual mood quickly evaporated on the steps on the hill above Roger n’ Out’s helipad, where St. Peter generously donated most of his spirits back to Mother Nature.

With Glenfiddich in hare mode this week, the FRB-ing was left to Cunter Ass and Cum Shot (there must be a pun in there somewhere). His last run with TMH3, and Cum Shot was obviously given some manual relief by The Great Check Solver in the Sky: after turning up dust as usual on the first few checks he suddenly hit on a mother lode of flour, and disappeared into the distance. Pity he didn’t get a chance to share his good fortune with us mere mortals with the odd broken check.

Meanwhile, the mere mortals were lumbering along in the forest. ‘Lumber, lumber’ we went (we were surrounded by trees). The ladies, Sandy Titty and Boobs, decided to come by the front passage, whilst the runners got in from behind. Somehow, poor old Constant Wanker was left thrashing about in the bushes on his own: no manual relief for him, and it showed as he came very late to the circle with his shorts dripping. ‘Sweat’, he said. ‘No thanks’, we replied.

We finally got out of the enchanted forest and over the big road to the picnic spot, which the hares had kindly squeezed for us. In all of the excitement they had forgotten that only one trail is needed for the hasher of average intelligence, and had decided to help us out by dumping flour on every possible route up the hill. That didn’t make it easier to climb, but it was nice to know that somebody cared.

Then we stumbled on a real puzzler: a check in front of a boulder with the trail continuing on the other side. ‘This must be another devilish Russian plot’, we thought, but sadly it was just further evidence, if any was needed, of the mental condition of the hares. At 10 metres it must qualify as the shortest check in the history of the Hash, and even then Cum Shot probably managed to get it wrong, but he wouldn’t let on. Neither did he close out the check for the less gifted solvers among us.

On we went, crossing to the Cotai side of the hill and down to the zoo, where Sandy bumped into some distant relatives. By the time she had finished chatting the keepers were convinced that she belonged there and wouldn’t let her out. I think that made her last in, but that honour may have fallen to Cunter Ass, who must have been suffering from a hashers’ version of St. Vitus’ dance, having run twice as far as anyone else and bumped into every runner and walker out there at some point, whilst managing to descend from the lofty heights of FRB to lowly LRB in only one week.

We were all hot and bothered as we sat around on the wall opposite Nam Tin’s. This wasn’t helped by Nancy Boy’s gut rot which had been ‘passed’ to him by Colonic of the Delicate Passage the previous week. The circle was jerked into life, but your humble writer couldn’t keep up with reporting the various crimes and punishments due to being doubled up in agony with Colonic’s lament. That didn’t bring any mercy, with Glenfiddich especially being his cruel but fair self: the slightest sign of weakness was merrily pounced on and the down downs flew thick and fast (they were in the right company then).

I’ve forgotten what else happened, and you’re probably not interested anyway. I believe there was an on-on at Nam Tin’s - well, why shouldn’t I? - which must go unreported owing to my delicate condition rendering me unfit company. Perhaps one of the diners would like to bring it all back up for us?

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