Chicago HHH Run #1755

Sunday 11/27 – 2:00 PM

Hares: Rhotan

Venue: Metro Deli & Cafe – 210 S. Canal St #2

Hash Cash: $8

Environmentally-Friendly Public Transit From Lincoln Park/Lakeview:Get on the Brown Line and head in towards the Loop. Exit at Quincy/Wells and walk North to Adams. Turn West and take Adams out of the Loop and over the River. Once you hit Canal St look for an entrance into Union Station – Metro Deli & Cafe is inside just off of the Great Hall.
From Wicker Park/Bucktown: Hop on the Blue Line and ride towards the Loop. After riding through the Loop, exit at Clinton and head North to Adams and then head East. Once you hit Canal St look for an entrance into Union Station – Metro Deli & Cafe is inside just off of the Great Hall.

Driving Hop in your hooptie and cruise to Union Station. There’s parking there isn’t there? I honestly have no idea</h4

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HASH TRASH
Misremembered By Little Trojan Annie

Rhotan, overzealous at the prospect of breaking up the monotony of his suburban life, was determined to set a trail the Chicago hashers would never forget, and did so by nearly killing them all. His first step was to confuse the hashers, which really isn’t all that hard to accomplish. He did so by changing the venue just two days before the hash. Granted, both places were located in Union Station, but he moved the hash from a bar to a deli, which really doesn’t make any sense. Many hashers were lost that day, literally and figuratively: they either couldn’t find the fucking deli or they just refused to leave the bar. If that weren’t enough, Rhotan sent out a message that he was prelubing and others should join him, and then he didn’t show up. Little Trojan Annie was the only one stupid enough to fall for this one, and actually showed up an hour early to the hash. However, being the trooper she is, she made the best of it: a fine gentleman at the bar insisted on buying her a beer, and she accepted. He had a glorious mullet and eye patch, and introduced himself as Cletus, a dairy farmer from northern Michigan. LTA and Cletus spent a pleasant hour bonding over conversation revolving around beer, Chuck Berry, and tending cattle. The smarter hashers (“smarter” being a relative term here) started trickling into the deli, and it was the biggest bunch of wankers and bimbos a hash ever saw, including String Theory, O’Shitty Runch, Dickens Cider, That Thing That Vibrates, Just Hattie, Just Kate, Just Adam, The Dark Kunt, Mudsucker, Lifa, Snatchsquatch, Happy Ass Grabber, Virgin Banger, Stab’em and Slab’em, and Just Mark. Rhotan, getting lost himself, finally showed up and started the hash late, which is apparently expected hash behavior, if not acceptable. Chalk talk took place in a parking garage, and Rhotan’s excitement for this trail was just oozing out of his every orifice; he forgot what marks he used on trail and was practically drooling as he gleefully informed the hashers how he lost his balls while laying trail. After being informed the first mark for trail was a check at the chalk talk circle, no one was sure what they were getting themselves into that day. Trail started out at the normal shitty level, but the hashers soon realized it was about to reach epic levels of shittiness. The first clue was the first set of stairs. The second clue was the second set of stairs. The third clue was the third set of stairs. The fourth clue was the fourth set of stairs…to be honest, there really just weren’t enough stairs on this hash. Then trail went underground into hobo territory, which, as of late, is a favorite hangout among the hashers. Lifa got lost because his GPS didn’t function underground, but it worked out to his advantage: he organized a Hobo H3 and is now always their FRB. The Dark Kunt was lucky enough to find the mother of all trail treasure: an entire ham. String Theory found a bottle of mustard, so the two of them had a nice post-Thanksgiving feast with some of the local transients around a hobo fire. Unfortunately (though not surprisingly) the meal ended abruptly as a fight broke out over the last hunk of pig flesh. More than one innocent hobo got shanked; TDK and String Theory escaped by doing most of the shanking. This trail made Just Adam realize his affinity for stairs; he proceeded to go up and down every staircase whether trail led there or not. This would have continued had he not turned a corner in a stairwell and caught O’Shitty Runch with his ginormous balls hanging out, getting ready to take a piss. The sight of Runch’s testes sent Just Adam into a frenzied, psychotic state, and his recovery is questionable. Finally the hashers emerged from the depths of Chicago, and made it to Buckingham Fountain for the shot stop. Four and a half miles until the first alcohol stop was causing a low muttering of mutiny among everyone, but the hare supplied schnapps, so the resistance was quieted for the moment. Once everyone’s bellies were warmed, the hashers were off once again. It didn’t take long for everyone to long for the hobo-riddled underground that made up the first half of trail; the weather was especially horrid, wet and cold. Going down a particularly nasty rape alley the hashers came to the first real shiggy of the day (if you don’t count hobo shanks, that is): an enormous body of water, blocking the shortest path to the beer stop. The wind whipped up rather fiercely at that moment, creating an actual current, so the question then became: to ford or not to ford? They decided to risk it, and plunged onward. After fording the river, during which 12 pounds of food, 6 boxes of ammunition, 2 oxen and a wagon wheel were lost, tragedy struck again: O’Shitty Runch got dysentery. Luckily this happened right around the corner from the beer stop, and everyone soon forgot about the horrible pain he was in. It was still well over a mile to the on-in, so this hash scribe is going to interrupt this hash trash and appeal directly to the hare: 9+ MILES FOR A HASH…RHOTAN, ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR GOD DAMNED MIND?! (Hey, I just said what everyone was thinking.) Despite the fact that beer was provided for everyone, the hashers trudged back to the bar deli with heavy hearts. There were, however, two Good Samaritans on trail, Just Mark and Stab’em and Slab’em. They helped a girl who was dragged by her scarf from a car, and stayed with her to call the police, proof positive that hashing people are good people. Once back at the Metro Deli, beer was procured, circle was RA’d by Happy Ass Grabber, and Rhotan certainly did not drink enough for his shitty trail. Late comers to the hash, the Non-Running Bastards, included Soul Taco, Ass 2 Mouth and Wang Chunks, and they were also punished because they were spared the long-ass trail. Then stories of the trail were told, down-downs were given, songs were sung, and laughs were had by all. After running over nine grueling miles, Little Trojan Annie decided that she’s tired of the urban hasher life, ran to Cletus’s open arms on his train platform, and took off to northern Michigan with him to elope and spend the rest of her days as a dairy farmer wife. Everyone else who didn’t collapse from exhaustion went to Aurelio’s to visit Tell It To My Nipples , who missed the hash because he was working. He was gracious enough to let everyone mooch a bunch of free pizza from him, so he was spared any down downs for not making trail that day. By the end of the night O’Shitty Runch had given everyone dysentery, and after consuming his fair share of free pizza, he promptly died. His tombstone simply read: Shitty weather, shitty trail, Shitty Runch.