History in the making


March 3, 2001

To some it may have seemed like a typical Thursday night in Southeast Portland—a beautiful mass of thick grey clouds hung in the sky, the bums nestled in their sleeping bags under the bridge, traffic scooted along the streets.  But no.  Those who knew better could feel the excitement: that night would be different; that night would make history.  It would be the inaugural running of the No Name Hash House Harriers.

We slowly collected in the Lucky Lab, hasher after hasher filed in, drunk with anticipation, excitement, and beer.  With each arrival, FuuFuu watched, teary eyed, surprised by the amount of people he and O made cum.  Who knew that those old farts had such stamina.

Finally, the hares, FuuFuu and O, were off.  Little did they know, they would lay the shittiest trail every to be had by the No Name Hash.  The hounds were in hot pursuit, certain the trail went over the Hawthorne Bridge due to an earlier hare sighting, we confidently followed the marks, shouting “On On” with every new spec of flour.  We never suspected that they were cruelly watching us, I’m sure with some sort of maniacal laughter as each and every hound naively ran over the bridge to the certain doom of a false trail.  Those bastards didn’t even give the FRBs a six-pack when they reached the YBF on other side.

So we turned around, our gentle spirits partially crushed and completely thirsty.  We ran through OMSI, along the waterfront, under bridges and overpasses, by bars.  So many ideal locations to moisten our pallets.  It was then that the pack stopped.  A beer check?  Oh no.  Cockjaw had snared himself a hare, and conveniently enough, right in front of the house of our beloved Shoots But Does Not Score.  Of course, Shoots and Whiskey would not let us down, and brought out a gallon jug of some delicious Carlo Rossi, and we had a much-deserved impromptu wine check while the hares got their shit together. Cankle Sore, eager to attain the very finest wine around, jumped a moving trail to rejoin the pack.

Cockjaw paraded around with FuuFuu’s shorts, standing as tall as a cock ever could, when he noticed something in the pocket.  What was it?  A wallet?  No…  A flask?  No…  It was technology on trail.  Upon further inspection, we found hare to hare texts such as “let me know when the first hasher goes by” and “I think I hear On Ons,” in addition to instructions as to where to set the trail.  I didn’t realize these old farts were such slaves to their technology.  What is the world coming to when even O, a man of nearly 105 years, can’t lay a trail without his cellphone?

We set out again, only to turn the corner and find the next beer check at the Blitz.  FuuFuu was ever so grateful to find his phone, and repaid each and every one of us enthusiastically.

The last half of the trail was as fucked up as you would expect from a man of 117 and another who had recently lost his pants. We lost a few hounds, including Chubby Chaser and Beer in the End, who eventually showed up together, a little worse for the wear, at the “On Homey.”

In true No Name style, the A’ was located approximately 100 feet from the start.  Hounds came, often multiple times, to find an endless row of pitchers of fine Oregon beer, humus and bread, and chips and salsa.  Despite the shitty trail, we ate, drank, and were merry once again.

BeeFucked was our religious advisor for that monumental day, the founding of the No Name, AND his 86th birthday.  He entertained, he insulted, and he forever made history.  We sang “fuck you” accordingly.

Rectal Rooter was appointed the ice block for the night.  Offenders, Wet Spots and Fletcher, sat on his face until they lost the will to speak.  Rectal Rooter loves the smell of tuna.

Mud Butt proved that not just new shoes, but even recently washed shoes were worthy as a vessel.

Just Valerie was forever blessed with the name “Roofie the Red Nosed Reindeer,” because that is surely the only way Pocket Pussy could have “won” her over.

As the night came to a close, a few administrative tasks needed to be attended to.  The mob chose Cockjaw as the new Religious Advisor for the No Name Hash, and BeeFucked as the unforgiving tyrant!

The No Name Hash is off to an arousing start will be making you cum every Thursday night from now on!  I can’t wait to cum again—and again and again!!!

Your sexy yet humble harriette,

Romancing the Bone

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