Hash Trash

Since Shampoo, our Hash Scribe, cannot make it to every hash to report on the sins committed, maybe you should write one for him. Send your trash to webwanker Duals ( Duals{at}hogtownh3.com )

December, 2018
Hogtown Hash Airtight Part 2
Saturday, Dec 29, 2018
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Airtight in a Swordfight set the trail on December 29, possibly thinking that by setting the previous night’s Hogan’s as well – and in the same part of town – he might get one cohesive, coherent trail out of it. I know, I just used “Airtight” and ‘coherent’ in the same sentence, but I’m still full of Christmas goodwill.

It was a nice crisp winter day, though Squirrely’s, the start point, is a nice congenial bar. So Airtight, Shampoo, Buzz and GynoMike seemed quite content to sit there and drink, but then HaiPoo, On5, Duals and Yaketty Yak arrived, so it looked like we’d have to go out and run after all.

We’d just finished saying catty things about Wet Pussy when there he was, handing Shampoo a glascine envelope containing eight dollars in small change. Shampoo looked at it like he’d never seen a plastic bag before – then again, he did nearly suffocate himself with it at the beer check, so there’s no harm in underestimating Shampoo’s abilities. This must be the reason he was appointed this week’s novelty hash cash.

Poor Aims Low got to be the only girl in this outfit. However, perhaps this wasn’t the first time she’s found herself handling nine guys at once.

Once we’d finished blocking the sidewalk for chalk talk, we worked fast and broke things, just like a tech firm. Or maybe the run really was short, after all. A little bit south of Queen, then back north of Queen. A diversion through the western portion of Trinity Bellwoods did not lead to the beer check, as had been suggested, but led west on Dundas and down to Queen again.

The last stage was straight along Queen Street with the setting sun dazzling our eyes, which might have accounted for On5 running right past the BC mark on the sidewalk in front of the Rhino. This was the second run in a row he’d done this, and he’s welcome to do so; it’s just that he inveighs others to join him, in this case Wet Pussy.

I don’t know who decided this, but in the Rhino we sat ourselves down at a couple of tables waaaay at the back of a long room, only about 200 yards from the bar. Make the waitress work for those tips! It did, however, allow us to conduct circle and attempt to sing away from the tender ears of civilized folk. And this is Parkdale we’re talking about.

On5 fled, perhaps in shame. Aims likewise, but shameless. And I left when it was barely 5:00 and there was still a lick of sunshine in the sky, grateful for a quick run and the hope my SAD will soon go away. Happy new year.

Hogtown Hash
Saturday, Dec 15, 2018
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December 15 saw just 10 shopping days until Christmas, but of course all hashers are always well prepared and have done their holiday gift buying and gotten everything wrapped and under the tree, or as an alternative are completely estranged from their families (you pick). So there was somewhat of a turnout at The Banknote, at King and Bathurst, to participate in the trail set by Baroness von Beer Bitch and Backdoor Buzz.

For instance, Pissing Doucheman found his way all the way in from Hamilton – and, more importantly, gave every indication of finding his way back again.

Buzz’s gift to us all was to not set any part of the trail despite being deemed the co-hare. So we had to depend on the calm, collected, rational nature of Baroness von Beer Bitch in her inaugural lay with us. She promised a somewhat longish trail eased by being set in nothing but arrows.

At the bar, the middle-aged men among our group (which is most of us, charitably) were very concerned about the health of our waitress. The poor thing looked like she’d catch her death of cold, forced as she was by cruel, cruel bar management to wear nothing but thigh-high stockings and a slip. So the old leches were very solicitous. Which is NOT the same thing as “soliciting”, thank you very much. And I don’t believe GynoMike offered her a free examination or anything.

Once we’d retracted our tongues from the floor, it was time to go out on King to impede the unsuspecting pedestrians. Here the trail was explained with some caveats: no falses, but the sample arrows were now decorated with random crosses, kind of like the stars I see every time I hit my head. So some of those arrows turned out to be not quite true after all.

They did prove true as far as getting us down Portland Street to Front, where we took the footbridge to get a panoramic view of downtown as well as cross to the other side of the tracks. Once there our trail directed us toward Bathurst.

With Fort York on our right, we carried on under the pillars of the Gardiner through the bits of parkland around the new Bentway – it’s almost as if they named it with us in mind. The arrows wavered a bit here, but still directed us through the parking lot beside the armoury to the corner of Strachan and Lakeshore, across from the Exhibition.

Making our way through Coronation Park, we entered what once was Ontario Place, in its transitional period between desolate wasteland and Doug Ford’s casino, but which for the time being had been transformed into a winter wonderland of skaters, fairy lights and beavertail booths, a sight so magically delightful even HaiPooGai could bring himself to make hardly any caustic, sarcastic comments. We didn’t stop there, naturally, but carried on until we reached the pier overlooking the bleak, depressing, frigid lake. Then again, we had reached the beer check.

Most of us, that is. In this trail that featured not one single check, 0n5, Sex Tourist and Wet Pussy all managed to overrun the Beer Near and Beer Check marks and were still lollygagging around Ontario Place while the rest of us were enjoying decent craft beers and shivering with the cold.

They eventually stopped circling to join us. And there were bathrooms on our way out. Heated bathrooms. That’s about the best thing you can find on a trail until we all get to ride motorized bar stools.

A leisurely walk through the CNE grounds sent us through the tunnel under the GO station into Liberty Village, and soon after to our on on in the cavernous warren of an old factory called Liberty Common, where they herded us into a room in the basement called the Drink Tank. So it’s almost Christmas Eve and we’re in the Drink Tank, sort of like that Pogues song.

I got a weirded-out feeling that everybody was staring at me in an obsessed, slightly aghast way (I get that a lot) but it turned out they were watching a war movie on the huge screen behind me. I don’t know why it was on, either. Perhaps as a segue to Buzz running circle and our two songs? Moist Leatherette gamely tried to lead us in “singing”, but we still sounded like a choir of freaking mimes.

By the time me and Moist, Wet Pussy and Pissing Doucheman left to catch the streetcar, Just Heather and Just Maria were still Just Heather and Just Maria, unless their lives went horribly wrong after we left.

November, 2018
Hogtown Hash Birthday Run to Bonfie! - Trail TWO
Saturday, Nov 03, 2018
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November 3 saw the Beaver Buster birthday trail, wherein Blurry Beaver attempted to inveigh simple, unsuspecting folk (hashers) into running ridiculous distances and drinking vast quantities of beer in honour of her birthday. This year it’s 33, so the goal was 33 “sips” of beer – the sip to be a matter of one’s judgment, I guess.

So let’s call it the Marathon of Hops.

Surprisingly, those who were suggestible enough to participate in this were still mostly upright when they started to, ahem, trickle in to the Dark Horse, the start point of the second hash of the day, although Backdoor Buzz, Loopy and Herculean Handjob were spotted flowing out of a taxi. Mind you, the Dark Horse is at Bloor and Jane, and they started near Yonge Street at 11:00, so that is six hours of varied drinking.

We had about an equivalent, much fresher, number waiting at the Dark Horse, including several new boots (or, as I like to call them, people we will never see again), including both a Just Jerri and a Just Jerry. Also a robust elderly Norwegian called Airhead, the very image of the sort of belligerently healthy Scandinavian senior citizen our government used to throw in our faces to shame us into participacting.

The hare for this second trail was Juggler, and he was promising fire. A real bonfire, an early start for Guy Fawkes night, and damn the consequences!

Surprisingly, this was Juggler’s virgin lay, but I’ll credit his trail for being devious, sneaky and mischievous – these are all good things – and making full infuriating use of Swansea’s superfluity of scenic cul-de-sacs, steep inclines and leaf-slick staircases. This lived up to its full disorienting potential (it would have to be if a trail sees Shampoo spending any amount of time as an FRB), but considering half the pack’s heads were already spinning, maybe it cancelled out.

After enough of this we were back at Bloor, to the west of Jane, but not all that far from where we started. Here the hare had drawn an arrow directing our addled crew to make a death-defying leap into the thunderous traffic on Bloor. Of course, it was the Saturday night rush hour, and the traffic was stationary, so maybe he meant to do that.

On the north side of Bloor we had a similar session of twists and turns and ups and downs. Finally, as one descended the wooded path into Etienne Brule park (beside the Humber at the Old Mill) one saw a bonfire just past the parking lot. And infuriatingly surrounding it were the walkers who had managed to outpace the runners.

This was the beer check, and also the on on. What, you thought Juggler would have us over at their place to play with fire? Although he did have that firebug’s gleam in his eye as he hauled out a large stock of pallets and scrap lumber from his neighbour’s reno (or maybe it’s his way of stopping his neighbour’s reno).

Blurry Beaver and Naughty Ways left us to continue their run to make up the intended 13 point something miles, and also to prove that alcohol psychosis must have set in. Meanwhile Half Wit thought she’d lost Stunt Boobs because he wasn’t answering his phone, but his explanation when he did show up was that he’d dropped his phone in the diaper bag or something, to which all I can say is “Ewww.” Eventually all our lost sheep were gathered and First Lady achieved his dream of towering over us for the down downs from atop a picnic table, until Tore de Pants cleared him out when she brought in the pizza.

It was one of those crisp harvest-season nights where you appreciate standing in a circle around the sacred fire until you smell like wood smoke. And at least we refrained from building the pallets into a replica of Grenfell Tower.

September, 2018
Hogtown Hash 1695: The Lick a Bum Trail
Saturday, Sep 08, 2018
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Saturday, September 8 saw In My Bum Per My Mum and Lick it Up assume haring duties, apparently under their own motivation. In fact, they seemed to throw themselves into it with enthusiasm (with the proviso that two half-minds assuming the same trail usually results in less than one whole mind at work, and makes an ass out of you and me).

Our trail was set out of Betty’s, on King Street East near Sherbourne. It was busy on a Saturday afternoon, but we managed to squeeze our way in. Black Widow put in the effort to make the long drive from wherever he lives in the northwest quadrant, with the added advantage of becoming the magic bag wagon, snagging that coveted parking space three feet from the bar. Airtight was packing a baby, which pretty much gives him immunity from any responsibility. We also attracted a couple of new boots: Just Adrian, who told us he was almost immediately moving to Iceland to made prosthetic devices; and Just Naomi, who has moved here from the States to go to grad school.

To make himself memorable, Just Adrian changed into his running gear, and it was an eye-wincing sight. Not only the DayGlo orange shirt, but the dazzlingly patterned tights that unfortunately drew one’s gaze to Adrian’s own prosthetic medical device. This was distracting and, frankly, unsettling. It was like hashing with Freddy Mercury or something.

Once started, we encountered a number of checks that all more or less continued east along King Street, until we turned south into the new Corktown neighbourhood. This put us under the highway overpasses where there is a collection of rather cool murals and graffiti. And one section, plastered with mirrors overhead, that Shampoo remarked looked like his bedroom. He then lay down on the concrete and suggested we contort ourselves into letters and spell out rude words. This went nowhere, and it was insensitive of Shampoo to assume that level of literacy in the hash. Haipoogai contented himself with drawing a chalk outline around him.

We noodled around the Corktown Common park, where by now First Lady had mysteriously appeared, and made ourselves dizzy going in circles to get to the playground at the top. Once up there, Naomi, Adrian and Black Widow abandoned themselves to childish glee (and made the actual children scatter) and decided to go down the slide as a threesome, which was fine except that with Black Widow squeezed in front the slide became more of a stuck.

Heading onto the Don River bike path, we cut through our one bit of shiggy (though Shampoo still managed to hit his head on a fence) and a bit further on we reached our beer check in the blasted, post-apocalyptic environment underneath the Gardiner Expressway. And there was Pabst Blue Ribbon to drink: the official beer of the post-apocalypse.

Back at Betty’s, I think our waitress spotted us as trouble as soon as GynoMike sat down and she relieved him of his traveller. This was even before she was dragged into a “discussion” with Haipoogai about the qualities of some of the beers. We were on the back patio, so there were relatively few other customers we could bother; and I have to say, fewer and fewer as the night went on.

Let’s see if Naomi comes our way again. She seemed lively and well-integrated with the kennel, although she did mention something about talking with Haipoogai and not being sure if this was a safe space for her. She might have been kidding; anyway it shows she’s no fool.

Circle was reopened because Shampoo, Haipoogai and Black Widow thought they’d be clever in leaving trail and shortcutting to the on in, and so had managed to avoid the proper circle, held at an undisclosed location. This was mainly used as an occasion to down down Shampoo (slowly) until he turned green. And it also offered the opportunity to name Just Adrian – those tights, you know – so he has now become Moose Knuckle. Or Moose Canuckle, if he wants to be our international ambassador.

Hogtown Hash: Back to school trail
Monday, Sep 03, 2018
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The hash for September 3 met at The Draught House on Yonge Street at Isabella and it represents a bit of the old Yonge Street we fondly remember and is fast disappearing. The clientele drew heavily on jittery, meth-eyed young guys whose neck tattoos were accentuated by the precise fit of their wife-beaters. I’m sure if we had any trouble, among our party the cherubic Come Forth in Orange could challenge them with his Nordic walking sticks, or maybe GynoMike could talk good sense into them after a while. Now Haipoogai would only get them riled up.

We were joined by one out-of-towner, Mister Peeenut from Sarnia. Baroness Beer Bitch showed up, and Stunt Boobs with Anaya in a stroller, and Shadow managed to make it out as well (and not in a stroller). Short Caucasian also joined us, but he was taking this “day off” thing as far as possible by not running with us at all, even though he’d worn his usual hashing gear.

So it was Labour Day. And in keeping with the grand tradition of organized labour of featherbedding, double dipping, freeloading, logrolling, goldbricking, skylarking, fucking the dog and general I’m-all-right-Jack bloodymindedness, we have our hare: Aims Low.

It was like back in the 1970s when they used to facetiously award the “Square Wheel Award” to the British automotive industry, when there still was a British automotive industry. When that rattle in the door of your Austin Marina was caused by the half-finished bottle of Newcastle Brown Ale wedged in the window winder mechanism (“and I’ll be wanting that back then, mate”).

So, Aims Low did indeed set off – we confirmed it by watching her through the window of the pub ¬– to set a live trail. But possibly she was convinced that all she had to do was run the trail; putting marks down on the pavement was some other bloke’s job. Bloody unions…

When we followed her, we got as far as crossing Yonge Street to Isabella before hitting the first fustercluck. A check, a thin ribbon of park leading north, a thin ribbon of park leading south, Isabella Street continuing east, and no obvious signs of trail. Give it ten minutes of scattered running about before somebody figured out we should head over to Church.

And that was pretty much the pattern for the night. Another ten minutes to figure out the trail went up Church, and repeat the same at the top of Church.

Where Church Street curves to become Davenport, another street, Park Road, runs steeply down to the Rosedale Valley. And up this steep street a somewhat addled young man was hauling an eight-foot metal cage on wheels, filled with… something, some kind of stuff behind a tarp, but smelling strongly of patchouli. And he was gradually losing control of it and it was about to careen down the hill. Although this obviously had terrific slapstick potential, Shampoo decided to be a nice guy and offered to help push it, soon joined by Juggler. They got it up to level ground and started pushing it in the direction of the Canadian Tire store, which paid off, because that was where the trail went.

This took us up Yonge Street as far as Rosedale Valley Road, where there was an even longer, more fruitless reconnaissance in all the wrong directions at the next check. Although Mister Peeenut searched like a maniac, finally, through some arcane process of divination, somebody else discovered an obscure route into Ramsden Park, up the pitch-dark stairs on the south side, to Belmont and then to Davenport, where we faced even more botheration at the next check.

The level of frustration reached a point here a group including Buzz, Baroness Beer Bitch and Come Forth In Orange decided to pack it in and head back to the start. But doughty Mister Peeenut discovered trail heading into Jesse Ketchum school on the west side of Bay, and somewhat against their better judgment Juggler, Wet Pussy and Shampoo decided to follow him. Juggler had the presence of mind to bring a flashlight – it’s that time, people, it gets dark by 9:00, which it was about then. Though I don’t know why we’d let somebody with that kind of foresight and ability to plan into the hash.

But we few were on, emerging onto Hazelton and then going through Yorkville before hitting Avenue Road. And there we came across no one else but Shadow, slowly trundling along all by himself. Then it was back into Yorkville, across Bloor down St. Thomas to U of T, then over to Bay, with the much-diminished crew of thirsty stragglers (and it was a very hot and sticky night) wondering when oh when would this torture stop?

Poor Mister Peeenut was the hardest-working hasher that night and he got nada, zilch, bupkis out of it. He was last spotted around Wellesley near Yonge, which turned out to be on the approach path to the beer check. On one of the cross streets on the other side of Yonge, Shampoo was the FRB and he looked up from the trail – and here, perversely, there were marks aplenty – to see Aims Low walking toward him.

She was outta there. She’d already had dinner at the beer check; we were all too slow; she’d done her job and was going home. Buh-bye. You’re on your own, bub.

So I stumped on down to the beer check, at Mick E. Flynn’s across from Maple Leaf Gardens. I was right chuffed at the outcome, even if I did have to sit there all by myself. I’d won the hash! Yes, it does matter. When the time comes for me to reflect on my life and tally up all my accomplishments, this will obviously be at the top of the list.

A few others trickled in: Wet Pussy, Shadow, Stunt Boobs pushing Anaya in the stroller, and eventually Juggler. The staff at Mick E. Flynn’s treated us with the combination of bored indifference and moderate hostility they’ve given us every single time the hash has been there, which in this case meant being shrugged at by a couple of Colin Farrell lookalikes with bad, homemade fauxhawks.

So there was our small group of survivors on the patio, with baby Anaya parked on the sidewalk on College Street in what has to be the world’s worst daycare. Two of us were drinking beer, one wanted very much to breastfeed and the rest had only water. I’m sure Anaya is still a milk drinker as well.

I still have 43 dollars in hash cash, which I will hand over if I can stay away from the dog track.

The consensus around the table was that this was the Worst. Hash. Ever, but I suggested a number of others that had been equally as bad or worse. And I set some of them.

But whatever it was, whatever its faults, it was still better than what Half Wit was doing that night, cramming before having to face her latest group of eight-year-old horrors on Tuesday morning.

August, 2018
Hogtown Hash: The Dress Like Buzz Hash!
Saturday, Aug 25, 2018
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I have indeed been remiss. There was a perfectly good trail set by Backdoor Buzz on the first hashing Saturday in August around High Park and Roncesvalles, and then on the next Monday First Lady set a perfectly good trail around College and Bathurst, Kensington Market and U of T. Perfectly good trails, and I didn’t get around to saying anything about them. Know what? There’s a reason you have a movie called “Titanic” and you don’t have a movie called “Olympic: Just as Fancy as the Titanic, 24 Years of Transatlantic Service and Didn’t Sink Once.”

In a similar light, this brings us to the trail Shampoo and Moist Leatherette decided to set on August 25. Their choice of venue was Hurricane’s, on Bloor near Dovercourt. The hares did not know that Bloor had been closed for a street festival from Ossington to Dufferin, although that could be treated as a feature not a bug.

Then about 3:00 o’clock, just when Shampoo and Moist set off to lay trail, it started to patter down rain. Then it began to bucket down rain. The hares took shelter while the setting of trail was delayed by rain – or you could say retarded by rain, taking into account the two half minds involved. After some while the hares reluctantly decided they had better leave their overhang in Dufferin Grove and glumly began making some marks.

However, the rain did let up gradually, and by 5:00 the sun had come out again. At Hurricane’s there were two people standing on the sidewalk chainsmoking while leaning over the patio fence to reach their drinks, despite the continuous chiding of the bar staff. But one of them was wearing a Munich HHH shirt, so they must be hashers. They were Cramdicks and Poostick, visiting from, well, everywhere apparently.

A few others began to trickle in: GynoMike (though I’m sure he’d take exception at “trickle”), Yakkety Yak, Duals – basically those few who inexplicably thought hashing might be more fun than staying at home watching YouTube cat videos. And Come Forth in Orange, from West London. Orange shirt, orange hat, orange shoes, orange jacket – I have no idea why’d they call him that.

Wet Pussy was the last to arrive, having had to trek all the way in from East York, he said (more like Bloor and Christie), because of the war on the car.

This was also supposed to be a theme hash, and the theme was “Dress Like Backdoor Buzz.” So wear what you would normally see him wearing: Hawaiian shirt or lingerie. Shampoo brought a Hawaiian shirt. Duals wore a hash shirt that was also a Hawaiian shirt. Wet Pussy wore a hash shirt that, although not Hawaiian, was still a gay and provocative yellow. Moist Leatherette was going to wear lingerie, but she forgot.

Several hashers did manage to acquire helium balloons – I never noticed which unhappy seven-year-olds they’d taken them from. Come Forth in Orange’s balloon was also orange.

At about 20 to 6:00 the small, confused, uncertain pack was finally cajoled into action. The small clutch of actual runners (Duals, Yakkety Yak and Wet Pussy) had attached their balloons to their persons. As the balloons bobbed up and down through Dufferin Grove, I thought this was an innovation we should consider for identification and tracking purposes, unless of course you find yourself accidentally following a seven-year-old.

Remarkably, much of the trail was still in existence, which was useful since Shampoo had said to hell with it in frustration and marked mostly arrows, except for those places where Moist had marked checks as well.

After going through the park and heading down Dufferin and over to College, the trail trended west until meeting up with the railpath at Dundas and Stirling Road, and then followed that up to Bloor. A couple of streets north of Bloor the trail turned east on Wallace, and stopped for the beer check on (presumably) the right side of the tracks.

Yes, there is actually a level crossing in the middle of the city, if you want something to play on. The beer check was in a microbrewery with a great view of the speeding GO Train. It was thick with millennials sipping their cucumber-yuzu-hibiscus saisons and mango-oatmeal-corriander kolsches, in preference to real beer. But we squeezed in and ordered tiny expensive glasses.

We were on the second round (they were small glasses) when the walkers finally arrived, including GynoMike, thank God, with the hash cash. By the time Come Forth in Orange broke his balloon with a resounding bang – the sort of thing which makes people duck and cover now – and what with the broken glass, it was getting about time for us to leave, once we’d pried GynoMike away from cock-blocking the young couple chatting intimately by the window. But he had this very interesting story to tell them about China.

On the way back to the on in a few hashers stopped in at a store – I guess it was a store, though they didn’t seem to be trying to sell very much – filled with iguanas, snakes, turtles, parrots and other exotic birds, as well as insects and dead frozen mice and rats for feeding the reptiles. Shampoo and Moist spent a good long time there, trying to figure out who most resembled whom.

For the second Saturday in a row, H2Ho and Ra were waiting for us on the patio at Hurricane’s, to gloat in their comfortable leisureware at us in our sweaty squalid disarray. But at least Ra wore a damn Hawaiian shirt.

Hogtown Hash
Monday, Aug 06, 2018
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The Monday run on the August long weekend was an interesting experience, given that of the two hares, Haipoogai acted as adult supervision for Duals, and Duals got to be the adult supervision for Haipoogai.

Their venue of choice was Scallywags, at the corner of St. Clair and Yonge. Haipoogai and citizen-of-convenience Gary Glitter, back here for his annual visit, were sitting just next to a bucket that was filling up with a leak from the ceiling, even though we were on the ground floor and there were plenty of available tables.

It had been raining heavily earlier in the day and much of the trail had been washed away. So Duals had slipped out to relay it, and also to look for his phone, which he’d dropped somewhere.

By the time the pack gathered outside, the rain had ended but it had been replaced with sweltering heat and blazing sunshine. This brought a chorus of whining, bitching and whinging. “It’s too hot,” complained Aims Low. “It’s too humid,” whined Airtight in a Swordfight. “Airtight is too sticky,” moaned One Hump. “What heat?,” said Gary Glitter, normally resident in steamy, sultry Taiwan. Duals was back with his phone, and attempted an explanation of the trail markings, while we all admired the size, length, girth, stiffness and healthy pink complexion of his… chalk.

We set off westbound at about the slowest pace possible to not be called walking. After a short jaunt westbound along St. Clair the trail turned down Foxbar, which we all followed despite many of us knowing (and we’ve been along it several times) simply deposits you on Avenue Road, but with about twice the distance of simply going along St. Clair.

We crossed Avenue Road into the southerly precincts of Forest Hill and headed down Poplar Plains with no digressions into the inviting parkland (I’m sure to the vast relief of the neighbourhood) to Dupont, and then a short distance down Avenue Road to the entrance to Ramsden Park (where we started to become Rosedale’s problem).

Once in, the pack gathered around a picnic table to enjoy a cooler bag of pudding shooters, even though – let’s blame this on the heat and humidity and not Duals’ culinary skills – the pudding was more like a thick, syrupy chocolate milk heavily dosed with liquor, like I vaguely remember from my preschool days…

All right, I was a whiny, difficult tyke, and my mother wanted to watch her shows.

A dog-walking woman made a beeline over to us and said we looked like hashers and a friend of hers had been a hasher, and…could she have one of our shooters? Ahh, Rosedale drunks, cheap and undiscerning. I gather Stunt Boobs isn’t allowed out of the house much anymore so I can understand how he could get lost, and we had real-time updates as our Mission Control steered him in our direction as if he was Apollo 13 or something. It’s good that wandering hashers can now rely on satnav to make their way to the drinks, and it’ll be a great day to be alive when drones bring them to us.

On the other side of Yonge we hung back while Duals tried to reorient himself on his own trail and, apparently, look for his phone again. We followed him at a discrete distance into the Summerhill area beside the magnificent Venetian liquor store, as far as the edge of the Moore Ravine. But first National Pornographic reached into her kit bag of wonders to extract another of her shooter concoctions – half brandy and half orange juice (“freshly squeezed”, she insisted, though she didn’t say on what). Haipoogai thought fit to complain in the style of the old Borscht Belt joke: the shooters were terrible, and the shots too small.

Meanwhile there was yet more confusion about the whereabouts of several more members of the pack, who had been right behind us and who had then disappeared. Turned out Backdoor Buzz, Airtight and One Hump had been left alone with the bag of pudding shots, and had been trying to polish them off as they slowly made their way to join us.

Then the trail went downhill, in both elevation and quality. We took the stairs down into the valley, and then the trail sort of disappeared, other than a couple of marks leading us in a general direction (north) and then you had to rely on infallible hasher intuition, listening for yelling and spotting the occasional luridly-coloured shirt in the underbrush to find your way. At least that was Shampoo’s experience, who refused to mix with the group, which kept closer to the lip of the valley. But no worries, the trail emerged on the north side of St. Clair, climbed to street level and crossed to the southeast corner of the St. Clair bridge.

There is a pleasant shady greensward there, perfect for a beer check, safe from the bridge trolls below and a handy place for Duals to drop his phone. The neighbours were still out of town, apparently. So beer check was followed by circle and then most who could took off, though it was a short straight walk back to the bar and impossible to get lost, I think. Buzz, Gary Glitter, Shampoo and (Haipoo?) headed to Scallywags to try to keep Tuesday away as long as possible.

July, 2018
Hogtown Hash
Saturday, Jul 28, 2018
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Sex Tourist and Naughty Ways put a lot of effort into setting the Saturday, July 28, Hogtown trail. And you know how taxing it must be for them to always have to look the “wrong” way whilst crossing the street.

We met at the Dark Horse, on Bloor near Jane. While we had no mismanagement with us, it was my impression we got under way more smoothly and promptly than usual. The moment to leave might also have been signalled as we watched a large patch of urine steadily spread across Baby Olivia’s midsection – I know there must be websites that specialize in that sort of thing, but thanks, I’d rather not.

The hares were still engaged in drawing what looked like a decision tree on the sidewalk and trying to describe it in some unintelligible language resembling English when up wandered Lick It Up and In Me Bum Like Yer Mum (or is it In Yer Bum Like Me Mum? – Dr Jordan Peterson is not the only person conflicted about their pronouns, and besides my mind begins to wanders at “bum”).

We set off south along a route that might have terrified National Pornographic that we were going to her house. Instead we jogged over several streets in Swansea heading toward Rennie Park, although Lick It Up and Moist Leatherette decided to follow a path of their own making until they were retrieved. After tumbling down the slope the trail entered the thick late-summer woods and pushed through a wall of tall reeds until it crossed a bridge, on either side of which was a pond covered in a carpet of beautiful, violently green and probably toxic algae.

Once up among the houses again we continued to the Queensway, where we admired Grenadier Pond for a few moments preparatory to having to run a check, but the trail moved on to the Lakeshore. We then followed the waterfront trail past the monument that once stood right in the middle of the QEW, years ago, and which according to family legend my Uncle George ran into – twice! – while returning from a long night at the Army and Navy Club.

We crossed the elegant arched bridge over the Humber River and followed the park path along the riverbank, under the highway overpasses, until we veered off through the high reeds and sharp fronds and came to a patch of dry ground jutting into the placid, meandering river: like a sight out of Huck Finn. Around us swallows dove and goldfinches flitted, and Sex Tourist had flasks of a concoction made of tequila and some sort of lemony stuff Naughty Ways said they’d found in the cupboard: so, tequila and Pledge.

We carried on, now leaving the river, following the park path past the flying saucer washroom (where Funky Monkey earned her name) and a few more woodsy bits into Etobicoke. A couple of streets later we were in Kings Mill Park, flushing at least one bunny rabbit, and soon markings for the beer check were to be seen. They led under the piers of the Bloor Street bridge, following narrower and narrower paths hemmed in by jungle-like growth and rife with mosquitoes. Perfect! We finally emerged on a wide kink in the trail with a view of several groups of kayakers happily plashing in the bend of the river. Better still was a good supply of tall boys, and Airtight and One Hump had recovered from the flood to be able to join us.

Then it was time for our crappy circle. This had nothing to do with the crappy trail (which was shitty, as usual) or our crappy singing (which was lame, as always) or the crappy down downs (which were interminable and conducted by HaiPooGai as our self-appointed GM). No, it was about In Yer Bum starting to fidget when she realized she was standing under a bird’s nest, and the bird literally crapped on her. (Perhaps this was a sign of Gispert’s wrath at her and Lick It Up claiming to have enjoyed brief mutual entertainment on trail.) National Pornographic got overly concerned about Shampoo backing into a stand of noxious prickly plants, which was where Wheel Nutz would happily have pushed Shampoo after he quipped that he was starting to look like Drake.

So all in all, a successful circle.

A set of stairs led up to Bloor, and unless you were acrophobic it was straightforward enough to make our way back to the Dark Horse. There we lost On5, Wheel Nutz, Airtight and One Hump, probably because of something I said, but the rest of us gathered on the patio and balanced plates and drinks on our knees to enjoy a refreshing summer evening, with no more freaking running.

ROGUE Hogtown Hash: Surprises from the WP
Saturday, Jul 07, 2018
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On July 7 Wet Pussy shocked our world and threw off our internal clocks, outside relationships, “honey do” lists and sex schedules by setting a spur-of-the-moment Saturday “rogue” hash. Now to “go rogue” is to engage in unpredictable, random, dangerous and probably destructive behaviour, and does that sound like the Wet Pussy we know? More likely it was an opportunity for him to recycle every trail he’s set over the last 20 odd years, because that spray paint ain’t rubbing off soon.

We met at The Congress, on the less scenic stretch of Yonge a stone’s throw north of the 401. Loopy confessed to staying up until 5:00 that morning, and Shampoo complained about waking up then. Both Sex Toy and Trix are for Prix came out of hibernation and made the long journey to North York (made even more irritating by a subway shutdown), and even Short Caucasian braved the heady atmosphere north of Bloor. Half Wit came intending to push a stroller, and One Hump or Two brought along her child, and also her daughter.

We had one visitor join us, a fellow from somewhere in South Asia called Pervert. And he said he knew a Hogtowner, if only he could remember his name. Hump something? “Humpday?” Yeah, that’s it.

Speaking of Hump Day, good news on those Thai boys getting brought out of the cave, and maybe we’ll be seeing him again soon.

It was a beautiful, hot, sunny day, so we colonized the front patio and drove away the one customer (this was Main Street North York, and something akin to sitting next to the highway, so I don’t think they do outside). And the two skeezy looking guys slouching in front of the dispensary next door gave us a look like it was maybe time for them to rethink their way of living, if we were an example of how they might end up.

The start of the trail was familiar, as we ran down Yonge, past the mausoleum (which is a good start) toward the 401. We’d done this before: through a succession of scary dark tunnels and precarious sidewalks to get around the cloverleaf. After doing this several times we were back on the northeast corner, having started on the northwest; only another kilometre or so out of my life.

This brought us to the gate of a condo, where the hare advised us to be vewy vewy quiet when we went through the grounds, since it was after 6:00 and all the residents were napping. But we made it without disturbing anyone’s sleep and carried on through some residential streets, bits of parkland, and the grounds of another Shady Acres, all within the sound of the dull roar of the 401.

We were now at the corner of Sheppard and Bayview, and crossed over to the east side to carry on north. Trudging up Bayview I thought it was very strange that all the traffic seemed to be slowing for us but then I realized a shirtless 0n5 was charging up behind me, and that’s a sight that tends to stop traffic. We turned east and carried on through a pleasant bit of parkland, jogged over another street (a late Tore de Pants emerged like a ninja to join us at this point), and entered a stretch of shady trees and verdant nature, with a babbling brook running down the middle. (Perhaps it was me doing the babbling.) If this was the treacherous water crossing Wet Pussy had been threatening us with, it was nothing. You could follow the stream by jumping from rock to rock and hardly get your feet wet.

Except that when we got to the end of the creek there was the water crossing, a branch of the Don that came to about waist deep when you waded across it. National Pornographic and Naughty Ways shrieked and acted like they were made out of spun sugar, and I’m not so sure about the fecal count of the water, but we made it all right. And once over we emerged from the dense brambles and raging torrent into manicured parkland and the bemused stares of park-goers, looking at us like we were the unsightliest water sprites ever.

We were now in another recycled bit of the trail, a stretch of park we’d been through 20 times before. It was a place to get one’s bearings, since it led to Leslie Street and Wet Pussy’s house. When we reached his street there was a “BC” chalked on the sidewalk with an arrow pointing to one of his neighbours, but crossed out, and with people inside the house glaring out the window and giving us the fish eye. So maybe the beer check wasn’t there after all, and it raises the question about the state of Wet Pussy’s relations with his neighbours. But it was a trek of all of another five houses to get to Wet Pussy’s, where we were welcomed in the back yard.

As usual, Wet Pussy offered his fabulous spread of delectable comestibles – you really have to respect a man who cures his own meat, or at least be a little nervous around him.

Munching done, First Lady got down to the business of circle and pulled out a beautiful object like a shiny gay unicorn and just as covered in glitter and sequins – the seldom-seen sacred Hogtown vessel. Among the recipients of down downs was GynoMike, who has been laid up for a bit while they installed a bionic addition to one of his organs – his heart in this case, not where he really wanted it. Let’s all wish him a full recovery and continuing good health, and now when someone calls him a total stent, they’d be right.

June, 2018
Hogtown Hash: Heading East Trail
Monday, Jun 11, 2018
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Monday, June 11, was another opportunity for National Pornographic to continue her legacy of high achievement, as she volunteered to hare once again. She chose to set trail out of the Linsmore Tavern, conveniently located mere steps from the Danforth/Greenwood subway station. I recently accused it of getting all gentrified and I have to walk that back: the ratty, musty stuffed deer heads are still hanging from the wall after all. There is, weirdly, a working hot air blower in the men’s washroom, however.

We had a visitor: Fucking Shakespeare, a fairly broad fellow from West London, with a fairly broad West London accent, over here for six days of rugby supporting and drinking. (As if there’s a difference…) So as he said, coming to the hash was his chance to start tapering off. So picture hashing with a supersized Lenny Henry.

I’m not sure if we should still consider Messiah a visitor or not, but then again if we call him a Hogtowner he might start to feel at home here.

We set out across the Danforth after admiring the scientific precision with which the hare had drawn the demonstration trail markings. After going through a laneway we got to run across a nice soft playing field, and Natty apologized for not mentioning before the guard rail bordering it – which might have been useful information for First Lady, pushing both his kids in the stroller.

We took a tour through Monarch Park that deposited us at Coxwell, and carried on east to the ravine to the north of the train tracks. Actually we skirted the lip of the ravine, although Aims Low did remark how nice it was to go down – into the leafy valley, that is.

After a short jog north we emerged into East Lynn Park just south of the Danforth where we established ourselves on a small mound, like underachieving alpinists. From there we were able to survey the playground Booze Buggy had run off to. And there was wine. Or “wine”, considering the look on Wet Pussy’s face (hey, it came out of a box, so it had to be good). Maybe this was Natty’s way of skirting around any alcohol infractions if the police did happen to drop by. She also passed around a bag of her salty nuts.

Speaking of nuts, Wet Pussy definitely found himself in a jam when he thought he’d play on the slide in the kiddie area. It was a two-parter: one narrow straight slide and one with a succession of tiny moguls, with a narrow ridge separating the two parts – none of these a comfortable option for the over-50 set. And what about that restraining order, huh?

Our trail continued on into East York, past the hospital and the civic centre in what began to feel like entirely the wrong direction to Shampoo, who trudged along in a small clutch with Natty and Fucking Shakespeare. Surely we needed to head back to the Danforth for the beer check? And where was everybody?

By the time we got as far as Cosburn it was revealed there was indeed a point to these apparently pointless peregrinations. A BN directed us through a small park, and the next street over the main body of hashers were found milling about some seemingly random person’s house. Blurry Beaver was there loading the kids into the car, and there was a BC pointing us up the driveway, which proved to belong to a friend of Natty’s. Sensibly or foolishly, they had decided to not be at home, and how could you blame them? This gave us the run of an attractive and pleasantly shaded back yard, with no guidance except the explicit direction from Natty that we were NOT to climb any trees.

This would seem to be the last idea you would want to put into our heads, and you could tell that Duals was at least thinking about it. But fortunately the presentation of beer and chips helped keep us all earthbound. This was also thought to be the best place to have down downs, because hey, these people weren’t our neighbours.

This still left us an unconscionable distance from the on in, and by the time we got back the pack had ended up split in two. There was some rumour about “they’ve gone next door” which might have explained what happened to Natty and Tail Ring. Meanwhile Buzz, Shampoo, Fucking Shakespeare, Hai Poo and First Lady crowded around a table at the Linsmore to start in on some serious drinking.

Fucking Shakespeare ordered what was possibly the first round of tequila shots. First Lady suggested his vision for the coming Aporkalypse, though it wasn’t clear if he meant the theme for this fall’s anniversary or some other damn thing we’ll all have to learn to live with.

May, 2018
Hogtown Hash
Saturday, May 19, 2018
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Three Hogtown hashes in a row, all in the east end. Coincidence? Conspiracy? Complacency? Yes!

Backdoor Buzz set the trail on May 5, from the Gabby’s on the Danforth near Pape. The wonder of this trail (besides cajoling Buzz into setting it) was that it started off going through Withrow Park, the same territory covered by Shampoo the previous Monday, yet the two streams never crossed – since if that happened there would be an ectoplasmic implosion of something like beer foam, only not as tasty.

Yakety Yak had the nerve to show up for another go round, after his recent haring experience. Master Blaster decided it was time to give his beard an airing. And Trini Mike has arrived here for the summer from Barbados, so he gets to be called a visitor for the next few months. Apparently the ocean breezes and constant year-round 27 degrees get to him so he looks forward to spending time here in the 34 degree smog.

After the park the trail got to Carlaw and Riverdale, then turned east to cross Pape and Jones, and went through the patch of open land beside the subway yard. Up Greenwood, and we were pretty much at the beer check. This was at the Linsmore Hotel, which has been horribly gentrified – I distinctly recall that hardwood floor is new, and I’m pretty sure they’ve taken down the ratty stuffed deer head from the wall. And here I thought hipsters loved taxidermy, or is that too 2012?

Back at Gabby’s we were able to crowd into the little faux library, so they could close the security doors and pretend we weren’t there. Action Man showed his face at the on in despite saving himself from the trail in favour of running the half marathon the next day. Shampoo experienced his once-a-year food order mishap, waiting sadly while Trini Mike and Backdoor Buzz enjoyed their ''fish and chimps'' (Buzz’s term) and the kitchen lost his order. At least he got some comped beer to make up for the monkey business.

On April 14 (that was a Monday) it was Can Cum who made the ultimate sacrifice. His choice of venue was the basement bar that has replaced the Local Gest, which replaced Ben Wicks. It’s on a stretch on Parliament which is currently torn up for track replacement and hence impassable in large parts, surrounded by high wire fencing that gives the place all the ambiance of Gaza.

This resemblance to a pestiferous war zone was perhaps appropriate for our visitor, Muddy Shaft, who had been drinking around the corner for most of the afternoon with his buddy, before they remembered they could also make it to the hash. They were to leave for the Democratic Republic of the Congo in a few days, so this exercise in mishap, calamity and arbitrary rule could help get them ready.

The trail set off going generally west through the many back alleys the hare seems to be so intimate with. Just saying. And that always presents some “interesting” sights, among them the wreck of a classic 1950s Jaguar in a back yard, along with the usual curbside drinkers. I’m glad that as far as I could see there were no public defecators – they go to Tim Hortons to do that now.

The trail went through Allan Gardens, with its usual panoply of delights. Just step carefully around the rubbers. When we got to Jarvis, HaiPoo, Tour de Pants and Duals were among those who chanced running across the five lanes of traffic just as a parade of first responders barrelled through. The logic is impeccable: the meat wagons are already there, so how much trouble is it to pick up one more?

Making our way back over Sherbourne we crossed the footbridge into Rosedale, at which point Can Cum needed to slip away on a beer run, and in a moment of unwarranted confidence gave Shampoo the directions to the beer check. To general amazement, a) Shampoo actually remembered the directions, and b) most of the pack felt inclined to follow him.

This brought us to the corner of Bloor and Parliament, where Buzz and GynoMike already had cans of beer and were beginning to wonder if they would have to make friends with the homeless guys in the valley below. Can Cum cycled in with the beer, and we were standing around refreshing ourselves when Aims Low asked what had become of Wet Pussy. A phone call ascertained that he was safe and sound and heading for home, but you have to ask if maybe it isn’t time we put him on a tether, or something.

A short walk brought us to Can Cum’s backyard just off Parliament, where we had down downs and he grilled up some tasty meats, closely observed by an inquisitive and greedy young racoon. Knees 2 Please pulled in just at about the point when things began to break up – offering more proof that she’s a smart woman.

And on May 19 Shampoo and Moist Leatherette hared on the Victoria Day weekend. To make it even more special, it was also the day of the Royal freakin’ Wedding.

While they were out setting the trail, the hares had met a young woman walking an adorable 11-week-old Visla puppy. Now, we know how much Moist Leatherette likes to hit on young women, and while she was doing that the puppy found a spent condom lying in the grass, and happily ran around in circles for the next five minutes proudly carrying it in her mouth (the dog, that is, not the young woman or Moist). Perhaps this is the kind of thing you should expect in a park named for some guy called Wadlow.

But our trail started from Relish, at Danforth near Woodbine. Despite it being a long weekend there was a much larger turnout than anticipated (the hares had only expected their friends) – perhaps with well-wishers looking for a chance to drink for Meghan in her time of need. Tour de Pants wore a frilly little skirt for the occasion, but GynoMike outdid everybody by rocking full formal attire, including tailcoat, which also allowed him to collect a tidy sum in tips. Such fabulousness offered more material for Natty Porn and her incessant shutterbuggery.

The trail headed generally north to Taylor Creek Park, and the prospect of some shiggy on the trail. But first, on a gravel bank in the creek, under a proud Union Jack, the hares threw a garden party – not a shooter check as you barbarous philistines might expect, but something far more elegant and sophisticated. There was Pimm’s Nº 1 Cup, and cucumber or watercress sandwiches with the crusts cut off. And after rummaging about for a while, Jeeves (by this I mean GynoMike) produced a tray of smoked oysters on toast, which is a good fit since handling oysters plays to his professional qualifications.

While we were there one of Master Blaster’s kids (they’d brought both of them in a stroller) went into the water, and since his pants got wet thought he should take them off. Which is the worst sort of example you should offer to hashers.

After that there was indeed a moderate amount of trail running to keep 0N5, First Lady and Wheel Nutz happy, before heading back south to civilization and the Danforth. The hares had a bit of trouble with the “beer check” concept, but finally it was agreed to head to the Flamingo, at Woodbine, which is downmarket enough to offer two kinds of draught, and seemed an appropriate place for First Lady to conduct down downs.

We were still there when we were joined by Fifi and Casket Case, who missed the run in order to retrieve Birdbrian from the airport. I’m glad to report that Birdbrian is completely unchanged, except for deciding to dye his hair white and adopting those snug-fitting Euro-style hash shirts that might appear too small to those who don’t understand fashion.

Half a dozen or so of the lingerers carried on for Ethiopian food, but Buzz left us partway through, looking a little green, and not like the Hulk. I don’t think it had anything to do with the early start he’d gotten pub crawling that afternoon with Airtight. It was probably some bad cress.

April, 2018
Hogtown Sexygenarian Mondays Hash
Monday, Apr 30, 2018
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Shampoo was the eager hare on Monday, April 30. He called it the 'Sexygenarian Monday hash', referring to a certain recent birthday of his and how it seems to have improved his deportment, appearance and self-esteem, and to the fact that it was indeed Monday. He is in what could be called a 'state of denial' about certain things, but not about it being Monday, at least. Our venue was 'All Star Wings and Ribs', an establishment that has surely overestimated the number of its stars, and was chosen chiefly for its proximity to Chester subway station.

We were joined by a very far-flung visitor, all the way from Singapore, by the name of Trolley Dolly (or it might have been Trolley Jolly – you know, the hearing). And also Just Lyle, or Ahmed (he was vague about which), another itinerant Englishman who may or may not be living here (he was unclear about that too). So we may see him again or not.

We were circled up and ready to go, and waiting for Duals to take his pants off, which gave Can Cum and Knees 2 Please time to emerge out of the setting sun in the west. First Lady and Backdoor Buzz decided to be walkers, and so were faced with the magnificent struggle of pacing a block and a half to the beer check, but as the senior authorities of the hash they are presumably entitled to have a sweat-free evening. The rest of the pack began on a roundabout route through the alleys, parking lots and such in back of the subway station – this was deliberate on the part of the hare, and not just the result of him wandering. He’d had supervision from Moist Leatherette when they set the trail on Sunday morning, so as to be in plenty of time for the Early Bird special.

We crossed at the Danforth and then ducked into a urine-scented passage between two buildings, which led to the laneway behind. This offered another great photo op for our obsessive shutterbug National Pornographic. And it was about here where Moist sneakily abandoned the trail, make of that what you will.

Cruising through Riverdalian streets brought us to Broadview and an expansive view of Riverdale Park, where it was young Ahmed who enthusiastically checked out trail while everyone else stood around over the check, looking at it. And he was on, down into the park to a check at the footbridge, then up again past Bridgepoint and the Don Jail, before continuing rather dully along Gerrard and up Logan.

At the very back of the pack Shampoo kept Hai Poo Gai company as he rather grumpily carried on to the beer check, at the Fox and Fiddle on the Danforth.

As if watching the waitress balancing on a table trying to manhandle the roll-up door closed wasn’t entertaining enough, Knees 2 Please and Sex Tourist stood out on the street casting their gaze toward the heavens – turned out they were searching for Mars and Venus, which were bright and visible in their apogee or perigee or whatever it is, though if they cared to look they could also have gotten a good view of the rings of Uranus, which is dilated at this time of the month.

Back at on in, Trolley Dolly had the worst sandwich of his life (this after so vigorously extolling the quality of the Singaporean street food). And besides teasing Shampoo, First Lady was amused to be told that the Canadian equivalent of AARP – the American Association of Retired Persons – is indeed known as CARP. I think mainly because that’s what they do, carp and complain. This is of personal concern to the hare, who may soon be liable to yelling at clouds, accusing the coloured nurses of stealing his money and demanding the CBC put Tommy Hunter back on the air. And if he gets to this point, please don’t let him hare any more.

Hogtown Hash
Saturday, Apr 21, 2018
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Nice idea for Yakety Yak to set the hash at the Christie Pits Pub, which has always been a great venue for us. So it was shocking when Moist Leatherette and Shampoo walked up to the bar just shy of 4:00 in the afternoon on a fine spring Saturday (April 21) to find Action Man and Yakety Yak forlornly propped up outside against the windows. Enjoying a frosty beverage in the sunshine on what had turned out to be a glorious spring day, perhaps? In this city, not likely.

The bar was, in fact, still closed. So we had to wait an unimaginably unendurable, unconscionable amount of time – perhaps as long as a minute and a half – before the bar opened and drinks could be obtained.

Our next point of interest was watching Juggler tooling up on his sweet, sweet ride: a recumbent bicycle adorned with cascading arrangements of gay artificial flowers. And by “gay” I mean “light-hearted and full of glee”, of course. You could imagine him spinning a bunch of plates on bamboo sticks while riding it.

Others appeared: GynoMike was congratulated for wearing a hash shirt for a change, even if it was a particularly grubby and soiled one. Messiah made the trip from the far north. Airtight and One Hump arrived, and the hump on One Hump was their small baby. At least I think it was a baby (it was very quiet), not one of those manikins they use to scare teenage girls about sex in the red states. Anyway, as long as it paid.

Yakety Yak has managed to keep away from us for a while, so let’s see how his haring skills have held up. He doesn’t seem like a complete dummy, so you’d think the concept of “apply chalk to pavement” would not be that difficult. Nevertheless, we spent a lot of our time being stymied when it came to finding trail – it is always the fault of the hare, you know, never the hashers.

After a semi-organized start (if running a block can be considered our frame of reference for organization), we headed south of Bloor to take in some of the interesting graffiti (I think Messiah uses it as inspiration when he’s tagging the Great White North) and then found ourselves dazed and confused in the park behind the high school. Fortunately Action Man, Sex Tourist, Naughty Ways and 0n5 could be relied upon to run checks obsessively ¬– the Empire may have no idea where it’s going, but it puts in the effort.

Eventually the magic route was discovered, and the trail crossed Bloor into Christie Pits. We then zigzagged over to Shaw, Ossington and Dovercourt, where Shampoo felt compelled to follow a long false to nowhere, heading west (the hare claimed the trail was 12 to 14 kilometres counting all the falses but only about five in a direct line, which is fine unless you felt like you ran all the falses). The actual trail followed Davenport and turned east on Geary, and then skirted the train tracks and hydro towers.

We turned south at Christie and continued along Dupont, and crossed it into the Annex (or Seaton Village if you prefer). The beer check was at Yakety Yak’s house, located in a prime spot just steps from Bathurst and the subway station. Though in reality we were crowded into his tiny bricked backyard, which had a marked resemblance to the exercise yard of a prison in one of those former East Bloc countries. More Tirana than Trawna. At least we could bask in the warm sunshine reflecting off the 30-foot brick wall facing us. And the snowbank kept the beer cold.

The route back to the on in provided a good look at the gaping hole in the ground where Honest Ed’s used to be. And at the on on Shampoo was mercilessly teased because it was his birthday the next day, until he fled and everyone could get on with having fun.

Hogtown Hash Serial Killer (SK) Hash
Saturday, Apr 07, 2018
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The Saturday run on April 7 was held in an out-of-the-way, hard-to-get-to location, on a day of wan light and a continuing unseasonable chill. It was hared by 0n5 and he was promising a trail of at least 8 km. And he called it the ‘’SK Hash’’ because…?

And yet, it was well attended. Our meeting place was the Local Public Eatery on Laird, south of Eglinton. You might have had to take the bus. Shampoo found himself wedged in the back between GynoMike and Backdoor Buzz like they were the delinquent kids, and after that experience they all needed a drink. The pleasant surprise was that it was only $5.75 for a beer – this in Leaside.

But they trooped in: Funky Monkey, Attaboy, Duals, Tailring, Sex Tourist, Naughty Ways, Wheel Nutz, etc. There was a visitor from London, Action Man, some kind of international man of mystery who had a pack of US$100 bills taped to his body (I made that up, but he did give Loopy a Benjamin to pay for his hash cash).

When we were circled up outside, with our teeth already beginning to chatter, finally Half Wit rushed up furiously to become our slow student.

We began winding our way through the streets of Leaside with very little difficulty, since the trail was mostly a succession of arrows. This seemed far too easy compared to what we had been promised, and it was not very long until we emerged onto a quiet crescent with a few low-rise apartment buildings, a grassy verge and one lonely house perched on the lip of the Don Valley.

The remarkable thing was that there was actually a beer check on a trail hared by 0n5. Then it became clear what the “serial killer” in SK stood for – it wasn’t just what the hare intended to do to us. It was that house of horrors where you didn’t want to look too closely at the landscaping, or the landscaper.

It was a sad, creepy, uncomfortable and distasteful experience, drinking not many feet away from a body farm. On the other hand, there was beer.

Half an Angry Pirate joined us, bringing the beer and his adorable dog Bella. She’s a mixed Maltese-Cocker Spaniel, or as he put it, a cocktese. Or as I called her, the cadaver dog. What she wanted most was to run with us, and she was disconsolate when that wasn’t going to happen. She whined and howled piteously as the pack sped off. I’m just glad she didn’t dig up a shinbone.

But truth to tell, no one much wanted to hang around that sad scene, and we slid down the slope into the valley, over the live train tracks, and continued on to the abandoned rail bed. This took us into the tangled underbrush and muddy slopes of Crothers Woods, where there is an extensive network of trails carved into the hillsides by the mountain bikers. And with the dirt of those trails defrosting in what is passing for spring.

Before long the pack was widely separated and strung out. Half Wit and HaiPooGai seemed to be the last on the runners’ trail, with Shampoo coming up the rear, as it were. They were confronted with steep, slippery, thawing slopes and slimy mud like cold oatmeal. There was one construction zone where several hundred feet of planks had been laid on the hillside, making maybe the best and scariest toboggan slide ever, if you didn’t mind being minced by the construction fences at the bottom.

This mini-pack finally climbed out of the valley to Thorncliffe Park, where they soon teamed up with Wet Pussy and Aims Low for the final stretch of whining and complaining. Ok, it was a tedious hike along the hydro corridor, with a view of abandoned tires and loading docks in the distance, but the hare had distinctly been spotted ducking into the weeds up ahead.

It was here on this appropriately desolate, wind-swept and garbage-strewn patch of waste ground that the hare had chosen to have a shooter check, with a bottle of a tasty Scottish liqueur.

It was already past 7:00, so it was time to head home, which wasn’t all that far away. Another careful crossing of the rail corridor brought us back to Laird and so on to the on in. Whether a good idea or not, circle was held upstairs at the Local, which was both very loud and very crowded, so Buzz’s indoor voice proved useful.

There was the fairly unprecedented event of 0n5 remaining for down downs, and the celebration of him not actually killing any of us. Buzz, HaiPooGai and a couple of others were down downed for accidents that left brown stains on their bums, which might indeed have been mud. Shampoo was punished for spending too much time entertaining little girls (I was at Vanishing Hare’s daughter’s birthday, honest).

Can Cum in My Mouth was accused of coming out of the closet. There was a picture to prove it: Can Cum fitting neatly within a piece of furniture cast aside on the grass. Though technically I believe this would be known as a wardrobe or possibly an armoire, with a chest of drawers on one side and a closet on the other. I don’t know which sexual or gender differentiation this implies; however given Can Cum’s resemblance to RuPaul your guess is as good as mine.

Action Man pronounced himself well pleased after his time spent with us, even though the run was high on our scale of difficulty, but then there’s no explaining the Anglosphere’s sense of fun.

Hogtown Hash #1671: Easter Hangover R*n
Monday, Apr 02, 2018
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The Hogtown April Fool’s hash was held on April 2 (that’s a Monday) this year, because the hare was Moon Man. He works for Bombardier, and aren’t they late with everything?

Also, they always seem to wind up taxing the community. Ditto here.

On their way to the hash, Shampoo, First Lady and GynoMike found themselves on the same subway train, and they all tried their best to not acknowledge each other’s presence. So it’s a relief to know that a sense of social shame still exists even among hashers.

Walking over to the bar, however, GynoMike commented that if he was a younger man he’d set up an abortion clinic in one of the border towns, like Niagara Falls – so, so much for what I just said above.

Our locus hashimus was the Thirsty Fox, in the middle of a construction zone on Eglinton just east of the Allen Road. The existence of essentially craters outside their front door may have had something to do with the bar’s decision to offer tall boys for $4.50, or maybe they were just being nice. Anyway, appreciated.

We had a couple of extra-special guests with us: Zephyr and Venta, up from North Carolina to visit their natural home, and Flyer put in the great effort to walk the few hundred yards from her house to join us.

Fish Fingers brought her babbling, bouncing, adorable bundle of joy, though I guess I shouldn’t talk about Casket Case that way. And they brought Baby Lucie, who smiled, belched, waved her tiny fists and gurgled happily, just like HaiPooGai after his last beer, only without the incessant chatter and ‘‘opinions’’.

The hare claimed the run was just like him, long and boring. It began with a short hop along Eglinton, then turned south into Cedarvale Park. It was nice to be off pavement when the trail threaded through the squishy bits of the valley floor, but it didn’t go too far off into the weeds. No soakers. Just past the Bathurst bridge we left the park and headed into Forest Hill.

Moon Man then guided us on an extensive adventure in real estate porn, as we passed mansion after luxurious mansion that appeared to be uninhabited. GynoMike remarked that we were lucky they didn’t set the dogs on us, but you’d have to be home to be able to release the hounds. Anyway, presumably they’d go after Wet Pussy before the rest of us.

We turned up Spadina, meandered through the exclusive streets to the east of that and after a fairly wearying time for a Monday night reached the Belt Line, did not follow it but continued up to Eglinton. Some ways to the west was our beer check, in a somewhat la-di-da restaurant where there was at least a semi-private area we could sequester ourselves.

They only had pints. First Lady did his best to grab full glasses from HaiPooGai, Can Cum and Shampoo so they would have to share with the latecummers: First Lady has small children so he has a lot of experience dealing with greedy, irresponsible and wilful individuals. Our walkers – Zephyr and Venta, FiFi, GynoMike and Tail Ring, accompanied by the hare – arrived before he could be overpowered and the beer guzzled.

It was still another kilometre and a bit back to the bar, winding around more holes in the ground. First Lady had to run the circle by himself without Buzz shouting in his ear, but he acquitted himself well. The half-price wings were popular, with everybody ordering them except for Venta, the freak who wanted the burger.

March, 2018
Hogtown Hash - ONEZIE Trail
Saturday, Mar 24, 2018
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You would think that a dazzlingly sunny (if crisp) “spring” day, plus the opportunity to wear a freaking onesie to the hash, would be enough to pull in an enthusiastic crowd. So it was a bit disappointing to find only a dozen or so turned out for the hash on Saturday, March 24. But possibly some remembered, when they found out the hare was Dual Shitizhshenszzzzshhhp, that they had all those other things to take care of that had been building up over the winter: Appendectomy? Visit sick friend in Brazil? Finish constructing that enormous rubber band ball? So much to do, and so little time in which to do it.

But for those of us who did attend, our start venue was the Duke of Somerset, on Bay just south of Gerrard. Condoland. Beers not far shy of 10 bucks. And apparently quite blasé about their customers looking like a bunch of furries.

Airtight was playing Snuggli Dad that day, so he was not going along on the run with us, having a baby strapped to his chest. He also thought the hash was starting at 3:00 o’clock, so he’d already been there a while. Can Cum in My Mouth had spent a hard week dealing with various male/female plugs and receptacles, so his mind was probably somewhere else. He also just had a drink with us before taking off.

The rest of us put on our onesies, so sexual feelings were the furthest things from our minds. At least I hope to God none of us actually was aroused by the onesies. The selection was mostly split between dinosaurs and pigs, with Duals, First Lady and Blurry Beaver in T-Rex suits and Booze Buggy in an adorable child-sized version. 0N5 and Shampoo were little pigs, and recent arrival Olympic Wanker, ex-Dublin HHH, ex-Pretoria HHH, ex-Maputo HHH, looked on neutrally and tried to diplomatically gauge the customs of the country as he was lent a pink pig suit. Aims Low wore something that at first sight looked like a pig suit but turned out to be a sort of orange thing, so maybe not a pig, maybe a Trump. HaiPooGai wore a nun’s habit because it’s a bad habit to break.

Backdoor Buzz just had to be different, so he wore a black-and-white Holstein cow suit, complete with several flaccid pinkish-grey teats in a suggestive area, and one proudly semi-erect one.

Cows do have five teats, right?

Perhaps we were dazed by the bright sunshine, but it was a difficult trail to follow. We started off seemingly being led around the block, but it must have been our own lying eyes because Duals would never set a trail so confusing and pointless. Nevertheless after a few minutes we were still just across the street from where we started. Then it was as easy as finding the tiny marks hidden behind posts and following the occasional obscure arrow pointing down a laneway. We continued to go around in circles, or in this case rectangles, until our fairly fruitless excursion around City Hall, then another through the grounds of Osgoode Hall. We might have lost Buzz there when we exited through the famous cow-catcher gates. Then it was over to the Eaton Centre and the inevitable tour through the mall.

Crossing Yonge, we ran up a nasty back alley to Yonge-Dundas Square, then to Ryerson where it was somehow intuited (i.e. the hare finally told us) to go into the quad, and that’s where we found the shooter check.

After sitting around there for a while scarfing pudding shots, the sun began to go down and it was starting to get cold. Any reasonable hare would think this was about the point to start the home stretch. Instead we trudged along Gerrard, up Yonge and along Wellesley like escaped performers from TVO’s worst children’s show ever.

At Queen’s Park there was a loss of resolve and a bitter division in the pack. A few thought it was time to head back to the bar and began to trudge forlornly down University Avenue. Blurry Beaver was heard to wail, “Duals is pissing off my daughter.” The others continued into the park. The pack eventually re-coalesced, because there is safety (and less ridicule) in numbers.

So we carried on across the park and entered the U of T grounds. In front of University College we were instructed to look south, and there across the lawn was our view check, the CN Tower presenting itself like a huge upraised middle finger, a sentiment shared by most of us by this point. But there was a promise of salvation – or at least alcohol – close at hand. Buzz, the Laughing Cow, had already gone ahead to the O’Grady’s on College Street. The rest of us were offered another shooter check in the park on McCaul. There was more jello, plus a wide selection of those little airline bottles I always picture Jamie Lannister and Mini Me getting into a barroom brawl with.

Good times. But eventually the cold set in, and 0N5 and Aims Low stripped off their outer skins and went their separate ways. The remainder steered to O’Grady’s, where Buzz was sitting in his cow suit, the beer cost less than 10 dollars and you could get an exciting chance of ptomaine as a dinner option.

Hogtown Hash: Back Door Buzz's Birthday! Cum help him get older!
Saturday, Mar 10, 2018
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There was a considerable turnout at last Saturday’s hash, hared by and in honour of Backdoor Buzz, who was celebrating his birthday. I credit this to all of us being so happy to see Backdoor Buzz get a little older.

His birthday is actually on St. Patrick’s Day, if you can believe this, but he never remembers it, especially by the end of the day.

So Buzz got to swan about wearing his “Irish Princess” tiara, while the heavy lifting of trail setting and general adult supervision was performed by Eager Beaver. We started from Factory Girl, on the Danforth near Broadview. We were joined by one new boot, Just Jan (a tall, thick-bearded Dutch-or-otherwise-European man, so don’t get your hopes up) and two newcomers to Hogtown, Lick It Up and the alarmingly named In Yer Bum Like Yer Mum. They claimed to have met at Burning Man so that can only help them to take us in stride.

Airtight and 1 Hump or 2 got to fulfill the “bag wagon parked right in front of the bar” role formerly so ably performed by COD and latterly by Wet Pussy, while Juggler hoped to offer spiritual guidance or at least protection through the large letters spelling out JESUS on the front of his hat. Or maybe he’s our gardener?

After spending so long cooped up on their boat, it was good to see that Attaboy and Funky Monkey are still able to stand up to their full height and not sway too much when they walk, but then I suppose you could say that about many in the hasher community in general.

Just as we were circling up on the sidewalk we saw a disheveled, wild-haired, bushy-bearded fellow stumble across the Danforth, and before you could finish the thought, “hmmm, I didn’t know the unibomber had been given early parole,” it was revealed to be Messiah, fresh from his northern compound.

We began with a circling of scenic Playter Estates, just north of the Danforth, and when we headed over to Broadview it looked like we’d get close enough to be able to chuck rocks at Rose Eh’s building, but we crossed the street and headed toward the DVP instead. We stopped before tumbling over, fortunately, because we ran out of street at an overlook atop the abrupt slope falling away to the highway.

There was supposed to be a shooter check there – at least, “SC” was scrawled on the ground. There was no sign of refreshments. There was, however, some kind of mystical mandala symbol painted on the pavement, and Golden Showers and Wheel Nutz jostled for possession of the one that looked like “69” until it was suggested that one of them should do a handstand. That cleared them out in a hurry.

Well, you could admire the highway all day, but with no alcohol present it was soon time to leave. The trail continued south to the Danforth and moved on to the high school on the south side, and carried on over the twisty bridge over the onramp into the woods at the northern end of Riverdale Park. We followed that path past the hospital to Gerrard, and south again to Dundas, and up Broadview past Gerrard again.

About now it felt ready for a beer check, and so it was, at a fetid little place just north of Gerrard. They were prepared for us because they’d brought in a supply of plastic cups, since their glasses seemed to be reserved for the four regular customers.

If one gazed into the middle distance through the surprisingly large and panoramic window (for such a humble establishment) overlooking Broadview, as I did – it’s kind of a default state in my life – then one would see Duals pull up short, late, and wearing the backpack that held all the shooters. Better late than never, so after the beer check we simply trooped up the street about a hundred metres to have our pudding shots in the shelter of the clubhouse in the park. Only problem was they contained too much alcohol for the pudding to congeal, so you drank a sludgy brown chocolately booze. Wait, what am I saying? They were small plastic cups of tasty alcohol adulerated with a small quantity of puddingy goodness.

Heading back up Broadview Loopy accused me of being an overachiever as I ran past her. I take vigorous exception to this: I’ve never achieved anything in my life and I don’t intend to start now.

At Factory Girl they had us neatly sequestered in the back room out of consideration for the civilians, but we were still a considerable mob even with 0N5, Wet Pussy and Wheel Nutz having absconded and with Aims and Hump Day soon on their way. This made the crowd slightly smaller but really not much more manageable. Our poor waitress approached us with the sort of unflustered, resigned competence usually seen in ER staff during a major emergency, and would disappear for a while after delivering drinks to, I think, lie down in a dark quiet room, perhaps with aromatherapy and another pill.

During circle Moist Leatherette was called upon to do the two things she does best: sing silly songs of original composition and critique other people’s fashion choices. So Loopy got down downed for dressing like a killer bee, and Can Cum for those disco ball shorts. Finally Messiah was singled out for looking like the GTA’s second worst mall Santa.

February, 2018
Hogtown Family Day Hash!
Monday, Feb 19, 2018
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The February 19 Monday night run was on Family Day, so we got run in the daytime instead of the dark. And the snow was actually melting! Now, I did not realize that Family Day wasn’t a metaphor and you were actually expected to have a family. If I’d known I was supposed to come with a baby maybe I could have acquired a couple of Romanian orphans or something.

But the hash venue, The Jester, was awash in small children. There was a remarkable absence of whining, puking, flatulence and the wetting of drawers ¬– from the babies, at least.

It was a different story for the adult hashers. Can Cum in my Mouth felt inclined to wear a pair of glittery, slivery shorts that would have made his ass look like a gigantic disco ball if he got really fat. I’m sure they also kept his “boys” safe from cosmic rays, if that’s important to him. Aims Low was on her 58th day of clean and sober living, while I overheard Sex Tourist boast that he’d been drinking for eight days straight. The remarkable thing was that both of them seemed completely unchanged, so make of that what you will.

We had one late addition while circled up outside, as Freaky Tawfiki casually walked up from the Lagos hash, presumably with some sort of stop along the way.

The hare, Tour de Pants, announced she’d decided to cut off several sections of the trail because it was too wet/snowy/slippery – she is an eager volunteer and everything but she doesn’t seem to realize that for a hash to resemble an Indonesian ferry disaster is considered a feature, not a bug. So after our start we turned east off Yonge Street and stopped short of catastrophically crashing into the ravine she’d probably intended to take us into. Instead this change of plan saw us gingerly cross the snowy/icy/wet expanse of the Rosehill reservoir, which on the upside did, I believe, qualify Freaky Tawfiki for the Nigerian bobsled team.

We then took a tour of several fashionable midtown streets, along Summerhill to cross at Yonge and continuing along Cottingham – past Moist Leatherette’s childhood home, though she was walking with GynoMike, Hump Day and the other strollers with strollers, and so was shortcutting – to Avenue Road, and then going for a short visit through part of Forest Hill south of St. Clair. A detour through the yard of Brown School brought us back to Avenue Road. We crossed St. Clair and turned back toward Yonge after a couple of streets. This would have been about the right time for a beer check; however, the trail entered Mt. Pleasant Cemetery and we followed its winding pathways until we met up with our walkers, standing about in the mist like Victorian mutes appreciating the mementi mori. There was then a certain amount of confusion as to which of the winding roads led out of the cemetery, but we were directed up to the Beltline and so out to Yonge Street again, and the beer check at one of the ubiquitous Firkins. There those who were interested (and Shampoo) got to hear HaiPooGai discoursing on beer.

The hare described three routes back to the on in, by subway or straight back down Yonge, or another route through the cemetery she weirdly pronounced as shorter. Despite her good advice we all seemed to make it back.

Heading back into The Jester we were joined by Juggler, presumably in his work clothes, though I am unaware of which fast-food outfit has a top hat and tails as its company uniform. The back room of the bar was even more knee-deep in ankle biters. That all of these babies were so beautiful, well-behaved and clean smelling had to call into question the true nature of their parentage. They stayed calm and uncomplaining throughout the whole of the down downs, which is more than can be said for most of the rest of us, although Booze Buggy did lick the colourful lights of the jukebox a bit.

Funny thing – all of the recent hash babies have been girls. Maybe an evolutionary response to ensure outbreeding, perhaps?

Hogtown Hair of the Super Bowel Hash
Monday, Feb 05, 2018
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The Monday night run on February 5 was about as well attended as a Harvey Weinstein/Patrick Brown benefit fundraiser, with a total of all of six in attendance. These were the hare, First Lady, and the RA, Backdoor Buzz, along with GynoMike and Shampoo, and finally better-late-than-never (go along with me on this, people), Can Cum in my Mouth. National Pornographic acted as the sole moderating female influence to stop us from masturbating in our bathrobes, or whatever it is unsupervised men get up to these days.

While waiting in the bar for the pack to leave Backdoor Buzz kept up a real-time situation report of how Knees 2 Please was handling the Mister Bean-like dilemma she was facing during her train ride: needing to get up to pee, but with the fellow in the aisle seat next to her fast asleep. With the seatback tray open. And his laptop on the tray. Every helpful suggestion from Buzz always involved her giving the guy a blowjob, which by the way might not even wake him up – I know this for a fact because Moist claims that’s always the way it is with me.

Outside in the cold in front of the bar (the O’Grady’s at College and McCaul, not the one on Church Street that had the hepatitis scare a few months ago) we got chatting with a friendly, frigid woman from Texas who was up here visiting her grandson in Sick Kids hospital. The poor tyke is only seven months old and has leukemia, but she said the prognosis is good. Anyway, she asked us if we were “praying people”, and I said I would pass it along to those who were, at least. So put in a good word for Beckett, if you wish.

The hare explained the marks (midnight blue chalk on grey concrete, pinkish-grey chalk on grey concrete) and we set off through Hospital Row, useful should we become injured or wished to volunteer for medical experiments. Crossing to the other side of University we found ourselves around the bus station. There were actual, visible pink arrows to speed us on our way across Dundas so we didn’t have to face the humiliation of being offered money while loitering there. Or even worse, not being offered money. That is a part of my life I have put behind me, thank you very much.

This brought us to Nathan Phillips Square and finally some more arrows guiding us around the skating rink and out behind Osgoode Hall. “Us” being the three runners, excluding the hare and the walkers, Buzz and GynoMike. Then down University to Queen, cleverly going through the subway entrance to the other side, and a couple of alleys and laneways back to McCaul.

Working our way through Grange Park we came across what the hare had described as a “gigantic butt” – actually the Henry Moore sculpture previously in front of the AGO and one of this city’s most treasured and beloved cultural icons, you barbaric Philistine. However, it does indeed look like a gigantic butt, giggled Beavis (or Butthead) in reply.

Off Beverley, the hare guided us through a few more icy laneways at breakneck speed – that is, you might break your neck if you slipped and fell. At last we were heading toward Spadina and a beer check – potentially at Grossman’s, but it turned out to be in a tiny bar across the street called Sonic, which is surely the smallest bar in town. Our walkers were already installed and working on their pints. Besides us there were two other customers, and maybe room for one or two more. And they still managed to squeeze in a piano. After we did in fact go across the street to Grossman’s for down downs, where there were hardly more customers but the blues band was just starting to tune up, so we got to compete with them when we started singing.

It looked like there was little enthusiasm for going back to O’Grady’s, and as the hare said with a sense of wonder, “There are a lot of restaurants in the area.” And that is why he’s some kind of braniac scientist. But I made it an early Monday night, so I don’t know where they went.

And no, I don’t know if Knees was still holding it.

January, 2018
Hogtown Hash
Monday, Jan 22, 2018
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Good old Can Cum in my Mouth set the trail last Monday night, or so we all believed and hoped as it crept closer to 7:30 and there was still no sign of the hare at the Local Gest, where we were eagerly waiting. I mean, Natty Porn and Loopy had come all the way from the west end for this. Messiah had made his way from his compound in the back of beyond. Drinks Like a Girl and Anal Compulsion had come all the way from CHINA, for god’s sake, which is way, way in the west end. Surely such dedication and Air Miles deserve a trail.

But by 7:30 there he was, just in time to interrupt HaiPooGai in the middle of his fascinating story, so off we went. We started off tooling around the interesting, aromatic alleyways of the less gentrified parts of Cabbagetown to the west of Parliament, with their wide variety of resident night creatures and local characters. There was the Defecating Man, for instance, adding his particular spice to the neighbourhood – now how often does the appearance of the hash make a neighbourhood less squalid?

Can Cum was at least very diligent in marking checks and collecting stragglers, which came in useful when we crossed Shuter Street into Moss Park and the trail seemed to disappear, and we were seemingly prepared to mill about forever. But after crossing to the east side of Parliament and meandering through a network of lanes we crossed Queen for some more back-alley action, before heading across King down to the new Canary/Distillery developments. Somewhere along there Wet Pussy disappeared from our view for the rest of the evening – remember to feed him if you see him.

Climbing to the top of the hill in the West Donlands park provided fresh air, a sense of accomplishment and a bird’s eye view of an idling GO train and the surrounding rail yard, but nothing useful, such as perhaps a beer check. No, on we continued, through the tunnel under the tracks and up the Don River bike trail to Queen. Then across and up to Dundas.

Here Shampoo poured on his blazing bionic speed to lead the pack as far as Gerrard. He pushed the button for the lights and was able to monitor that everyone got across safely, valuable preparation for his future dream job of school crossing guard (background check pending). Here we were joined by Just Taylor, who had only to emerge from her house beside the Tim’s on the corner. That Tim’s proved an irresistible lure for Juggler, who popped in for an intoxicating beverage of his own choosing.

Continuing on past Bridgepoint Hospital and into Riverdale Park soon brought us to the lawn bowling clubhouse on Broadview, where our beer check was already set up with a selection of hipster craft brews. The walkers arrived – Buzz, Drinks and Helen Keller – and they had not even walked the trail. They drove to the park, but I guess they had to walk all the way from the car to the clubhouse, since I didn’t see any car parked on the grass.

The evening’s cinematic fog and mist had just turned into a steady patter of cold rain, so it was a comfort that we could take shelter under the porch of the clubhouse. There was an official-looking notice tacked to the wall, prohibiting “obstructions and encumbrances” in the park, which might possibly have been directed at us.

When the beer check was done it felt like half the pack bummed a lift with our walkers, which must have given the vehicle a real clown-car feel – I mean, beyond what driving with hashers is otherwise like. The rest of us hiked through the park and had to climb the hill on the Cabbagetown side, but at least we had travellers to carry with us.

In the absence of our new GM, Backdoor Buzz, the new RA, got to conduct circle. So we were still privileged to experience the dulcet, mellifluous cadences of his voice. A bit later the waiter asked Buzz if he could pipe down a bit, even though it was a very slow Monday night with hardly an customers besides us, tucked away into our far, far corner (and one of them enthusiastically volunteered to sing The Mayor of Bayswater with us). I think they were more concerned about potential structural damage to the building.

Hogtown AGM Hash!
Saturday, Jan 13, 2018
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The Hogtown Hash House Harriers may have a record of democratic accountability right up there with those of the ‘stans, but say this about us – we can at least organize a peaceful, orderly transition of power. Evidence for this was provided last Saturday at the Anal Genital Meeting. Those of you who thought Backdoor Buzz would only relinquish the pan after we’d pried it from his dead, cold fingers are in for a pleasant surprise.

But first, to the hash itself. This was the best-attended AGM in history, in person and online, period. So there was a record-breaking pack of a dozen or so assembled at Tallboys, on Bloor West near Christie Pits. Some of them were actually prepared to run, though Airtight, Buzz and GynoMike were firmly in the walker contingent and Stunt Boobs, on baby duty (or is that doody?) was prepared to walk all the way to the on in about two blocks away. Visiting us was Attention Seeking Bitch, from Mexico City, who claimed to be here on layover from her job as an airline pilot, if you can believe someone who barely looks old enough to drive can be an airline pilot.

When we set off through Christie Pits, First Lady advised us to take good care of ASB (who did in fact need to be helped to tie her shoelace by Naughty Ways), before taking off in a cloud of snow as FRB. Backdoor Buzz let us know that the trail was marked mostly in various pale wintery earth tones, but at least the marks on poles showed up a bit.

After circling the park back to Shaw Street, a couple of checks brought us north until by some extraordinary occurrence Shampoo took the lead, heading west past Ossington and Dovercourt and then south to Bloor, almost as far as Dufferin, until reality intervened and he lost the trail and had to follow First Lady, Sex Tourist and Half Wit for a change.

Heading south from Bloor, we were just reaching the limits of our endurance when the small knot standing about in Dufferin Grove Park revealed the whereabouts of the beer check. Except in this case it was a wine check, and the higher octane libation was quite welcome as the sun sank and the temperature dropped even more. Airtight showed on trail for the first time. Attention Seeking Bitch walked up bleeding only a little from the face – she admitted to falling down a bit.

After that was a fairly easy and straightforward jog to Bloor, continuing on past Tallboys to the Christie Pits Pub, where they let us sit upstairs like grown-ups. A second shift of the non-runners (Blurry Beaver, Humpday, Ra, Cougar Bait) trooped in with their various excuses. It was time for the last gasps of the outgoing administration and the new broom of the incoming one to sweep in.

It was finally thought right and proper that Just Joanne get named, but since she seems to be a rather well-behaved woman there wasn’t a lot of material to work with. A couple of her recent bike crashes summoned the suggestion of Handlebar Moustache Rider, to iffy response, until Shampoo underwent a series of mental dilations and contractions to heave out “Tour de Pants” before sinking back into an exhausted post-natal quiescence. So welcome, Tour de Pants.

And finally, the new mismanagement. If you haven’t heard already, the new GM is First Lady, so yes, we are finally getting a GM from one of those shithole places. I know some people will think that’s a terrible way to refer to Pittsburgh, but I stand by that statement, because I never said it.

In a sort of Putin–Medvedev switcheroo, we will continue to hear the mellifluous tones of Backdoor Buzz’s indoor voice as he gets to whip/donkey punch us into shape in his new role of Religious Advisor.

I then lost track and interest in the assignment of most of the subsequent positions, since most of them were people who weren’t there and therefore were in no position to fight back. - Shampoo

November, 2017
Hogtown Analversary Weekend Hash
Saturday, Nov 18, 2017
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So we’ve just had our big 30,000 BC Hogtown anniversary weekend. Thirty thousand beer checks! That’s a lot, even over 30 years. I think a brief synopsis is in order, for those who did not attend the weekend – and even more necessary for those who did.

First of all a special occasion like this attracted some special people, like Plunger and Sleepy, two of our amazingly well-preserved Founders. I don’t think they looked a day over 25,000. Also appearing were a number of the old soles from the beginning of time or close to it: Didge, Lengthy, Sex Toy, Rose Eh, Shadow, Licktrician, as well as long-time visitors like Canine (Sarnia), Sex & 8 (Detroit) and Finger Lickin’Good and Nipoleon (Rhode Island). We nearly killed Shmegg a couple of months ago, but all the same he came in from DC to give it another go. Birdbrian popped in from Munich, his arms still stinging from the flight. KY Dick registered twice, but came neither. And Kazoo and Trix both appeared together at the same time at the same hash for the first time since…?

Friday night. Amazingly, there was actually a “good” bus, a proper coach with padded seats and everything, and not smelling of gym socks and funky 12-year-olds. Even better, it had a luggage compartment where we could store our precious cargo, numerous flats of Amsterdam Brewery beer. This all came about by sheer chance on the part of the bus company, of course, not any organizational mojo by the hash. But in this case, the other bus truly did suck.

We were dropped off at the Distillery, adding to the traffic and commotion of the Christmas market with two busloads of knuckleheads wearing dinosaur onesies. That would be us, choosing possibly the least-bad onesie choice for this year’s theme of “Flintstones, dinosaurs and shit like that.”

We managed to clear the area without furthering the T-Rex die-off, heading through the St. Lawrence Market area and St. James Park without going too far awry. Our turn up Bay Street succeeded in disturbing some of the late office leavers, and a stand of Christmas trees at the TD Centre seemed to swallow up several dinosaurs before spitting them back out again (too stringy). We got over to University and crossed Front Street before the trail got royally FUBARed.

We must not blame our hare, Funky Monkey. Inevitably the trail overran the one from Thursday night which it was thought advisable to put in the same place as the Friday trail, and the marks and arrows no longer led in any coherent pattern. And we were left looking at chalk marks under the glare of sodium vapour lights, trying to decide if this was a yellow or a peach… So three separate streams of dinosaur-onesie-wearing people converged on Union Station and the UP Express terminal, and wandered around to the studied indifference of the surrounding commuters (“do-not-make-eye-contact…). The end result was that we were well and truly lost and chasing our own tails.

At some point the collective hive-mind encouraged us to leave the vicinity and troop over toward the CN Tower and then the Steamwhistle Roundhouse. And lo and behold there was the BC marked pointing to the grassy area in front. Except there was no beer and hence no beer check. Apparently the bus with the beer on it wasn’t able to get in because of traffic, or something.

The solution came in the gigantic party bar in the other wing of the roundhouse. Picture a video game arcade that also serves alcohol, inhabited by many hundreds of people with an average age of about 19 and a half, obviously enjoying date night while in the first flush of burgeoning adulthood, a time when young people determinedly try to harness all their growing suavity and sophistication amidst clouds of Axe – until about 80 dishevelled, sweaty, tipsy, mostly wrinklies wearing dinosaur onesies barge their way in.

We were a bit of an unexpected burden. We milled around until Attaboy came to the rescue by ordering many dozens of pints. The staff mostly hid their irritation but did corral us in one quadrant so as keep us from pestering their real customers.

After leaving we were directed to go down York Street – the closer we got to the ACC the more people thought we had something to do with the Raptors – and closer to the lake there was the bus that should have brought our beer check beer. So it was still full of beer. The directions were pretty straightforward: grab a beer or two and carry on down to Harbourfront, where we could huddle together on the windswept quayside. And catcall the rival dinos who went to the quay on the other side of the boat basin. This is where the onesies proved themselves to be both warm and comfortable, and not just stylish.

Then it was back on the buses and to the Day’s Inn for food. Throughout this Rose Eh sat at a table by herself, obsessively unravelling the pile of costume gewgaws from Value Village Moonman dumped on her. I don’t think she was being deliberately anti-social – maybe nobody had ever given her jewellery before.

Saturday’s trail took us on a thankfully brief ride to the Scarborough Bluffs for a tour of the various elementary schools and isolated woodlots hare Johnny Cockring drank away his childhood. Our bus also featured two large, rambunctious, “intact” dogs, so wherever you looked it was dog noses, dog butts, dog bollocks. And “they’re just friendly”, ladies. Waiting at our school of departure was Wet ‘n’ Dirty, who apparently found the Caribbean too bucolic and has returned to us. One of our buses had to leave for another route, so let’s hope nobody fell asleep on it.

The trail took us through parkland at the Cathedral Bluffs, but an all-encompassing fog had set in, making the view check from the heights – water, presumably – a moot point. Traversing a small park disturbingly named “Totts Totlot”, several hashers chose to relive their childhood innocence on the swing sets, although the rather heavy-set Assotope unfortunately managed to break one. The Catholic seminary directly beyond surely offered an opportunity for atonement and penance, but the trail wisely gave it a wide berth and led up to Kingston Road instead.

Following a fair bit of confusion in a back lane, the milling mob wandered south of Kingston Road again, soon to enter a ravine where a large supply of Jell-o shots was ready waiting, along with the very important and necessary shrubs and bushes to pee behind.

Moonman amazed us with the Best. Trail. Find. ever, a 1970s bicycle he’d found in someone’s front yard (he said he asked first). Not only did it have dual front-and-back 24-beer-capacity panniers, it also had a light powered by a dynamo on the back wheel. So with the engineering prowess and sheer brainpower available at the Moon/FLAB residence, I’m sure they can rig it up to power any number of their household appliances – fine as long as Moonman can keep pedalling furiously until FLAB is finished.

We had a bit of difficulty getting out of the ravine – all possible routes went uphill, so imagine the collective inactivity – but once that was sorted out we headed back toward the bluffs. The fog was by now truly impenetrable, like entering a wall of soft grey flannel. There was a lake out there somewhere, and I hope somebody did a headcount after the run. And in the midst of that velvety damp greyness you could hear the occasional shout of “on on”, then “beer near”, and finally “beer check!”, only from an unknown location to the left and somewhere up above. There was a hill there, and at the top was Johnny Cockring and no beer, and he explained that since everything was fogged in he decided to have the BC at the school where the buses were waiting. It was another five minutes to Chine Drive, with plenty of beer plus lots of tasty samosas.

The on on at the Legion hall featured about 30 Fred Flintstones, Barney Rubbles, Pebbles and Bam Bams. For some reason Sex Tourist wore a flamingo outfit. Not to mention Backdoor Buzz working his tickle trunk hard for his multiple changes of trousseau – and he insists they are “costumes”, not “fetish wear”.

Ultimate and the Assholes were in good form, as they must get plenty of practice now that with the exception of Moonman they so rarely show at a hash. Since Golden Showers took a nap after the run and slept through the whole evening, he missed seeing Rose Eh nearly fly across the room, propelled by vigourous jitterbugging with Ra. Sarnia’s Beaver Checker and People Pleaser also made a cute dance couple, trying to win that trophy like Vincent and Mia at Jackrabbit Slim’s.

On a serious note, in light of the numerous recent accusations of people (well, men) carrying on in a horrible manner – groping, lewd accusations, exposing themselves and worse – Ra decided the hash needed to conduct its own investigation. So someone (E = MC Hammered, I believe?) was delegated to inappropriately touch as many hashers as possible, to find out how many it took before she got a complaint. I’m not sure if I was groped or not, since my inappropriate places have been more or less numb for the past decade, so I might not have noticed.

Sunday saw a Fat Boy trail set by Messiah, followed soon after by another Fat Boy trail set by FLAB. Well, this is the 500 anniversary of the Reformation, so what’s a little schism between friends? As long as we all worship a god who can turn barley into beer, it’s all good. Messiah’s trail headed pointlessly to the beach, where we could see what we should have seen the day before – a wide expanse of water, a chill, cloud-streaked sky, like an English seaside resort in July. I say pointlessly because that’s where he had his beer check, with two cans of beer for 20 odd people. Maybe his hash will be teetotal, and good luck to him with that. - Shampoo

August, 2017
Hogtown Hash - Solar Eclipse Recovery
Monday, Aug 21, 2017
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Even though its location wasn’t announced until fairly short notice, we had a not bad turnout for Monday night’s hash on August 21. Shadow and Humpday were among those who came out to observe the incomparable hare who shall not be eclipsed, Wet Pussy. Maybe we were all relieved and celebratory to see that the dragon that had eaten the sun earlier in the day had regurgitated it, or maybe we thought we could hunker down for safety in the concrete box of the Firkin at Danforth and Woodbine. Let’s call that one the Firkin and Bunker.

Perhaps they were trying to be clever, but the special on tap was Belgian Moon.

Our ranks were bolstered by Primal Vagina and Whorefist (or maybe that’s Whorefice), a nice young couple despite their names, who were visiting from San Francisco, and the elderly Mission from Australia. Like many retirees, he had left to escape the bitterness of winter, but he did say he lived in one of those rare places in Australia that actually does get snow and freezing temperatures. So welcome to summer, or as Mission would have it, winter.

As we gathered outside on the sidewalk, in the re-emergent sunshine, we could only admire GynoMike, who cheekily carried his beer out of the bar and over to its strange patio, perched right against the road, despite all the signs warning sternly not to. And be entertained by the dancing meth head who was playing toreador with the cars on Woodbine. First Lady was on the point of getting involved, but later as we waited to cross Woodbine the meth head found a focus for all his wandering incoherent rage; the person he held responsible for all his problems. This person was Shampoo, of all people. Who wisely didn’t take the bait, but did get a loogy horked at him. It missed, which was just as well, since we all know Shampoo is “into” that sort of thing.

After heading east on the Danforth we turned south and then back to Woodbine. Crossing it, the trail plunged into the lush and tangled ravine on the north side of the train tracks. After working our way through it we came to a check that led onto the tracks, which left Aims, Primal Vagina, Hai Poo, First Lady and two or three others scouring along the gravel, next to the extremely smooth, shiny, very-well-used tracks, looking for the continuation of the trail. And after a few minutes Wet Pussy came along and said he’d set a false on the rails and he guessed a train had come along and blown it off. You know, one of those hundred tonne vehicles…

Back on course, the pack was next stymied by a chain link fence, which several representatives began to climb in a laborious and painful fashion. This was made a little easier by a “well-used” blanket draped over the top. Aims Low was in the middle of clambering over, eagerly assisted by First Lady with a helpful push from below (I’m sure this wasn’t the first time Aims has been spread-eagled over a fence), when Shampoo simply slipped through a gap at one corner, which was 10 or 12 inches wide and offered him plenty of room as long as he kept his mind on Margaret Thatcher or baseball stats.

You know something is seriously askew with the world when Shampoo is the one to have the brainwave.

So, instead of going over the tracks we were back on the street heading toward Coxwell. We crossed at Monarch Park and cut through the park, where there were a great many romping dogs, including a huge Great Dane that Duals got very friendly with, to the point where we were wondering if we’d have to turn the hose on them. After exiting the tunnel that goes under the tracks, the trail led along the narrow back lane to Coxwell, where there was a check.

There was some skepticism here when Whorefist triumphantly waved us on as he ran back up Coxwell, i.e., past the check we’d already broken at Monarch Park. But it was true. Wet Pussy had crossed his streams! I guess on the day of an eclipse anything was possible, mere anarchy and saturnalia loosed upon the land, trails crossing trails…

However, this maneouvre was successfully negotiated without an ectoplasmic rupture. We looped around the parkette at the top of Coxwell, crossed the street to circle around the subway station, then right-angled to find ourselves back on the Danny and close to the beer check. As luck would have it, the pack was beaten by those front-walking bastards Shadow, Humpday and Buzz.

The beer check was in one of those inexplicable bars you see along the Danforth, and we decided to have the down downs there, even at the risk of offending the other customer. But he seemed all right with it. After that the final eight of us went a few doors further along to Lucy, the Ethiopian restaurant WP recommended. He said he thought he’d eaten there, anyway, and it was good. He thought. And almost as soon as we’d sat down he said he had to go, and left. So, Wet Pussy, Yelp’s worst restaurant pimp.

Anyway, it was pretty delish.

Hogtown Hash: [Mis]adventure in the Harbour
Saturday, Aug 12, 2017
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You would think the opportunity to work the docks would be appealing to a lot of hashers, but we had a small turnout on August 12, even for a fine late summer Saturday. Some of this might have been the result of the location, the Keating Channel Pub, a pleasant enough place especially on the patio but not the easiest to get to at Cherry Street and the Lakeshore.

Thank Gisbert we had a couple of visitors: Schlong Suit and Docking Station, from Atlanta, who said they’d sold everything and were spending a year driving around North America with their three dogs in an RV. So, we are now attracting homeless people, harbouring possible illegal immigrants travelling in what could be a mobile meth lab, for all we know. (Though, they seemed like nice people).

But other than that it was the hares, FiFi and Casket Case, plus Shampoo, the always gregarious GynoMike (he dropped in at a patio table and carried on with our visitors’ conversation as if he’d known them for years) and Backdoor Buzz. Though I know Buzz is the equivalent of three or four, what with his outsized personality.

Despite these numbers, the hares insisted on a Turkey/Eagle trail. Shampoo reluctantly decided to join Casket Case on the Eagle just so it wasn’t all for nothing, and Schlong Suit decided to do the same despite having announced he didn’t feel like running with his wonky 60ish knees. After a pointless diversion around the block we headed up Cherry Street north of the Lakeshore, where we said hello and goodbye to the walkers. At this point we carried on into the Distillery District where Casket gave Schlong Suit a brisk run-through of its whisky making past.

Despite being a mighty pack of two we kept things going through the St. Lawrence neighbourhood, and then we swung east past the Distillery again to explore the new precincts east of Cherry Street and the delights of Corktown Common. Seared in Casket Case’s memory, so to speak, were the little girls painfully frying themselves on the metal slide, though why he should be noticing such things I don’t know, even if it was an observation made while setting the trail.

Continuing along the Don River bike path brought us to where the DVP spills onto Lakeshore, and on the other side of this facing a stagnant arm of the Don were our walkers – Buzz, GynoMike, FiFi and Docking Station – already waiting at the beer check. And with chips. And with a flock of gangly adolescent geese steadily nibbling their way over to us and our chips. So there’s where we had the beer check, which transitioned into down downs. And as the sun began to set something – some thing – emerged from the soupy stagnant water. And again. And then again. And then once more, closer to us each time. It was speculated to be a big-head carp, and the final sighting did show a fin on what otherwise looked like a leaping log. So it was most definitely time to draw this hash to a close.

July, 2017
Hogtown Hash Big Event! A Censational Hash Experience, Saturday
Saturday, Jul 29, 2017
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It was the last Saturday of July and nobody was much falling all over themselves at once to hare, so GynoMike graciously decided to volunteer. He decided to set trail from The Grover, at Kingston Road and Main Street. It was a place close to home for him and he knew it well, he said, so it was a bit of a surprise to watch him passing to and fro in front of the bar as if looking for the entrance – something I certainly hope his patients hadn’t experienced either.

Things weren’t looking too promising at that point. The waiting pack inside consisted of Shampoo and three women who hash out of Long Beach, California - High-Speed Copulator, (possibly) Sixty Nine Split and something else International something maybe? I made a point of asking their names several times, so clearly I have that down. I do remember they were here on their quest to attend a game at every MLB stadium. I’m sure you’re all amazed that someone can be, at the same time, a know-it-all and yet have the memory of a goldfish.

But eventually a decent pack of 11 or 12 assembled. The hare explained the trail markings, which seemed to be a series of squiggly fallopian tubes with barbs on the end, representing arrows, I guess. Oh, and he also suddenly remembered the jazz festival was going on that day, so good luck looking for the marks.

The hare also shoved two extra cans of beer and a bag of something at Shampoo to carry around with him “for the beer check.” Upon inspection this proved to contain Doritos and a container of hot dog wieners bisected and stuck on toothpicks – perhaps more to be expected if the man had been a urologist instead of his chosen practise, which might better bring to mind oysters instead.

We set off in the pattern of a mini pack of Golden Showers, Can Cum, newcomer JD, Sex Tourist and Naughty Ways in front, the California gals, Shadow and GynoMike walking behind, and lucky Shampoo in the middle, halt, gammy and burdened with snacks as he was.

Quickly crossing Kingston Road, our path took us through the scenic Glen Stewart ravine. At one point a couple of police officers were observed approaching a stray briefcase that had been left on the grass, perhaps prior to poking at it with a stick. But it didn’t explode or appear to contain beer, so we continued down to Queen Street, and over to Kew Gardens, where there was the sudden, earlier than expected presence of a BN on the sidewalk…

At this point I think it’s safe to assume that this was no longer “our” trail but Shampoo’s individualistic interpretation of it, because he then ran in several directions in the park and found trail leading in all those several directions. Finding himself on the boardwalk he followed the arrows west until they ran out, then doubled back through Kew Gardens and followed the arrows heading east along the boardwalk until they pointed west again. Then he was confused.

It was later confirmed that the beer check had been at the band shell in Kew Gardens, which Shampoo had circled three times.

So he gave up and continued to walk his lonely path in the direction of downtown, feeling like he must have had the C word tattooed on his forehead and that this was the hashing equivalent of Michael Phelps racing a shark. He felt miserable and sorry for himself until he saw the front-running part of the pack cross right in front of him just as Lakeshore meets Coxwell. WTF? They had already had the beer check and were heading for the on in at Murphy’s Law, at Queen and Kingston Road. So we joined forces, shared a beer and cold weenies, and continued through Woodbine Park.

Now what with the jazz festival Murphy’s Law was slammed, so thinking quickly we headed in back to the park along Dundas. We already had extra cans of beer so circle was possible, as long as we weren’t disturbed by the little children in the nearby playground.

Then the most amazing achievement occurred: the hare quite calmly walked into the park with a pitcher of beer, with another one carried by his beer-bearer Golden Showers. Along with glasses. Definitely the man has skillz. It’s like James Bond walking into Blofeld’s lair simply by wearing a lab coat and carrying a clipboard acquired from one of his henchmen. It’s the true mark of a pro, someone who still likes to keep his hand in.

Hogtown Hash
Saturday, Jul 15, 2017
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On July 15 we got to enjoy a trail set by Just Anaya, with the faint, indecisive scrawl of the occasional wonky chalk mark the sort of thing that breaks your heart when you imagine that piece of chalk clutched in the chubby wrinkled hands of an adorable child mere months old.

Unfortunately, the trail was actually set by the child’s mother, Half Wit, which engenders considerably less sympathy and gushiness, considering she is a full-grown woman with more or less normal hands and coordination. And since Stunt Boobs had adopted the “I have something very important to attend to over here” stance that every savvy domestic partner assumes when confronted with a spouse who is fully committed to a dubious activity, we can say it was all her responsibility.

This all took place starting from the happy Stunt Wit home on Jane Street. It was a bit of a miracle people could even get there, what with the subway closed from Ossington to Jane for its regular Saturday shutdown. But there was in fact a good turnout, including Road Kill from the Holy Land HHH (where Jesus can’t go hashing because, you know) and what looked like the members of a thrash metal band but were in fact representatives of the Red Deer hash here for a friend’s wedding: Come on Her, Pussy Foot (no, not that one), Blue Balls and Wet Spot (no, not that one). Their running gear consisted of various shades of black and tattoos.

Trail began confusedly with a vague “sprint” up Jane. At the corner of St. Clair various plucky volunteers investigated fruitlessly in several directions, before heading east along a stretch richly blessed with used car lots, tire and muffler shops, and the occasional “health” spa. We still managed to overshoot the check the hare thought she had laid, until we were finally directed to go up the memorable Mould Avenue.

We soon steered back toward Jane, crossed it and continued along through the allotment gardens under the high tension lines, which was an energizing experience. This brought us over to Scarlett Road, which we followed down to Dundas, then snuck through the projects to Lambton Park, which was widely believed to be the site of the beer check because that’s where it had been for the Pink Dress run.

It wasn’t. The trail crossed Dundas and followed the green space along the Humber River to a pretty little clearing in Magwood Park, which was where the beer check actually was. Other than a fairly dehydrated GynoMike, the running pack arrived in relatively good shape. The walking pack seemed to have already been there for some time (though Short Caucasian and Airtight had gotten an early start to their day drinking), and were mostly sipping their beer out of the poncey little wine glasses they’d found on trail. Backdoor Buzz was even more proud of his trail treasure of a pair of cufflinks, although he’d rejected the shirt they were attached to (he couldn’t get it off the arms and the rest of the torso). Aims Low’s skittery little pups Jasper and Freckles were making friends with the other park walkers’ dogs, and all in all we were being like Baby Point’s best homeless neighbours ever.

At this point we at least had the blessing of a relatively short hike back to the on in, if you discounted the steep hill the park was at the bottom of. Waiting for us at the on in was Half Wit’s fabulous Thai food, including a big dish of tofu that pleased Moist Leatherette to no end but just confused the Albertans. Despite the chance it would make him weak and gay, Come on Her ate some anyway, and still had the energy to belt out a rousing rendition of “I fucked a whore by the roadside” during circle (“I knew right away she was dead / the meat was all gone from her pussy / the hairs were all gone from her head…”), which I’m sure Half Wit and Stunt Boobs still treasure as part of their continuing charm offensive with the neighbours.

But the best show was put on by Road Kill, who was able to hold a can of beer level and steady, without spilling a drop, while gyrating his wrist, elbow and shoulder around his back and over his head in a most impressive if unsettling display of triple-jointedness – perhaps this is that “krav maga” one keeps hearing about.

Hogtown Full Buck Moon Hash
Sunday, Jul 09, 2017
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There was a trail for the Full Moon hash last Sunday. I can assure you of that. I set it on a sticky and humid day, at great physical and emotional expense, in green chalk just to please Duals.

I’ll tell you where it went. Briefly, it left from McVeigh’s, on Church Street, and had a view check at the Wellington-Front Street triangle with the delightful new fountain featuring 24 dogs spraying water from their mouths (but really, couldn’t they have had just one cocking a leg?). You should check it out. You would have seen it if you’d been on trail. Then it shambled through the St. Lawrence neighbourhood as far as Parliament, crossed Front up to King, then slipped cleverly into a warren of alleys underneath the overpass, before going through the hobo jungle back to Richmond and Parliament. Then it was pretty much to the beer check at a bar on Adelaide.

But everyone decided to go to Cougar Bait’s birthday party instead. I mean, he has one of those every year. How often do I set trail?

(Please do not get the impression I’m bitter about this. If you knew me, you’d know I don’t get bitter. What I get is caustic, which is bitter with an extra corrosive effect.)

Walking up Church after I finished setting the trail, I spotted two people in civvies I quickly realized were Half Wit (and Anaya) and Stunt Boobs. So we stepped into McVeigh’s to find… nobody.

Well, not exactly nobody. There was a tiny gnomish fellow behind the bar so ancient I expected him to tell me about his valiant role in the Easter Rising, but I did finally manage to convince him I would actually like a beer, after we’d done with discussing the weather. He then told me the bar was closing at 8. Looking around at the 3¼ of us, I thought that was probably going to be okay.

But then more of the pack arrived: Liquor Ass and Dipsy Doodler, like the Zelda and F. Scott Fitzgerald of the hash – stylish, enigmatic, drunk. We sat at a table as far away from the bar as possible, and Liquor Ass started yelling at the aged bartender for a gin and soda, which the aged bartender was reluctant to deliver, or maybe just plain couldn’t hear. I asked her why she couldn’t throw the poor man a bone and walk over to the bar. She answered by yelling again, louder, and Dipsy Doodler joined in demanding a drink himself. After 5 minutes the bartender came over – that was about how long it took him to cross the floor. It was like a Tim Conway impersonation.

Then Gynomike, Drinks Like a Girl and Anal Compulsion appeared. They seem to have been on the tiny, dank “patio” that looked like it was normally where the bar stored the bins. The concept of the outdoors is a novel one at McVeigh’s. Drinks and AC were on their way to move from Japan to Beijing – I think that’s a long way to go around to get to China, but then you’ve met Drinks and AC.

The last of the celebrants from Cougar Bait’s quinceañera had arrived – Backdoor Buzz, Can Come in My Mouth and Short Caucasian. Liquor Ass made fun of Short Cock’s running jeans – the same as he always wears – but then again she was the woman wearing the seafoam chiffon running frock. Her work done, they soon left for somewhere else.

Eight o’clock rolled around and it was time for us to leave for the next bar. I suggested Betty’s. Backdoor Buzz was vehemently opposed. He said he hated Betty’s and it would be too crowded. But he was outvoted so it was off to Betty’s. This trail consisted of walking down Church Street to King, then turning left on King as far as Sherbourne. Somewhere along there we lost Short Caucasian.

And when we got to Betty’s it was about one third filled. The patio had about half a dozen people on it, so there was hardly anyone for us to piss off. And it was way pleasant to be able to sit out and drink in the warm night, with just a few spots of rain and nobody making us drink out of a bedpan. Knees to Pleeze dropped by to join us, and Half Wit has learned to perform the cool trick of breastfeeding while quaffing a beer ¬– possibly something even Betty’s hasn’t seen much of before.

My conclusions? If we are indeed a drinking club with a running problem, we might consider this hash a first step in our 12-step program for recovery from running. We have only 11 more steps to go – even if that does sound almost like exercise.

Hogtown Hash - CANADA DAY
Saturday, Jul 01, 2017
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It’s always amazing what people will do for their country, or in this case their kennel. Celebrating Canada day 2017 Shirley (see what I did there?) was much anticipated and the hashers of Hogtown chose to do their part. Many vacated to celebrate at the notorious Ottawa Red Dress Run. Others did us a real favour and left the country altogether for Brushwood. This left the less popular kids to pick up the pieces and cobble together our own Canada Day run.

Given the lack of Hogtown hashers left, it might seem stupid to waste two of them on haring duties, but well as they say, stupid is…

Our hares for the day CanCum and HaiPooGai, proved to be masters of planning and execution, seriously, really. The first order of the day was to try and actually get some half minds to show up. Without cannon fodder, there really was no point. Plan A was to set trail from the Brickworks, where the regular holiday Brewer’s Backyard event was being held. We would pre-lube there in the hope that the smell of beer would flush out some hashers. That kind of worked as it managed to wake Dynomite and TriniTwo from their slumber and drag them out. Unfortunately, they only had beer on the mind and both individually showed up in particularly nice civilian haberdashery. Dynomite could have easily passed as an English Frank Sinatra.

Plan B, was all CanCum’s genius. He decided if he ran with some sort of running club (whatever that is) earlier in the day so that he could recruit some of them to the hash. A few did actually join us for chalk talk, but let’s just say we don’t face any danger of being invaded by those racists in the near future.

So, let’s talk about trail. As of Saturday AM there were a few RSVPs. Most were clearly cumming to enjoy the wonderful company, but one name did stand out. 0and5. This is like a red flag to bull headed hares. The hares immediately knew a death march was in order.

This is where the brilliant planning and execution came in. Plan a long trail and split the work. Genius! CanCum decided to mark the last third of the trial early in the day in order to limber up for his date with the ‘running club’. After which the other two thirds needed to be sorted, HaiPooGai took the first third and CanCum the middle. Both efforts were heroic, brilliant, blah blah blah. Arriving back to the on-in after setting trail, Religious advisor HaiPooGai, thought there was something missing. After a little bit of thought, he realized what it was and immediately ordered a torrential downpour to cleanse the earth of all distractions so that the hashers could see all the marks more clearly. Unfortunately this cleansing terrified Tail Ring, who immediately notified us she was no longer cumming.

This left us with the mathematical asymmetry of two hares, two runners and three walkers. I think that’s called the hasher golden ratio. Once the walkers were set off to wander in exile with a vague idea of where they were going and how to get there, the ‘pack’ set off. From the Brickworks, trail headed northwest to the muddy slip 'n slide leading up to Chorley Park. From there the pack demonstrated super human skills in finding the now mostly invisible marks. These said marks led to the Summerhill pedestrian rail overpass and eventually out to Mt. Pleasant and St Clair. From there trail headed down into the Rosedale ravine where CanCum was able to demonstrate how much he liked connecting with nature. In this case the nature was mud. Trail led to the bottom of the valley and once again across Mt. Pleasant along Yellow Creek (just why do they call it that?) to Milkman’s Lane and up to Craigleigh Gardens.

During this time 0and5 showed remarkable patience with the lack of visible marks and would just run his usual 1-2KM ahead and then wait for the pack to show up and direct him. At the same time just Mike demonstrated un-hash like intelligence by sticking close to those who were most likely to know where they were going.

Ultimately trail wound through the filthy unkempt streets of Rosedale to the pristine shanty town encampment behind/below Castle Frank High School (or whatever arty name they now give the place). Here we miraculously discovered that the beer CanCum had hidden was still indeed waiting for us.

This is where the next demonstration of trail brilliance could be seen. The runners actually showed up mere seconds before the walkers. Perfect timing/planning, everybody congregated at once! Of course this might have been due to the accuracy of instructions CanCum gave the walkers.

The Beer Check quickly devolved into circle and circle quickly devolved into an undisciplined social club. HaiPooGai clearly cannot lead even this small a group. What little decorum was available at circle was at least able to honour Dutch Rudder’s last hash with us as well as a birthday down-down for our lovely little country.

On-after was to be a BBQ at CanCum’s house, but he got cold feet and informed us that Knees to Please was taking a nap at his place before work and should be left in peace. We did offer to come over and sooth her from her slumber, bathe her and dress her for successful evening at work, but the offer was oddly refused. That pretty much only left us with the option of going to CanCum’s local for some more beer. The only notable part of that was the journey as we fielded cheering and honking cars on the way. Apparently a mud covered, stumbling, poll colliding CanCum is quite the neighbourhood celebrity. - HaiPooGai

June, 2017
Hogtown Hash
Saturday, Jun 03, 2017
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Having bailed on us as a hare a couple of weeks ago, On5 returned to set the trail on a more auspicious occasion on June 3, and was rewarded with a glorious Saturday afternoon and a good turnout of some of the laziest hashers ever!

It was a challenge to get us off the patio at the Bull and Firkin at Yonge and Davisville. Once assembled, it was an even more lackadaisical procession that slowly worked its way down the sidewalk. We had splintered into two groups, like a religious schism: Aims Low, Shadow, Half Wit, Helen Keller, Tail Ring, Shampoo, Didgeridoo, Jazz and visitor Trini Mike II (in this hash we gladly accept substitutes!) were firmly committed to the Walker faith. And even this split into two incompatible sects, the Amblers and the Front Walking Bastards. Shadow was given a map showing the trail route and we were left to fend for ourselves.

The Runners were a more adventurous crew: Can Cum, Casket Case, Just James, Wet Pussy, Haipoogai, Just Sarah (giving us one more chance to see if we’ve gotten better at this), Duals and new boot Just Aaron. There might have been one or two others. Off they went, somewhere. The groups separated at the Beltline trail just south of the start and never saw each other again until the beer check.

The hare claimed there was a Screech check in there somewhere, but it was on the runners’ part of the trail so the walkers missed out. And who wants to take part in a ceremony where you have to kiss a fish, or something that tastes like it, anyway?

The group of Amblers consisting of Shadow, Half Wit, Shampoo and Aims Low trailed in the distance behind Helen Keller, Tail Ring, Trini Mike II, Didgeridoo and Jazz. We had the map, so we were good, until we started to get confused. Walking down Yonge and crossing at Heath Street was easy enough, then following Avenue Road to St. Clair posed no problem, but then the map showed the walkers’ trail traversing the ravines off Russell Hill Road, and this was too much to understand. So we continued along St. Clair as far as the Loblaws, where the collective question “Where is the beer check?” was raised.

The beer check was tucked into the woods on the south side of St. Clair near the subway station – exactly where the map showed it would be. Didgeridoo and Helen Keller were already there with the beer when we arrived (except for Shadow, who was still wandering). As more people showed up it was realized a dozen beers weren’t enough, so Aims and Helen went over to the Loblaws to get more.

Then there was the “ugly incident.” A gentleman who was also drinking in the woods seemed to object to us drinking in the woods. Actually he had issues with a number of things, not many of which really had anything to do with us. But he focused on Casket Case as the main target for his complaints (so, even as addled as he was, he wasn’t so different from the rest of us). Unfortunately Casket Case decided to “engage”, as they say, and it wasn’t heading in the right direction (buddy had already knocked over his wine bottle, for one thing) until Just James acted as the UN peacekeeper. A little bit of spitting was involved, so FiFi, that explains the saliva stains on Casket Case’s crotch, trust me.

We were edging away by then, anyway. Back at St. Clair the pack split again, the runners dashing across St. Clair at the Loblaws, with Shadow chasing them like a puppy. Along with our map. So the walkers had to rely on the guidance of Aims Low as we trudged up Bathurst, since she was the one who was certain about the way to the hare’s house – so she was stumped only two or three times.

But give her credit, we did make it to 0n5’s house in time for the nachos. Only Shadow and Trini Mike II were still AWOL, and Trini Mike popped up in time for the down downs.

Among these was the one for Can Cum for successfully selling to the authorities his version of how Knees 2 Pleeze obtained a concussion and facial injuries (she fell off her bike – that’s his story and he’s sticking to it). But seriously, we should all send her our best wishes and hopes for a speedy and complete recovery – since let’s face it, we don’t want Can Cum to have to be the brains of that duo.

Contact was finally made with Shadow, the man with the map, who was lost on a corner somewhere.

May, 2017
Hogtown Hash
Saturday, May 20, 2017
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I don’t know what it is about this hash. It’s like that without the stern, steadying influence of Backdoor Buzz we all become a gibbering gaggle of terrified schoolgirls or something. He is our rock. He is our rod, our spine, our stiffening structure. He’s the one to bellow at us and tell us to get the fuck on with it.

Anyway, he wasn’t at the hash on the Victoria Day weekend Saturday. CoMo perhaps? So we had no one to guide us. No one to bolster our resolve. And we had nothing but a chorus of whining, puling, bitching and complaining, mostly directed at the hares, Shampoo and Moist Leatherette.

So we had Golden Flow, one of our American visitors, in a dither about it being too cold outside and too noisy inside. Granted, Saturdays at the Duke involves listening to cauliflower-faced octogenarians in big hats mangle their way through Marty Robbins songs (the karaoke there features both kinds of music, country AND western), but the outside temperature was no worse than seasonal, I tell you.

Haipoogai’s complaint was about how hard it was to get to Queen and Leslie, what with Line 1 shut down, and no buses on Laird (as if the hares are responsible for travel arrangements). Moist Leatherette complained that being the conversational sound baffle stuck between HaiPoo and Gynomike was like a Dantean circle of hell. KY hit the whineritis trifecta with “it’s too cold”, “it’s too far” and “my hair!” (have you see the hare? Do you think the hare gives a toss about hair?)

After going outside, then inside, then outside again, at length we finally made the decision to sit indoors, at the risk of yet more selections from the Roy Acuff songbook.

Ok, Juggler didn’t complain. He just wanted a cup of tea, and amazingly, they made him one. I guess they have to sweep the floors sooner or later.

We had another American visitor, is it Angry Pirate or as Moist Leatherette insists, Half an Angry Pirate (and I don’t know why she would want to go telling the world about our fantasy sex life), who also showed up with a scrumptious little Korean dog – and it’s not what you’re thinking, you racist pig. She was a bounding little 10 pounds of fluffy white energy, rescued in South Korea, and she won the hash several times while straining on the end of her leash.

I should say Just James showed up again, not complaining, indeed there seems no end to the indignities he will happily endure. Maple Muff joined us, Canuck by origin but fresh from various Asian countries. Possibly her head was still spinning too much from being back home to complain. Short Caucasian showed his usual sunny disposition as well, but might have been just too disoriented at being so far from home, drinking with KY, and wearing pants that double as both shorts and longs.

And Loopy seemed most pleased with herself, especially while counting our money.

Despite what initially felt like so much disappointment, here actually was a trail, believe it or not. It started heading east on Queen, and then swung past Maple Cottage, the home of one of our patriotic songsmiths, and our browner Moist sang her version of the old favourite that nobody else knew the words to. Of course, some people might know it at The Maple Leaf Forever, not Maple Muff Forever.

Now that they were out in the sunshine and fresh air most of the pantywaists had stopped complaining. The trail continued along Eastern and gave a nudge and a wink at a perfectly good brewpub and kept going through the sewage treatment plant that pretends it’s a park, and up the hill overlooking the skateboard park where we could survey the world from the great height of 30 feet. Then we went through a tunnel that goes to the other side of Lakeshore. At the corner of Coxwell we crossed into Woodbine Park, took a loop through there to come out at Kingston Road, and we went past the Days Inn, the good old Hash Hotel.

After that we nosed around a few streets north of Dundas, crossed Coxwell to Gerrard, and soon after stopped for the beer check at a pub called the Two Headed Dog – all except our one-headed dog, sadly.

Then Gerrard to Leslie and back to The Duke, down downs on the patio if only to have our own space and to be able to sing our own songs but the indecision struck again and we went back inside. The karaoke was over, at least. Enjoy your long weekend.

Hogtown Hash
Saturday, May 06, 2017
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Haipoogai had a trail up his as…er, sleeve, and he was keeping it a secret until just the right conditions, that is, a continuing deluge of “take your loved ones to high ground” proportions. So after he’d moved his beer to the highest shelf, HPG set his trail at Yonge and Sheppard, from a bar called The Congress.

Ostensibly this was in celebration of Cinco de Mayo, but (insert appropriate inappropriate joke about “mañana” here) this trail was on Saturday, the seis. This is another, different Mexican national holiday, commemorating when they successfully built a wall around Pepe the Frog, or something.

Also keep in mind it was the 80th anniversary of the Hindenburg disaster, another occasion when a stupendous gasbag promising exciting adventures blew up with great embarrassment and massive loss of life. Not that this at all resembles anyone we might know.

As a prelude to this trail it rained on Thursday. And it rained on Friday. And it rained for part of Saturday. And it was all the hare’s fault. But then the rain magically stopped and eager, giddy hashers met up at the bar – Shampoo and Moist Leatherette bustling from one direction, 0N5 and Just James rounding the corner from the other – only to find the bar closed, locked up, lights off.

This presented a dilemma. There were chairs stacked outside on the patio, and umbrellas stored inside the door, so our collective brainpower decided The Congress possibly hadn’t gone out of business. Maybe Saturday was their slow day? 0N5 suggested we go across the street to, of all places, a Starbucks to regroup. From there we watched as Casket Case, FiFi and Backdoor Buzz wandered past and were similarly puzzled. They were hailed from across the street. Then we all spent the next 20 minutes successively crossing and recrossing all eight or ten lanes of roaring traffic on Yonge Street wondering what we should do until Haipoogai showed up and looked at us like we were especially backward children. There is so a trail, so what’s your problem?

Our circle-up was outside the Starbucks, and as soon as Duals appeared at the last minute we were off, through suburban streets, then shuddering to a halt at the 401. Not as bad as you might think, the interchange actually had a sidewalk that looped all around it, so HPG didn’t have us running on the highway.

We were now south of the 401. Since he’d set no falses, Haipoo allowed even fewer, more obscure marks than usual. After a few more twists and turns of the suburban streetscape we were in the graveyard of an antique church, and at the end of a long flight of steps were back on Yonge Street, at Hogg’s Hollow. Crossing Yonge brought us onto a golf course, where we were not expected to play in the raging torrents, nor were we pinged by slices from the few golfers who were out.

Underneath the many lanes of the 401 there was a shooter check at a muddy construction site. Being served was some nasty tequila that Buzz disturbingly characterized as the alcoholic equivalent of porn featuring 70-year-olds. There was still runoff dripping around us, and we didn’t spend too much time there in case the place got Instagrammed to death.

Somewhere about there Haipoogai announced that Hump Day, returned from whatever Thai tiger cage he’d spent his vacation, was calling from The Congress, which he’d manage to make open though exercising his enormous and uncharted powers.

Next we were on the soggier, sloggier parts of the trail. There was a slippery hillside to climb next, and at the top of that a path along the cliffside with a nice though perilous viewcheck of the golf course below. 0N5 and Just James thought it would be a smart thing to stand out as close to the edge as they could on the eroded bank. Because, of course, they can fly.

On the other side of the ridge, naturally, there was a climb down a very slippery and muddy switchback path. This put us on more or less level ground, if you like clinging, squelchy, watery mud at every step. There was one last, perilous, death-defying stream crossing, with a flood of rushing water that reached almost to the top of your shoes – useful for washing away some of the mud.

It was like a walk in the park after that. In fact, it was a walk in the park after that, to under the bridge with Sheppard above, and Helen Keller waiting in the parking lot with the beer. We had the beer check under the bridge – for some reason, we chose a spot directly below the drain holes – with corn chips and salsa, in keeping with the occasion, and we sang our hash versions of the Mexican and French national anthems, until the very unMexican weather persuaded us it was time to leave.

At The Congress, they seemed delighted to see us, and both surprised and unprepared to be working the bar. And Hump Day looked tanned and well-rested after his long stay on the Polish Riviera, with hardly any prison tats.

Hogtown Hash
Monday, May 01, 2017
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For Monday, May 1, Can Cum in My Mouth finally surrendered to the hare raiser’s moral suasion and constant nattering and volunteered to set trail. He chose Alice’s Place on Parliament. It has the advantages of apparently loose standards and being almost empty, and is just steps from his house. You can get anything you want at Alice’s restaurant – except a half-pint, which was all that Shampoo wanted. He doesn’t want to lose his head or anything.

Nothing against Can Cum – let’s say it was entirely the fault of the weather (it had been raining all day but had finally wrung itself out by hash time), but we were a small outfit: in addition to the aforementioned Shampoo there were Aims Low, Loopy, Cougar Bait, Backdoor Buzz and Juggler. Then again, there was a gleam in Can Cum’s eye when he said “Do you like going down(hill)?” It was like he was promising us one of those corporate bonding exercises or something, where we’d all have to – gasp – trust each other.

Loopy very efficiently extorted hash cash and her safekeeping solution was to stash it under her shirt, because nobody, nobody would ever be able to get at anything hidden inside her bra… This also had the benefit of making her look like she had eight nipples, what with the loonies in her left booby.

Just as we were about to set off Baroness Beer Bitch walked toward us down Parliament. She was congratulated for joining the hash, but she said she was just walking home from work. Aims Low said, “I thought you lived in the west end.” BBB said she did. “I’m a hasher,” she shrugged. So, lost and wandering, and miles from home – sounds about right.

But first we had to stop and admire a gigantic dog with a huge drooling head that resembled Backdoor Buzz to a remarkable degree. If you looked underneath him (the dog, that is) you could see he was happy to see Buzz too, if you get my drift.

We got going, heading north through St. Jamestown to the footbridge that spans the Rosedale valley at the Sherbourne subway exit. There was a hash hold there, and we stood waiting for Can Cum, or poked around for possible trail, while a group of local gentlemen looked at us while they, oh, discussed the important issues of the day or something, before edging away to carry on their conversation somewhere else. Under Can Cum’s guidance we were shown that the trail continued a bit along Bloor at Sherbourne.

Where the trail continued it was under the Sherbourne bridge, which is undergoing renovations and has decking of plywood held up by scaffolding suspended underneath. We were meant to cross it. “It’ll be fun,” said Can Cum, to skepticism from the pack. Aims Low flat-out refused, and that can’t-do spirit worked its way through the rest of us. I think nobody trusted to go that way because we suspected we would wind up dangling from the end of a crane.

So we all slid down the slippery slope instead. Loopy chose a route on the inside of the construction fence, and so had to be plucked out by Can Cum when she reached the bottom.

At Rosedale Valley Road we followed a longish stretch downhill, until a check directed us across the road, up a slope and following the ridgeline down to Bayview, which we got to cross in Frogger fashion.

There was a short run up the bike path on Bayview until we reached a gate in the fence, which Can Cum claimed had been open earlier in the day. So we were faced with either climbing the fence or heading back down Bayview. In keeping with the evening’s spirit of Adventure Hashing, we all decided to go the easier way. Just as well; Can Cum told us later the gate led to a temporary bridge over the Don, then a couple of bridges on the abandoned rail line, and then I think to the Fyre Festival.

But this “easier” route was first to the intersection with Rosedale Valley Road, which we crossed at the lights like good citizens, and up the set of stairs into Cabbagetown, then past the cemetery and the farm into Riverdale Park, down into the bowl and across the footbridge, and onto the Don bike path. After another few feet we veered into the brush and there was the beer check, on the abandoned rail line. Those two shadowy figures lurking at the other end of the rail trestle were Buzz and Cougar Bait, shortcutting walkers.

After the beer check Shampoo, being Mister Fun, as well as halfway home, called it a night. The others were undecided about whether to return to Alice’s Place, with its cheaper beer and small selection of off-brand fried things, or heading somewhere else with perhaps less ptomaine.

April, 2017
Hogtown 'The Ice Is Gone!' Hash
Saturday, Apr 08, 2017
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Last Saturday (April 8) was warmish, sunny – finally, spring weather. For most of us it was the first opportunity to enjoy the outdoors, while waiting for the pack to assemble, on the patio of Whistler’s at Broadview and Pottery Road. From there we could gaze upon the concrete pinnacles of downtown and the broad sweep of the Don Valley. What on earth could Casket Case and Fish Fingers, the hares, have in store for us, since they’d promised us shiggy, runoff, and the boggy swamps of spring, and these were unlikely to be found in the flatlands of East York?

This time we were not blessed with an abundaance of adorable small children, though Dutch Rudder did exhibit that slightly skulking look of the family man who knows he’s hiding from his responsibilities. We did have three new boots, all of them full-grown adults, along with our usual contingent of child-like participants. I said “child-like”, not “childish”, and that was generally true.

Our trail began with a run up Broadview. The first check allowed 0N5 to run about madly and dodge traffic, but more sensible folk waited for the light to change to cross and follow a street that runs along the crest of the Don Valley but offers no access to it, and which spat us back on to Broadview like we left a bad taste. Rounding the corner at O’Connor, we soon found ourselves taking the steep decline that does go into the valley.

The hares had decided to introduce – of all things – an innovation, so we had to find trail markings consisting of a powder-blue sploodge about the size of a wadge of chewed-up bubblegum, produced by something – a paintball pellet? – the hares could throw to the ground while standing. Or, as an alternative theory, Casket Case saved all his used condoms over the past several years until the contents had ripened enough to take on their characteristic Smurff-blue hue. As a beta test, it proved hard for the hounds to see but convenient for the hares, so they’ll probably keep doing it.

Anyway, once in the valley they tended to use the usual flour, thanks. There was also not as much of a quagmire as the hares promised, since the trail tended to climb. The letters E T W found on trail did not in fact denote a little-known terrorist organization but suggested there was a walkers’ trail in addition to an eagle and a turkey trail. Or maybe that was “easy” and “tough”, since the two trails tended to intertwine in concert so it was hard to say if one was much shorter than the other. Anyway, after switchbacking up to Bayview, the trail crossed that road and then dove down to the abandoned rail bed on the other side, and followed that to the Brickworks.

There the E trail essentially fell over a cliff and wound through the Brickworks property below, then through the building complex back to Bayview. A run alongside Bayview against the unrushing traffic provided another quarter mile o’ fun, and at the intersection with Pottery Road an arrow pointed the way to the beer check.

This was in a not-too-swampy patch of land that I will insist was on the right side of the tracks. And since this was a preferred location, and we had enough beer, we had an outdoor circle as well, once Juggler was persuaded to stop lounging on the tracks.

All three of our new boots had survived, though one of them, Just James, thought the hash was meant to be like Fight Club and had his t-shirt liberally splattered with blood, presumably mostly his own.

The weight that had been weighing down Cougar Bait for the entire trail was not his troubled conscience or an existential yearning but an actual weight: the fake bronze medal from the race he’d run that morning. So a down down for him, too. Moist Leatherette sang a new song she’d written about a three-legged dog. It’s this natural wit and facility for wordplay that lets her work through the tragedy of her Tupperwares still being held hostage by Knees 2 Please.

Back at Whistler’s, Rose Eh dominated one corner of the room and had already driven away one family through her forceful personality. Considering the bar is all of a 45 second commute from her condo you’d think she might have decided to join us on the run, but she preferred to play volleyball instead, and I can see that spiking balls might be a natural fit for her as well.

This was a rare coincidence, each of Rose Eh, Shadow and HaiPooGai being present at the on in so we could give them our traditional hash send-off, though wouldn’t you know it, this was the day HaiPoo was given a down down for being too quiet.

March, 2017
Hogtown Hash
Saturday, Mar 25, 2017
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March 25 began as a rainy, wet, sopping Saturday. But because it was a hashing day, and the Big Guy smiles on hashers (probably because we amuse him, like a clown), the weather turned clear and mildly sunny by the afternoon, and perfect hashing weather.

The hares were billed as Open Pit and Just Fleur, though Fleur is still at the age where her idea of helping to lay trail would be to gum the flour into a paste and let it drool onto the ground. Dutch Rudder was not stuck down a mineshaft after all, but by returning from the Hall of the Mountain King had earned the right to sit around the bar drinking beer and doing nothing. I know, I know, drinking beer is not “doing nothing”….

Already holding up the bar at the Grover Exchange was Maximum Assposure, in town to do a job (well, St. Catharines) all the way from Atlanta. We had another Yankee with us as well, Just Mike, who had driven from upstate New York to get his Tesla serviced. Cover stories I thoroughly believe to explain why an ex-Marine and a current army guy would be hanging around our country…

Into the Grover trooped a parade of strollers containing new babies, pushed by their mothers amid wafts of girly perfumes and the heady aroma of prolactin. Apparently our new recruitment drive is to breed our next generation of hashers, which will work fine until you accidentally find yourself hitting on your own progeny in 15 years or so. And the babies were amazingly cute and sweet-tempered, which is a miracle when one considers the presumed viability of the seed of the baby-daddies. They’re at that perfect age when they so much resemble their hasher parents: ingesting large quantities of fluids, expelling large quantities of fluids, flailing their limbs and babbling incoherently.

I just hope FiFi and Casket Case take the message to heart and try to remain chaste. Drinking more will help.

In addition to Fleur there was Blurry Beaver with her brood and a stroller that morphs like a Transformer to expand with each additional child. I wasn’t the only one – Airtight and Wet Pussy thought the same – to think it was Half Wit unexpectedly pushing a stroller as well, but it was Open Pit’s friend Just Clarissa, who looks a fair bit like her across a room and through a beer glass. Liquor Ass dandled Fleur and looked about ready to faux-breastfeed like that Globe and Mail columnist, but then said she was going home to have a shower, and disappeared. Meanwhile Dipsy Doodler and One Hump or Two disappeared as well. Maybe they all showered together.

So many happy feelings, so many calming hormones. But then the trail had to start. We got as far as the corner of Kingston Road and Main Street before the confusion reigned. Eventually things got sorted out – the trail went south, then trended east to the Glen Stewart ravine. (I was prepared to believe the nasty rumour that childbirth plays havoc with a woman’s sense of direction, but then again I’ve been on Open Pit’s trails before.)

The trail crossed the ravine briefly and then proved that the long, long staircase up the other side was not a false trail at all. This brought us back to Kingston Road, which we crossed. Then there were much more positive signs of trail, but they were heading out, not back, crossing Victoria Park and up to Gerrard. Crossing Gerrard took us into the large overgrown field known as the Quarry, where there was a welcome stretch of soft squishy ground and where the hare swears there was a shooter check, which might have been true for the half of the pack consisting of walkers and small children but not for the runners.

Crossing back across Vic Park took us past the Loblaws and through a townhouse development, and up a back lane until we saw a BC chalked in front of a garage. Just Clarissa made the mistake of admitting this was where she lived. But she let us in and we got to enjoy our beers within its cozy confines. Our American visitors got taste-bud boners at the revelatory experience of ketchup-flavoured chips, yet another reason why they will come to love this country. And for those who were just imagining there was a shooter check and that they’d missed it, Open Pit had her booze-infused berries and cherries – a true “fruit cocktail” for sure.

After that it was pretty much back across Gerrard and to the bar, with ON5 continuing on after that like he was running from his past or something. For circle Johnny Cockring stood in for Backdoor Buzz and you couldn’t believe the calm, reasoned, measured and non-shouty manner in which down downs were conducted – we missed Buzz tremendously. And Shampoo finally got his for being a smart-aleck, challenged to chug with Just Clarissa, who naturally outdrank him easily.

Hogtown Hash: Back Door Buzz's birthday/Great Big Italian Dinner/St. Patrick's Day
Saturday, Mar 11, 2017
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Last Saturday’s run was on the closest date to St. Patrick’s Day, so that was one theme. And also Backdoor Buzz’s birthday. Like the Queen, Buzz gets to celebrate an official birthday, and a real birthday. His real birthday is actually on March 17, which speaks to a certain delicate timing and careful organization on the part of his parents. And Vanishing Hare also held her semi-irregular Big Italian Dinner. So it was a celebratory mash-up of three of this country’s vibrant ethnic communities: the Irish, the Italian, and… Buzz.

Backdoor Buzz handled the trail setting part, while Vanishing Hare took care of the cooking. Those with past experience of watching these two multitask will recognize that this is by far the better division of responsibilities.

We met at an almost deserted Wild Wings at Queen and Simcoe, which has been a hashing venue under various guises since the early ‘90s. Cougar Bait was with us again, and KY Dick slid in. Pissing Doucheman made the short jaunt over from whatever hot-sheet hotel he’s now working at. Baroness Beer Bitch enjoyed a glass of wine – of course – and then leaving before the run started. Short Caucasian was just within the radius of his electronic bracelet, or whatever it is that keeps him close to home. We were also joined by Juggler (who seemed to be involved with Shampoo in some kind of weird-beard-off, which is a shame since we no longer have David Bowie to adjudicate) and Just Joanne, who seems quite hasherly despite not having a hash name – she joked that she only shows up when it’s extremely cold, so maybe we could name her something like Comes When Frigid or something like that just for spite.

And extremely cold it was. After a short run west along Queen the trail entered the park behind the AGO, where there was a mark for a shooter check beside the lonely church-tower-without-a-church, but no shooter check. The shooters were in Backdoor Buzz’s backpack, as he positioned us in a spot beside the church tower in the full face of the wind. Only Juggler was smart enough to lead us around to the other side, out of the wind, where we stood huddled between the wall and the shrubbery like a mob of mass urinators. At least there was Bailey’s.

Thereafter we cut across the park, crossed Beverley and continued to Spadina, then cut through an alley north of Queen featuring cool graffiti and scenic piles of urban detritus. We visited the new, under construction Alexandra Park, then hung a right to cross Dundas and enter Kensington Market. The trail temptingly led us right past Grossman’s, which could have been a perfect beer check, but it wasn’t, so we kept on to McCaul, turned right and a few paces later were at the real beer check, at Sin and Redemption.

This put us in temptingly close proximity to Vanishing Hare’s condo. Her very small condo, where we all crowded in to enjoy the magnificent feast she’s prepared – pasta, meatballs, baked eggplant, roast veggies, salad. And panettone. What, you expected Chinese?

All except 0N5, who’d immediately fled the hash. I will indulge in a little cultural appropriation/stereotyping when I say to him, “Whatsamat? Why you no eat? Mangia! Mangia!” Vanishing Hare did in fact exhort me to “Mangia! Mangia!” as I was stuffing meatballs into my face, and I have to say, they were among the best balls I’ve ever had in my face.

I forgot to mention Mia, VH’s daughter, who’s almost four and entertained herself by bouncing bare-arsed on the bed.

Among the second shift, Moist Leatherette arrived to shame us all with her example of glowing good health and cheerful sobriety. Half Wit also made her appearance, to dominate the room. I say this because in my experience nothing makes men clear out of the way like a heavily pregnant woman – too much like an overstrained balloon, ready to burst at the merest touch. Accompanying her was Just Mike, who gallantly volunteered to make a beer run. Which was strange, because 10 minutes later Duals emerged from the balcony triumphantly hoisting a 2-4 that had been squirreled away. He forgets, I guess.

February, 2017
Hogtown Hash
Monday, Feb 20, 2017
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Trail Trash:
Many of us got the opportunity last Monday to take Family Day off, and spend the time enjoying fun, wholesome activities with their families. Or you could go to the hash. Well, are we not like a family? One with a preponderance of opinionated drunken uncles, prone to inappropriate outbursts (or just “prone”), to be true, but a family nonetheless.

Playing Daddy this time was HaiPooGai, who stepped up to hare at short notice. For a venue he chose the Evergreen Brickworks, because it was also having a craft beer festival, a perfect location for someone who might possibly have named their favourite bartender their next of kin. Casket Case and Shampoo arrived just in time to join Can Cum, Buzz and Knees to Please for a beer before cut-off, while two visitors from New York State, Geriatrick and One-White-One, and a new boot, Sarah, appeared. Sarah spent the circling-up time with earbuds jammed in her ears, perhaps listening to an inspirational podcast to keep her spirits up. Half Wit and Stunt Boobs waddled in (Stunt Boobs waddled out of sympathy) with Just Mike.

After the two glorious preceding days, you’d think there wouldn’t have been much snow and ice left, but HaiPooGai found it. But he’d promised mud, found in abundance at the first check on the path leading out of the Brickworks, where it looked like our visitors would win the hash as they made a beeline toward Rosedale. But the trail actually headed north on the Moore Ravine path where there was plenty of snow and ice.

Sometimes it was ripply and offered some kind of grip. Sometimes it was slick and gave no grip at all. Somewhere along there Sarah had had enough with slipping on the ice and while crawling on all fours expressed some sharp comments about us and the type of trails we lay (I will insist that all of this blame rests with HaiPooGai). Many if not most of us have, on occasion, wanted to express such thoughts about a HaiPoo trail. (But it still wasn’t the worst moment of Sarah’s day, which was when Moist Leatherette goosed her when we were circling up.)

After the slipping and sliding and tippy-toeing, all were safely accounted for at the pedestrian bridge over the ravine, where the trail diverged in some other mysterious direction. Marks were found along Heath Street, heading toward Bayview before disappearing. The pack had broken up by then into rival clan-groups of Fuckawees, with Aims Low, Short Caucasian and a few others heading aimlessly over to Bayview, and others streaming along Moore Avenue, led by Just Mike.

This was true trail. On the far side of the supermarket the trail visited a residential street before descending a short stretch of brush back to Bayview, then headed onto the abandoned rail tracks, and we carried on from there. We were safe from runaway trains, at least, but not from a sudden ambush from trolls emerging from under a bridge. Actually it was HPG and a late-arriving Duals, but it’s so easy to get them mixed up.

Soon we veered off the tracks and were back on the high ground of the bowl surrounding the Brickworks, with a terrific view of the city and, even better, the beer check. There was even a handy concrete platform with a circle already drawn out on it, to help us with down downs whenever Aims Low showed up so Buzz could start shouting. So we stood around waiting, getting colder, while the light failed. Finally she did appear, with a story about a couple of cops lurking in the parking lot below, but didn’t make it clear if that was a warning to her or a source of attraction.

After down downs we were still at the Brickworks, which had closed, and at a point where almost literally the buses didn’t run. So you were on your own after that.
St. Valentine’s Day Hash
Saturday, Feb 11, 2017
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Trail Trash:
Whoever said something about the course of true love never did run so smooth (Shakespeare? Shelley? Ron Jeremy?) described the Hogtown Saint Valentine’s day hash, which was actually held on Saturday, February 11. And it was set in the east end, off Kingston Road past the Beaches, to the great inconvenience of those from the west end. However, Natty Porn, Trix, Sex Tourist and Naughty Ways made the long journey over, as well as four guys even further away from Buffalo.

But in the spirit of love, I will be kind. The hares were Loopy, chosen because of her absolutely astounding unfamiliarity with the neighbourhood, and Dipsy Doodler, I think for the same reason, even though he lives only a few blocks away.

The venue was the home of a fellow named Simon, not a hasher, but friendly with Cum Fu Lay, and who seemed hospitable enough but slightly wary, as if he’d realized he might have just made a terrible mistake by letting us in. But then Simon has sold the house and is moving back to England, so what did he have to worry about? Just tell the new people it came that way.

The trail was set in yellow snow, chalk, and little pink or red Valentine hearts, none of which it was recommended to taste. I say “set” as both a euphemism and a courtesy to the hares, who I am sure meant well. We milled around in the little park behind Simon’s house while Messiah obsessed about getting a picture taken – a passing dog walker obliged him, and managed to hand Messiah his phone back instead of the bag of dog crap he was also carrying.

Before setting out we also tried to help another dog walker find her keys, but even with them attached to a red string all 30 of us had no luck. This was kind of a harbinger for our chances of success in finding this trail. Once Open Pit remembered to not leave the baby outside we set off and managed to get through the park as far as the next street – a distance of some hundreds of feet – before it all went pear-shaped.

Finding no credible trail markings, we either stood around or wandered adjoining streets at random. Sooner or later some order and sense of direction were imposed, and we traipsed a long downhill toward Queen Street. Confused again at that point, trail was eventually discovered leading in behind an apartment building, through its parking lot, and continuing on downhill to wind up by the lake at the RC Harris treatment plant. There you could take a low road closer to the water or the high road with a better view of the impressive architecture of these buildings, but if you kept to the low road you needed to climb up the grassy slope in the end. Good thing this trail was set with Love.

From Queen Street the trail immediately headed back down to the lake, followed the beach and the boardwalk, then headed up to Queen again. By that point we resembled more a train of furtive migrants than a group of motivated, toned athlete-inebriates. Back at Queen one bold soul – I think it was Sex Tourist – discovered some yellow snow, which he optimistically interpreted as trail markings through the Glen Stewart ravine.

The route through the ravine presented many slippy-slidey opportunities, and a pair of yak trax would have been a good idea. Or better yet, a pair of yaks. But at the top of that trail by Kingston Road there was the beer check, and chips, and we enjoyed watching the best dad ever make a snow fort for his appreciative little girl, by packing the fresh fallen snow into an empty beer case. This may be a cost-effective means of building a wall along the Mexican border, if they can get enough beer cases.

After that happy occasion the walkers sensibly disappeared and the runners set off at a confused shambling pace guided by Liquor Ass as she tried to remember where she lived so she could guide us into her backyard.

I know that “Liquor Ass’s big backyard” sounds like the worst children’s porn video ever, but here was a wine check in Liquor Ass’s backyard and Dipsy Doodler managed to make fire, against all expectations, including his own. Meanwhile, Shampoo was able to tease the nipple out of a box of jug wine, and is hoping to use this expertise soon in real life, perhaps on a female. There were cookies, too.

But hypothermia threatened as the afternoon came to a close, and it was time to shuffle back to the start, trusting in our collective directional memory. Even at this point the hares still tried to lead the pack on a long pointless detour down one of the many Fallingbrooks that run off Fallingbrook (and that situation really needs to be explained), but good sense prevailed. The disappearance of Wet Pussy and 0N5 seemed to be attributable by them going home, and not drifting off to sleep in the snow. Simon was already flipping burgers as we arrived, and the feeding frenzy followed.

And the thanks Simon got for being so nice to us? He got named White on Rice.
December, 2016
Hogtown Hash
Saturday, Dec 17, 2016
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0N5 seemed to be his usual affable, level-headed self, with no sense of any seething anger issues or overt displays of animus toward us, so it didn't seem like he was setting a grudge trail or anything. In fact, in consideration of the post-blizzard conditions, he said he'd lopped off a fair distance to make the trail only 6 km. But I figure what with the higher steps required to clear the snowbanks, plus the general lying nature of hares, let's make it 8 km. And uphill both ways.

For indeed it was 0N5 who drew the short straw to hare on December 17. Our appointed place of punishment was Gabby's on Yonge north of Lawrence. In keeping with the festive season, white-bearded Shampoo wore a red jacket and a Santa hat, but then again he is kind of obsessed about coming down your chimney. The rest of the elves consisted of Moist Leatherette and seven other guys, which seemed to please her. Which is funny, because she was definitely not happy the one time I suggested the same thing to her. Maybe it was a mistake to mention the webcam.

There were Backdoor Buzz, the loud, braying, yellowy-orange person who is our current GM, as well as Cougar Bait and HaiPooGai. Golden Showers although technically a visitor qualifies as more of a regular than KY, whose turn for this year came up. Also visiting from the Midland hash (or maybe escaped from Penetang?) was Messiah, whom Moist cattily described as looking like a cross between Stephen Fry and a Restoration fop. Also visiting from West London was Comes Forth in Orange, who was cagey about the origins of his name but was wearing an orange sweatshirt and orange shoes (which he put into an orange bag at the end of the hash).

We got off to a wrong start with a pointless excursion on the west side of Yonge, before being steered onto the real trail heading east. Cougar Bait, Buzz and a couple of others soon stopped to help push some guy's Beemer out of a snowbank, in keeping with the spirit of the season, while HaiPooGai helped by standing across the street smirking. I'm kind of with HPG on this one, wondering just how much help to offer somebody prepared to spend 60 grand on a car and then be too cheap to spring for decent tires.

Over by Mount Pleasant the route got especially interesting because the snow had melted enough to cover the sidewalks and had then frozen again into a thin sheen of ice, resulting in a number of balletic interpretations and drunken-uncle near-pratfalls. But not to worry, we still had our usual contingent of prats. After all the slippy-slidey our footing got a little better north of Teddington Park, where people are rich enough not to have to clear their sidewalks, or even have sidewalks.

This brought us back to Yonge Street at the Loblaws at the top of the Hogg's Hollow hill. But we didn't get far down the hill before branching off on the first street to the right. At the end of a short dead-end street there was a snow-covered embankment, and then by clinging to the chain link fence at the top you reached a narrow hole in the fence, where we then experienced the miracle of rebirth by squeezing through a birth canal of metal mesh, to find ourselves in the Rosedale Golf Club on the other side. The snow there was pristine and designer white, and tasted vaguely of money. Standing on the slight rise and surveying the dips and valleys below, I was expecting the sudden arrival of James Bondian henchman on snowcats to chase us down. But no, we got to enjoy a shooter check, or another shooter check for those who'd already downed the airline bottles the hare offered at the start of the trail.

Now well fortified, after that we set out on a long arctic slog through the calf-deep snow. Though not much below freezing, the snow does get into the socks. We were driven on by the thought that exposure is one of the least unpleasant ways to die, or so they say. The hare kept our spirits up with the cheerful assurance that another shooter check was just around the next corner, surely the same words of encouragement Robert Falcon Scott used during his traipse through the snow, and look at how well it worked out for him.

However, eventually that last corner was turned, and a small knot gathered around a bottle of spiced rum. The stragglers crawled in, first Moist, last Comes Forth in Orange, like a tiny dot on the horizon. In the movie, at this point the Red cavalry breaks from the tree line and the survivors are then packed into boxcars for transportation to Siberia, to the sounds of balalaikas.

Finally it looked like we all weren't going to freeze in the snow after all. Up ahead was a set of icy stairs leading up to the Granite Club. At the top of them we finished the last of the spiced rum, except for Comes Forth, who spewed all of his all over Shampoo, which is way too intimate even for the hash, as well as alcohol abuse. The walkway we had to cross immediately afterwards was awash in slushy water, and that meant soakers all round, even more unpleasant than shoes full of snow.

0N5 steered us around some of the deadlier places at the Toronto French School (though they did seem to have iced the place down just for us) and then it was a straight shot along Lawrence to Yonge and the on in, where the staff at Gabby's wisely treated us as if we were in an especially noisy isolation tent. Continuing the theme of Xmas miracles 0N5 even stayed to be down downed. When last seen, KY and HPG were just getting to the stage of having to be separated in their lively discussion about the War on Christmas, or something. Anybody know who won?
October, 2016
Hogtown Hash - All Hallows' Eve
Monday, Oct 31, 2016
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Good old Halloween fell on a hash Monday this year, which made for a perfect witching hour - or bitching hour, if the experience of the hash is anything to go by. Funky Monkey was the lucky hare, and she set it from The Bar With No Name in the west end. She was wearing her pig onesie, and had hoped that two others would join her to make the Three Little Pigs. But actually Helen Keller, Backdoor Buzz and Shampoo all wore their onesies, so that made four little pigs - after the straw, wood and brick houses, I guess one of them must live in a condo in Liberty Village or something.

(The most embarrassing part of all this was when some well-meaning woman from PigSave came along and tried to stick a water bottle in their mouths. I mean, if it was a beer bottle..)

Among other costumes, Sex Tourist was dressed as Dracula and Naughty Ways had on a sort of Vampirella/Cruella De Ville outfit with large bat wings on the shoulders which, as she explained, was the sort of thing the ladies in Moscow would be likely to wear on any day. Knees2Please was swathed in voluminous (and yes, clingy) rolls of grey fabric that restricted her to mincing little steps and required her to carry her own train, but since she was shortcutting the trail that was less of a problem. Can Cum was a punch-drunk boxer: so, just add the boxing gloves to create the effect.

Ring Tail and Just Cileanna got away with simple black masks, but ain't that racist? And Haipoogai and Attaboy had incredibly high-concept costumes: they dressed as two guys out for run who didn't give a fuck about the traditions of the hash.

Loopy had a costume I can only describe as inimitably and unmistakably Loopyish: what appeared to be a USA Olympic uniform from about the Los Angeles games era, combined with a fright wig and clown makeup. First Lady was Darth Vader in a business suit, or perhaps Bay Street once it removes its human face. And Blurry Beaver had the most unusual costume of all: as a doting new mother complete with an adorable pretend baby named Nora. People told me that it really was a new baby, but come on. I know all about babies.

We began with a jog east on Bloor before turning down into the residential streets still crowded with trick or treaters. I don't know if Duals was working the trick or the treat, but he'd dressed up to release his inner cheerleader (and I think that cheerleader was contained within a very thin veneer indeed), and that cute outfit along with his perky demeanour were enough to earn him some candy at one house, from whatever it was he did to earn it. And duly noted: the person in the pig suit who looked so much like Funky Monkey, in fact, wasn't; it was a tween girl in a pig suit. Ooops!

As more or less expected, the trail crossed Parkside Drive into High Park, where we moved mostly along forested trails in the spooky dark. The trail was well marked, but with a tendency for the flour to veer off in unexpected directions, often with a sudden downhill dip. But there were only one or two pratfalls. After topping the first ridge to reach the park road, it was then necessary to delicately tip-toe over a creek, but most of the costumes came through that unsoiled as well, or as unsoiled as hashers are likely to be.

Then it was into the spooky woods again, avoiding the ghosts, ghouls, sprites and capybaras. A couple of closed gates likewise could have resulted in a pileup of mashed hashers, but we've now learned how to open them with our clever little fingers. And there was one low fence that the pack successfully managed to shimmy over to keep the whole thing from turning into a steeplechase gone horribly wrong.

Heading toward the cleared area at the highest point in the park, Shampoo followed some marks that led toward a clutch of people gathered around some tea lights. This might be the beer check, he thought, but it was actually a group of wiccans preparing to sacrifice a virgin (and to this Haipoogai quipped, "That would be all of them"). Clever, but Shampoo was just really, really glad he hadn't dressed in his first choice of costume, the Wicker Man.

So no beer check yet. The pack, fortuitously not turned into newts, continued down the hill, through yet more twisty woodsy trails, finally emerging by the fancy houses at the western edge of the park. We followed that street almost as far as Bloor, then went back into the park. One final, darkened uphill climb - watch out for those roots - brought us to level ground with Bloor Street in sight and the welcome information that the beer check was near by.

So while Funky Monkey was trying to connect with Atta Boy, who was parked in the beer wagon a short distance away, we gathered around a picnic table and cooled our heels. The walkers were observed zombie-shuffling among the trees as they emerged from the mist to join us. And last to stumble in was a figure dressed either as Captain Morgan or Peter the Great; anyway, this was Moonman coming late from work. Apparently it was dress-up day at Bombardier, and this is what they get up to instead of building our damn streetcars, dammit! Once the AttaMonkeys had finished with their unholy congress and the beer finally came as well, Moonman was able to wield his piratical/tsarist authority and run circle at the same time as the beer check.

It was short haul back to the bar, where for whatever reason TBWNN was about the least busy ever when we've been there. A few of the customers were in costume. There was a charming encounter between little Booze Buggy, dressed in his Star Wars-themed costume, and an actual real-life Imperial Storm Trooper. It was priceless the way his eyes lit up in alternating awe and nervous apprehension when they high-fived. Booze Buggy was pretty impressed, too.

Hogtown Hash
Saturday, Oct 22, 2016
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For some reason, Oct. 22 fell into one of those hareless dead zones, despite being a Saturday in the nicer part of autumn. Apparently no one was interested. So the begging/pleading/wheedling began, and in the great crapshoot of betting on the chances for some gormless volunteer to step forward, the hash rolled snake eyes. Shampoo, the trail is all yours!

His trail started at a new place (for us) called the Edmund Burke, named not for the 18th century Anglo-Irish political theorist and father of modern conservatism but for the man who designed the Bloor Viaduct. So, appropriately enough, this bar is situated almost at the corner of Danforth and Broadview. The bartender seemed to find us charming and adorable, though of course we half-filled the place. We had several visitors from the U.S. - Occifer Pussy Pants and Lick My Sandbox together formed a nine-foot-plus rock-climbing giantess, however on their own each was much shorter, and creeped out at having to put their hands on our dirty sweaty stones (at the climbing gym). Hard to Swallow was here from Grand Rapids with Dirty Little Crack, who was mostly beard. And we had a new boot, Scott, who is Ozzie and seemed to get the concept.

The trail was flat, level, and mostly rectilinear, sort of like the top of the hare's head. Wet Pussy, Sex Tourist and 0N5 made short work breaking what checks there were, so we got through it at a pretty good pace. Haipoogai complained there was no shiggy on trail, but there was pigeon poop you could step on, and I definitely saw somebody slip on a pavement oyster. Starting from the Danforth it trended northeast, heading over to Pape near Cosburn. So, along straight streets and through a couple of schoolyards, but presenting no major challenges. Heading west along O'Connor, the trail made a couple of feints pretending to head down into the Don Valley, but wimped out and stopped at Broadview and Mortimer for the beer check, at Whistler's. If you looked up, you could've spotted Rose Eh making faces at us from her condo, if she'd been making faces at us.

Arriving at the Edmund Burke soon after, we found them full up with the dinner crowd, but surprisingly they actually invited us to come back if we gave them half an hour. So we trooped across the street to the Black Swan for down downs in the surprisingly vacant main floor, offering comfortable seating in the club chairs, if you don't stick to the "leather".

This gave Backdoor Buzz the chance to use his indoor voice without alarming too many other people besides us, as well as providing the space to organize a spank tunnel for Dirty Little Crack in celebration of his birthday. This seemed to be a strange and delightful new thing for him, as 13 pairs of hands applied themselves, and he probably chalked it up as another weird Canadian habit derived from our British colonial history.

By 7:30 we were ready to go back across the street, unless you wanted to stay at the Swan for the pickled eggs.

Hogtown Hash
Saturday, Oct 08, 2016
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For the Saturday run (Oct. 8) on Thanksgiving weekend, always a slack time for finding both hares and hounds, Sex Tourist and Around the World in Naughty Ways graciously offered to set trail. However, having spent so long in Russia the hares have obviously developed a skewed sense of distance, as well as a serious overestimation of the capacity for human suffering.

It was a perfect day for it, though. Warm and sunny enough to enjoy the patio in front of McKenzie's, on Bloor across from High Park. This was misleading on both counts.

In keeping with the holiday, many were spending the day with their loved ones. In the case of Haipoogai, Backdoor Buzz and National Pornographic, sadly, that was us. Shampoo and Moist Leatherette only have themselves, so what were they going to do, sit at home and look at each other? Casket Case and FiFi were looking oh so cute and adorable in their matching Munich hash Oktoberfest shirts, clearly with no better place to go either. And Tailring was possibly taking the opportunity to observe us to further her research into primate behaviour.

And most unexpected of all was Drinks Like a Girl, here for some reason absolutely not connected with deportation from Japan, says he.

The trail started with an undemanding jaunt along Bloor to Keele - what should probably be termed the "lulling us into submission" stage. Then it went into High Park. It went into every fold and crevice, like Donald Trump at a beauty pageant. After a few of the familiar routes it diverged onto a variety of obscure little forest trails. Sex Tourist claimed the trail would take us into parts of High Park we hadn't seen before. Haipoogai very knowingly shot back with "Which of us hasn't spent a lot of time in the playground or the zoo?"

Point taken, though I don't remember going through the zoo on this run. We did run through the children's play castle, however, before heading off deep into the woods again. I'm sure the tykes (and their parents) were more afraid of creepy lurking clowns, but they got us.

And by the way, the hares used flour for this stage. This is what you want to tell the hazmat team when they're scooping up flour in a playground: it's all the fault of those two, Sex Tourist and Naughty Ways.

The trail went past a tennis club, which I never knew existed before, and then down Parkside Drive to the streetcar loop, then back into the park... almost to the Queensway... past the Howard House where Mr. Howard himself had his crazy wife locked in the attic (it's true) and so on

After quite some time of this, somehow the pack found itself at the "appetizer check" at the outdoor Shakespeare theatre, where the hares arranged some alcohol-friendly cranberry cocktail "appetizers." And both Shampoo and Backdoor Buzz couldn't fight the urge to get up on the stage to release their inner thespians. Maybe they could put on a show: playing both halves of a panto horse might be appropriate. Or perhaps a Punch and Judy show, with a donkey taking the place of Judy. I think you can guess how that would go, and who'd be Judy.

And on. After we'd passed the Grenadier Restaurant (for the second time), Sex Tourist finally took pity on us and cut the trail short. At least what he said was that he was leading us on a short cut to the beer check. Which actually was about as long as a normal hash all by itself But still, it did go to the beer check, after first heading down the slope overlooking Grenadier Pond, around the pond and along the stretch of path beside the Queensway to Ellis Avenue, and then ducking into a secluded spot where Naughty Ways was waiting with the beer, and also turkey jerky, because a balanced diet is important.

By this point it was starting to get both cold and dark, and Casket Case took the opportunity to introduce his new line of casual sportswear, fashioned out of a green garbage bag. And I hate to say this Casket, but yes, it does make your ass look big. He was also cautioned about passing out while wearing it on pick-up day.

And then we continued up Ellis, by which time it was pretty dark, and we needed the hare's guidance to find the "dessert check" - off to the left through what seemed to be a vacant lot, down a set of stairs leading to a park, which of course was pitch black. But Naughty Ways was there with tasty apple schnapps, and even better, Mars bars and other chocky-bickies. We weren't particularly in a hurry to move on - it's a holiday treat to be able to enjoy three outdoor BCs in October.

So, we'd managed to stave off hunger and thirst, but there was still yet another trudge up to Bloor and over to High Park. How long must they make us suffer? Before too long we were back at McKenzie's, where they treated us with that non-committal mixture of humouring and cautious non-engagement you use with "difficult" people on subway cars. Another nice touch was the chance to wave hello to Anal Compulsion, all the way from Japan, over Drinks' phone. Through the miracle of modern technology, it was like Anal Compulsion in a box. And such a small box, at that.

Hogtown Hash
Monday, Oct 03, 2016
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What we learned last Monday (October 3rd) was that it now does get dark by the time the hash starts, truly, for real, believe it, and that flashlights, torches, whatever one chooses to call battery-powered electric lighting devices (hell, it could be one of those wind-up things or a kerosene lamp, for all I care) are widely available at a reasonable price.

So, maybe start carrying one? Because it was dark on this hash.

Also, while the earth-toned chalk the hare decided to use might have been a fashionable choice for a 1970s acrylic sweater-vest, it doesn't show up all that well on trail, at night, when people don't bring flashlights.

But to start at the beginning, our hare was Moist Leatherette, and our venue was the Jester on Yonge just south of St. Clair. Surprisingly, the staff did not point at us with open-mouthed screeching like in the Donald Sutherland version of The Invasion of the Body Snatchers, considering we'd been there only a few weeks before, but you know what turnover is like in the hospitality business. Joining us were visitors Stinky Mexican Pussy from DC - obviously not Donald Trump's favourite hasher - and Rewind from the Bristol hash (and I was positive I saw Fast Forward briefly before she disappeared, perhaps after a premonition). Also holding up a booth was Humpday, who'd just flown in from Lesotho, so were his arms ever killing him, and he retired after we went on trail.

And that trail took us briefly down Yonge before we stepped out of the light, heading through the Rosehill Reservoir (though I suppose "over" would be more correct) and then down into the ravine past that. Where everything was pitch black except for the four or five flashlights we could collectively muster. This obviously kept the pace pretty slow, what with trying to see the trail and not trip over roots, tumble over precipices, get lost or eaten by coyotes.

Picking our way through and following the few dim glimmers of light brought us to the top end of the ravine and up the stairs to Heath Street. We crossed Yonge, and ran past Casket Case and FiFi's apartment - where presumably Casket was tinkering with his flour-dispensing trail setting sexbot - and kept going, and kept going. Possibly there was the occasional check, but in the dark who knows?, and the trail kept on in a straight line until almost as far as Spadina. There it magically swung down to St. Clair and the pack spent a good few minutes checking for marks/checks/trail on Russell Hill Road, where there wasn't any trail, until the telepathic hive-mind of Aims Low, Cougar Bait, Backdoor Buzz, Can Cum and Haipoogai decided the trail headed over to Winston Churchill Reservoir at Spadina and St. Clair.

Which it did. And there was the hare waiting, with the visitors, and a lonely Shampoo hobbling up last. And the hare's explanation that here the trail was supposed to turn through the park and head toward home. Except the reservoir had construction hoarding all around it.

Luckily, it was remembered (by HPG and Shampoo, and possibly Can Cum and Cougar Bait - can you believe that that much brainpower could be concentrated in one place?) that there was a staircase (or used to be) at the south end of the Spadina bridge leading down into the ravine. And so there still was, so we were able to follow the soft (but still dark) cinder path into Forest Hill, past Avenue Road and over to Yonge. There we were able to pick up some trail again, but the hare had already told us the beer check was at the Quail and Firkin another kilometre down the road. Sheesh.

And so the beer check eager beavers (and here, bizarrely, Shampoo had put on a heroic burst of speed to catch up with Cougar Bait and Buzz) were comfortably and happily ensconced at the bar when it was realized that Haipoogai, who was hash cash, was missing. He had last been seen monopolizing Stinky Mexican Pussy's attention while they were walking along Farnham, and we all know how HPG can go on. And on. And on. And so gradually Aims, Can Cum, Moist, Rewind trickled desultorily in to the beer check, before the triumphant arrival of Haipoo. He had bored Stinky Mexican Pussy into going home (or as The Donald might put it, "housekeeping").

Back at the Jester we set up in the back room and sang badly and noisily, and our waitress found us awfully amusing, her favourite customers ever, but then she let fall that she'd only been on the job for two days. So there we were, on display, a source of great fun like watching the monkeys in the zoo, which is fine until they start flinging their poo. And don't put that past us. - Shampoo

September, 2016
Thursday, Sep 29, 2016
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Since our usual Hash Scribe Shampoo was not there to witness it. I have decided to step up with a short review of this TWAT Hash from the illustrious Cameron House. I would not normally do this as I lack the skillful prose of Shampoo and his ability to actually remember who was present and what happened. This time it's easy, as only the hare, Can Cum In My Mouth and I showed up and you'll just have to put up with my pedestrian prose.

When the pack arrived (me), the hare was settled in watching his favourite Thursday night band play. It was pouring rain, so naturally there was no trail to speak of and it was yet to be executed. In a hopeless effort to give others a chance to arrive, we sat through the band`s generally melancholy country/folk set until 8pm. Fortunately there did not appear to be any songs referencing lost dawgs or repossessed trucks.

Having failed to attract any more hashers, it became obvious we had to act on our own. It also became obvious TWAT rules were not going to apply. Can Cum proposed two things, one sensible, the other, less so. The lesser was an A to B live trail ending somewhere around Yonge and St. Clair. He had apparently paced this out and determined it was a perfect 6KM. When I pointed out that he didn't factor in the elevation gain, we started exploring new ideas. We finally settled on Bar Volo as a destination as they were desperately selling off all their beer before closing this weekend.

Oh and the sensible proposal he had was, now that the band had finished, we should leave before the tip jar came around. So off we went. Live hare, with me in lackadaisical pursuit.

Trail took us up Cameron and out to Spadina, across and then up Huron. A few interesting alleyways and then through a fence in a dead end Can Cum apparently had forgotten was a dead end. I have to mention at this point, Can Cum had a uuge (Trump prose) bag of flower and apparently was only marking trail to lighten his load. Ironically it was one of the better marked trails I've been on, even though I never lost sight of the hare. Except, well at one point on the U of T campus when he tried to fool me and was shocked at how easy it was.

After that brief episode we worked our way across Queen's Park, though a little more of the east campus, eventually to Yonge St. and our beer check and final destination at Volo Since I was hashcash, We got right to work sampling what was left on the diminishing draft list. At least it was well on budget.

After a little while, Short Caucasian showed up not having run trail but in his trademark hashing jeans. His presence was short lived with one beer consumed. It didn't take him long to scan the room/patio and decide he might find more 'action' elsewhere.

In summary, no TWATs were harmed, no songs were sung (somehow we forgot) and we definitely missed Shampoo's detailed record keeping. - HaiPooGai

Hogtown Hash
Saturday, Sep 24, 2016
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We waited on the nice sunny patio at the Duke (Queen and Leslie) on Saturday, September 24, for the various half-minds to trickle in, to join Cougar Bait, Backdoor Buzz, Shampoo and Moist Leatherette: 0N5 and Can Cum in My Mouth, Aims Low and Cum Foo Lay. Shadow appeared. Our new Japanese friends, Hiroke and EJ. Duals in a skirt, although he insisted to everyone it was a kilt. And we got a running commentary on the whereabouts of Funky Monkey and Loopy, who were on a streetcar heading steadily eastbound with no hope of making the start, and of Dipsy Doodler, who was at Vic Park and somewhere.

Which complicated things a bit, because he was the hare.

However, there he finally was, and he'd already laid trail, so we could circle up and head out. We began by cutting through the back alley running east off Leslie, and eventually up to Queen. The first couple of checks made it obvious that: a) this hare likes to run, and will set a loooooong three marks from any check; b) he doesn't like to spend that chalk gratuitously, either; and c) we were in for a world of hurt.

This was made glaringly obvious at a check on Dundas. We spent a good 15 to 20 minutes running heedlessly in all directions trying to find that elusive fourth mark after the three pointing east toward Coxwell. But it just died, with no trail evident. By this time, scrawled on the sidewalk was a complicated collection of arrows upon arrows by 0N5 that resembled something between a 2D representation of an Alexander Calder mobile and the symbol Prince used when he was The Artist Formerly Known As Prince. Eventually someone's personal ambition drove them to the other side of Coxwell, where they found that next mark cleverly hidden behind a light pole.

One good thing about all this kerfuffle is that it had given Loopy and Funky time to catch up with us on Dundas.

Still trending eastward, we crossed Kingston Road and then Woodbine to find ourselves in the Upper Beaches, trudging along as far as the Glen Stewart ravine.

Moist had gone missing by this point. And soon after it was Hiroke who joined the ranks of the disappeared. We were expecting him to only emerge from the underbrush decades later like the last lonely holdout on Kiribati, but he was taken under her wing by Moist, who, in her words, "took him to see the lake." No doubt he will later compose a haiku on the theme of the exquisite lapping of the waves as a memento of his youthful experience.

Our flirtation with the ravine was only a brushing of the fingertips and not a full-fisted grip, so at least we had no chance to get lost in it. We continued down to Queen Street, crossed it and followed the marks down Beech (and oddly enough here there were plenty of marks) as far as the lake and what proved to be our beer check at the Balmy Beach Club - only about five kilometres from our start.

It was very pleasant there, in the gathering dusk, on the patio overlooking the boardwalk. Beer helped as well. We were down another two, Cougar Bait and 0N5, who'd fled to do other things, and up one, Simon (who's Simon?).

Then we got to slog the 5K back to the start. We hate the hare! Oh, wait, there was a second beer check, so no TTCing it! We love the hare! And the hare had even thoughtfully given us even more checks along the way!

Still, twilight's last gleaming along the beach and boardwalk, the soft stillness of night encroaching after a perfect day. Pretty nice. The last few people on the beach were wringing the last out of summer. Somebody had started a bonfire out on the sand.

The "pack" was just a theory by this point, strung out along a vast expanse of territory. A few were autohashing to the beer check with Dipsy. Others were rendezvousing on the water tower at Ashbridge's Bay (though, since that's the waste treatment plant, I don't think it's filled with water). And floating above it all was, far in the west, of all things the Goodyear Blimp.

Our second beer check was actually in an adjoining parking lot, so close enough. And there was plenty of beer to have circle there as well. Bit of a problem with the down downs for Cougar Bait and 0N5, as they were already gone, especially since our usual go-to stunt drunk, Buzz, seemed to be not drinking. (Pregnancy? One of those multiple antibiotic resistant STDs?) Loopy and Cum Foo Lay had both adorned their hair with flowers obtained through an act of vandalism against the Balmy Beach Club's planters, for which I hold Dipsy Doodler accountable. Maybe there's still time to have him blackballed. If I'd been aware he was standing for membership, I'd have seen to it then.

Back at the Duke we'd gained two more, Sex Toy and a visiting Floppy, though Shampoo managed to do a quick walk-through looking for Moist and not seen either of them, and continued on home in his usual vague funk. But with the constant additions and subtractions on this trail it was difficult to keep a running tally, making this hash not just hard, but hard like math.

August, 2016
Hogtown Hash
Saturday, Aug 27, 2016
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Saturday, August 27, was a glorious late summer day and another magnificent example of a Wet Pussy trail in action, and a revelation of his thought processes and what he really thinks of us.

He promised it was going to be a short trail. It may have been short for him to set, because he reused Wet Pussy North York Trails Nos. 1, 2, 4 and 6. Just follow one of the three or four shades of (seemingly eternal) "environmentally friendly" spray paint, and ignore the others. And he was correct in claiming that this trail did not have four water crossings, because it actually had five.

And for anyone wanting to get out of town and see the sights, the trail started just a little bit south of New Liskeard - kidding, actually only a titch south of Steeles, at a rec centre at the corner of Leslie and Cummer (which as I found out is not the same as Old Cummer, where I got off the bus, perhaps gravitating toward my natural home).

Contrarily, this was the run that pulled in several people we haven't seen in ages: Rose Eh, for maybe the second time this summer; Johnny Cockring, for the first time this year; and KY Dick, for the first time since Pissing Doucheman was still breastfeeding (to which I am sure the Doucheman would say, "Why stop?). Aims Low was there celebrating a birthday, so she was especially high on life.

Once everyone finished wandering around the property and had found each other, we set off through the park and a short stint of suburbia only as far as the first check, which led over a bridge and then down an embankment into the bush, and our first chance to get our feet wet. From there the trail more or less followed the creek bed, pushing along paths blazed through the woods, then dipping down to the stream for another chance to dip your toe in the water or perhaps a bit of shiggy (though in one especially soggy spot that sure didn't smell like shiggy), with the occasional stretch of paved path just to rub it in.

Coming to a halt at the expansive property of a Catholic school, an arrow pointed across the stream, next to a bridge that had pretty clearly been closed, what with the chain-link fences at each end. Nevertheless, both Backdoor Buzz and Wet Pussy chose the clamber over those fences rather than get their feet wet. This is what WP must have done when setting the trail, to explain why he was dry at the start. I knew it couldn't have been his Christ-like demeanour and ability to walk on water.

Once on the other side we crossed the school grounds, dotted with Frisbee golf targets, and WP confessed he had only just found out that Frisbee golf was actually a thing. I was expecting we would be set upon by packs of wild nuns, but of course the school year hasn't started yet.

This set us up for a long, dull slog down (and up - it's surprisingly hilly) Bayview Avenue. To all the good, startled, nervous residents of North York, I will reassure you that that shirtless man emerging from gullies and leaping from behind hedges was only 0N5, and he was simply checking trail, and he is relatively harmless as long as kept well hydrated and moving along.

At Finch, WP did have us crossing six lanes of traffic, but then we delved into a nice woodsy path familiar from previous WP trails. Here there was more water to wade through, of course, and a chance for Duals to show off his superpowers by flying through the air (helped by stumbling over a root). When we got to a tedious slope it could be recognized as the place where on a previous trail WP had us go through the drainage tunnel, but he said he didn't do that this time because the water is now chest-deep. And yay, there was a shooter check at the road on top.

We got to enjoy WP's homemade grappa - nothing but the best, it was strained through the radiator of a 1972 Alfa Romeo Gulietta - and nobody went blind. Blind drunk, maybe. One unkind soul remarked that the collection of burrs FiFi had accumulated on a strategic spot of her shorts made her resemble a 1970s porn star. For those younger persons I might point out that hair in the 1970s had about the same cultural relevance as ink does now.

But our trail continued, increasingly making use of the paths and bridges and other infrastructure provided by the taxpayers at great expense. At a check Wet Pussy cautioned against taking one particular route, on the likelihood of encountering free kittens. And before you knew it we were at Leslie and Sheppard, a long way from the start and possibly not all that close to the end either.

This was where he placed the eagle-turkey split, just for one more kick in the nads. I have no idea where the eagles flew, but Shampoo and KY went along Sheppard a bit and then up Wet Pussy's street. The beer check was at a neighbour's he has presumably intimidated into silence - and I think we convinced Dipsy Doodler, since it wasn't Wet Pussy's house, not to take a whizz on the property. Johnny, Aims, Humpday and other walkers were already there, and I suspect they (horrors!) autohashed. And we were joined by Dutch Rudder, Open Pit and Just Fleur, who at least have a reason to autohash.

One final supreme effort brought us to the on in, all of four houses away. There we got to enjoy the usual fabulous Wet Pussy spread of home-butchered animals and illegal hooch, before moving on to furniture smashing and rolling around in broken glass. We lost 0N5, and gained a couple more strangers named H20 and Ra. An attempt during circle to name Just Erin fell flat, what with her dad standing there looking at us.

Actually, things wound up fairly early, without even the tragedy of the traditional overturned lawn chair, as far as I could see. By nine rides were being arranged. The capper for Buzz, Cougar Bait, Shampoo and Dipsy was a lift in Johnny's sweet, sweet new ride, a 1992 Mercury Grand Marquis in a fetching urinal-puck blue.

Hogtown Hash
Monday, Aug 22, 2016
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Good old Humpday was our hare for Monday night. Some devious minds speculated that he would simply reuse large parts of the trail Funky Monkey set for the TWAT the previous Thursday, since they both started near the waterfront, on the assumption that we would never know the difference (and probably that's a safe assumption). But we are his little children, and Humpday loves us, so he went to all the trouble of laying a new, original trail, employing all his wily skills, and offering fresh opportunities for pain, danger and humiliation.

(Our Harbourfront meeting point, by the way, was the Spicy Thai Restaurant, a sterling example of truth-in-advertising, as the results of their 2-chili-icon pad thai, out of a brix-crushing scale of four, when combined with beer and a jog most of the way home rather resembled those films of early, failed NASA rocket launches: a collapsing structure, singeing fireballs and blistering billows of noxious gas. But you didn't need to know that, did you?)

We were joined by a couple of peripatetic, but definitely not pathetic nor apathetic, far-flung hashers: Mister Peeeeenut from Edmonton, Sarnia or wherever sludge needs processing; and Susan, who despite his name is a large Canadian man lately living in Brunei who we can perhaps expect to see more of. Softening our masculine edge (I'll assume the benefit of the doubt) a little were 1Humpor2 and Aims Low, the only members present without, er, members.

We began by running in behind the condo on Queens Quay where the welcoming and patient restaurant is located, crossing Lakeshore and traversing the forecourt of the Roundhouse, as we have so many times before. Humpday switched it up a bit by steering us over to Spadina, where he had us playing in traffic while crossing the street in the midst of its early-evening traffic jam. We also had to look out for the streetcars. Likewise for the large numbers of hulking gym rats walking incongruously delicate little dogs who seem to inhabit the nabe.

Then he had us cross back over to the east side of Spadina to connect with the railpath (some of us, anyway: the lazy/slow people who stayed on the west side looked like geniuses when it became obvious the trail crossed under Spadina again). A bit further on another check offered the tempting option of the pedestrian bridge over the tracks; it was Shampoo who went for the bait to discover the "F" all the way on the other side, and felt like not much of a genius at all.

At Bathurst the trail came up to ground at the new library, but immediately deked through a small gap in the wall to force us across a stretch of small, loose, jagged, slidy stones under the bridge. The railpath continued, then the ramps of the Gardiner arched above us as we followed Fort York Boulevard. Crossing Lakeshore at a very complex intersection proved a puzzling conundrum, with traffic stopped westbound but several lanes feeding in eastbound, and no indication of where the cars would come from next. The answer lay in dashing across and hoping for the best.

This brought us into Coronation Park, down by the waterfront, and the hope that a beer check must be close. After getting to Bathurst and Queens Quay, and one last loop around the abandoned grain silos, there it was, in Ireland Park, right down by the water overlooking the airport, with its collection of spooky, haunting statues of poor, suffering Irish tormented by their lack of beer. Oh, and something about some kind of famine, too, which must make not having any beer feel even worse.

As mentioned, the staff at the restaurant seemed to find us more amusing than irritating, and we sat at tables outside and sang to the absolute delight of the other customers. Though our hash throat Cougar Bait still seems to know only about three songs, but he throws himself into them with such conviction they always sound new.

Airtight and 1Hump were not seen much on trail (hmmm) but she carried her fancy designer handbag with her (it's a Kate Spade, dontcha know), which had a couple of tassels hanging from it that lightly twitched her tush with every step she took. So she got her down down for that, after which several hashers immediately offered to buy the tassels. Just the tassels.

July, 2016
Hogtown Hash
Saturday, Jul 30, 2016
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As a hare, HaiPooGai is kinda like an abusive boyfriend: he claims to love you like crazy, but he… wants certain things… done his way… and makes it pretty plain what your shortcomings are. And on the July 30 hash, it was like he already told us twice.

Anyway, some of the bruises have healed by now.

On a long weekend, there was a smallish turnout. We met at a place called The Local at the corner of Laird and McRae, a converted bank that has inevitably gone up another notch on the gentrification scale, but on the other hand also had some cheap beer specials. It also had loads of bike parking, a boon for Pissing Doucheman, Golden Showers, Cougar Bait, Airtight, Dipsy Doodler and possibly 0 N 5, who all rode their bikes.

You will notice that this hash a) was a sausagefest (or maybe a celebration of those little Danish cocktail weeny things to be more accurate), and b) had an average age of about 55. Helen Keller was there too, far too wise to run but happy to provide bag and beer wagon services. I’d like to think her presence offered a moderating influence on HPG, but let’s face facts: the best she could offer was a place of refuge, if need be.

We began the trail with a brief, innocuous tour through Leaside. Heading south on Laird we passed what was claimed to be the View Check, actually a dead raccoon, legs up and laid out on the sidewalk with a little makeshift memorial, which seems to be a thing in the 6ix now. Perhaps it should have been taken as a hint.

However, after a brief moment for grieving (and if we’d had any malt liquor, we’d surely had given one up for our homeboy), we continued. Our next check was at the Loblaws off Laird, where we entered Crothers Woods with its multitude of bike paths, and you can picture the level of confusion this presented us. Eventually we found the right one, and we followed it along the slope dodging the occasional mountain biker until it reached the flat of the valley, past the (yum) sewage treatment plant.

We were now running in the open in the hot sun. O N 5 and Dipsy Doodler thought this was the right time to take their shirts off, the better to grace us with the sight of their concave alabaster torsos. And just who do they think they are, the prime minister?

Just as irritating was the continual female voice, insistently bossy and authoritative (and I was sure Rose Eh wasn’t at this run) emanating from Dipsy’s shorts. It was his GPS instructing him to 'Turn left. Keep going' but it got really distracting when she said 'Now touch me there. Harder. Ooooh.'

Soon we ascended onto the slopes again, more up and down, up and down, helped out in places by the rickety homemade bridges and ramps the cyclists have constructed. And then we were on lawn again, and there was Helen Keller at a picnic table with the shooters, in actuality a highly alcoholic iced tea, and many bags of chips.

After the life-restoring beverages and a chance to sit down and rest our dogs, it was back on through the park, past picnicking families and other people who had the good sense to remain stationary. This was a long, slow slog (at least for some of us, Shampoo for example) almost as far as Eglinton, where the rail bridge crosses one of the branches of the Don.

The need to wade through the river was actually quite refreshing, and seemed to offer an end to our travails, since this was getting close to our starting point and surely our beer check was near. Surely any reasonable hare would throw us a frickin’ bone. But this gave HPG the chance for a little more head-fakery (or head-fuckery, if you prefer) since here was the hardest part of all – scrambling up and down the vertiginous trails hugging the south slope of the ravine, the ones only the most gonzo of the mountain bikers use.

Finally, the last climb and over the top – onto an industrial street with arrows leading away from the on in. After what felt like an unreasonably long, cruel trudge behind a succession of factories the arrows pointed up a street past some allotment gardens and the hydro corridor. A bit further on and there was the beer wagon and the kennel, drinking under a hydro pylon. I think the buzz is improved by the electromagnetism.

We were one up at the beer check, joined by a very relaxed Hump Day. And one down, since Airtight had taken some wrong turns and was miles away. An experience like the rescue of Apollo 13 unfolded as Airtight kept texting Doucheman about his current whereabouts and Doucheman kept guiding him in. Eventually our missing spaceman appeared on the horizon and came in for splashdown, though I think we still had a problem, Houston.

The heat, beer and radiation does tend to make one quite giddy, and I could see the buses running along Overlea past the demolished ruins of the Coca-Cola plant (sorry, New Shooz). So that was it for me. 0 N 5 had already skedaddled to go home to perform what he called his ‘honey do’s’ (or did he say ‘honey do me’s’?). The rest were invited back to the HaiPoo Hut for the BBQ he had kept dangling and withdrawing and eventually giving. Again, you never know when you’ve displeased him, and you just want to love him.

For the record, this run was over 10 km, most of it verticle.

Hogtown Hash
Monday, Jul 25, 2016
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For the Monday run on July 25 we met at a pho place (real pho, not ‘faux’ pho) on Dundas West near Roncy. The hare was First Lady – although he was identified as Fist Lady on the website, and I really don’t need to know about that.

Shower Head got to be Snow White, accompanied by us, the seven dwarves (but maybe we should not be described as dwarves, more like trolls or ogres – I mean, have you seen us?) HaiPooGai brought his nephew Jack, a pre-teen who has hashed with us once before, when he got lost and decided to tag along with strangers. That he should be allowed to join us again I can only take as a gross example of parental negligence and irresponsibility – and by that I mean HaiPoo, not Jack.

We set out with a quick jaunt back up Dundas, crossing at Sauroren. We were soon in Sauroren Park, for a bit of a Groundhog Day element in this hash, because this is at least the third time in recent memory that First Lady has set a trail through there, and once again there is no way out of it except running the loop, which once again we did, and maybe in another five or six times we’ll stop doing that.

Heading across Roncesvalles we toured the elegant streets of the neighbourhood until we got to Parkside Drive, crossed it and were in High Park, running on soft earthy trails through the woods – or would have been if the dog walkers hadn’t brushed away most of the flour. Or ‘organic baking material’, as one of the news sources described it in its story about the subsequent visit from the hazmat unit.

Who knew we were so fancy as to be ‘organic.’ Freaking elitist hash, that’s what this is.

And what is it about dog owners? The first thing they assume – and this with an absolute certainty – is that somebody is trying to POISON little McGillicuddy, or Clancy, or Chardonnay, or whatever the hell is the name of their adorable little Apo-Cocker-Labradoodle-Borzoi mix. And the best way to do that, of course, is to splodge dollops of mysterious white powder on little-travelled side trails in the park, instead of just throwing chunks of wieners well-steeped in warfarin into the dog run, the way I do it.

That squeaking sound in the park, by the way, was from Moonman’s leg brace, not Shampoo’s.

Anyway, with a considerable amount of direction from the hare we all made our way out of the park, not losing any nephews and escaping any police dragnets.

We were now on Bloor, with a beer check imminent. It was at The Bar With No Name, where we had the pleasant back patio mostly to ourselves, especially after several of the other customers packed up and left. Though we did down down a couple of guys who stuck it out and seemed to find us amusing. Like a clown?

1Humpor2 and Airtight joined us at this point, and the irony is that they live just minutes away, and Airtight had communicated with the hare that he would be staying home to ‘eat dinner.’ Which tells me that they are not yet at that stage in married life where you desperately, desperately search for a reason to leave the house, no matter how shallow the pretext. Also they must have food. So I can see that their lives have gone in a radically different direction than mine.

Hogtown Hash - Virgin Hare's Castle
Monday, Jul 11, 2016
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For the Monday run on July 11, by six o'clock a total of zero people had signed up on MeetUp, and one person (Duals) had registered as NOT cumming. Yet at the Elephant and Castle at King and Simcoe there were actually 14 attendees - and Duals was among them. This raises the possibility that all these people decided to go to the hash after all once they saw that Duals was promising to not be there.

Those who were there had the chance to experience that rare and remarkable thing - a first-time lay! It only remained to be seen if our recent arrival Alaina, the hare, was going to be an exuberantly competent Maud Liebowski to her trail helper Can Cum in My Mouth's Dude, or if she was going to happily fuck up in her own way, as is our custom.

So we waited on a hot and muggy day in the Elephant and Castle while the staff looked at us with nervous disapproval as if we were going to sweat all over their suede upholstery, which I for one did. There were two new boots, Just Joy and Just Steph, one of whom turned out to have worked under Pissing Doucheman, assuming that was their preferred position. And there was a visitor from the newly-formed Belleville Hash, whose name unfortunately escapes me.

At the start, we bounded south on Simcoe past Roy Thomson Hall until we were called back for all going the wrong way. Our correct path went through the square on the south side of King and headed down toward the CN Tower.

Alaina likes stairs, apparently. We were goaded up a long set of stairs heading toward the stadium. Once we got to the top it proved to have been a pointless trip, though I'm sure all our thighs looked amazing. Alaina wanted to take some pictures. "I'm already down on my knees", said Alaina, taking her snaps, all innocent and guileless. Somehow we couldn't cum up with a name for her even with that slow pitch across the plate.

We managed to not lose anybody to traffic as we headed past the stadium and across Lakeshore, finally getting onto Queens Quay and, eventually, a shooter check prepared by Can Cum in My Mouth. It was in what's known as the Music Garden. If you weren't already dizzy following the looping paths that lead in there, you would be after imbibing the peppery, citrusy, alcoholicy concoction Can Cum had mixed up. Yo Yo Ma!

Rambling down to the end of Queens Quay, we turned north up Bathurst. This gave those of us on the east side another chance to get flattened in rush hour traffic while dashing across to the west side. Once over there, we descended a ramp to a bike path along the rail bed, but we turned in the other direction to our beer check, among the weeds beside the tracks, under the Bathurst Street bridge - just the sort of place my mother always feared I'd end up.

Since there was privacy, a good supply of beer and relaxed standards, we had circle there as well. The hasher from Belleville impressed us all with the enormous numbers they've enjoyed in their early days. Of course, as some wag pointed out, there's not much to do in Belleville. I will add, just to be even more of an asshole, at least not involving one of your cousins.

On the walk back up Bathurst either Just Joy or Just Steph came out with, "this is really like a drinking club, but with running." Oh, such wisdom and perception from somebody we will likely never see again...

Hogtown Hash
Saturday, Jul 02, 2016
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I'm not going to say the hash on Saturday after Canada Day was attended solely by the Hogtown B-Team, but it did seem like all the cool kids had gone either to Brushwood or Ottawa. And just look at who the hares were - Shampoo and Moist Leatherette! - who had clearly caved to moral pressure to set a trail, already.

So those few who were bored enough, lonely enough or barred from leaving the country trickled in to The Old Nick, Danforth and Broadview. Humpday joined us for a drink, but begged off from the run, claiming exhaustion and jet lag. National Pornographic also claimed exhaustion, since she had already run her daily ultramarathon (or at least all the way from the west end), so she did the walkers' trail. There were two new Hogtown adoptees, Sex Tourist and Around the World in Naughty Ways; perhaps the first in a coming wave of Brexit refugees (by way of the Moscow and Paris kennels, in their case). And Ring Tail, 0 N 5, Casket Case and Fish Fingers rounded out the pack.

The trail was unambitious or perhaps had conceded to the conditions (hot day, small turnout), if you prefer. There were, however, just enough people prepared to check trail to make it work. A bit of a jog through Riverdale as far as Withrow Park, back past the Bain Co-op to Broadview as far as the old Don Jail, then a turn around the rehab hospital (no, no, no... but I don't think it's for that kind of rehab). From the check at the pedestrian bridge over the DVP the trail went up as far as the cruising woods at the north end of Riverdale Park.

The pack managed to steer clear of any unwelcome encounters with loitering men in the woods (welcome encounters, of course, are another thing, but I presume Casket and 0 N 5 were seen emerging from the woods only because they'd hit the checkback) to arrive at the beer check. This is where things fell apart a little.

Shampoo and Moist Leatherette had organized this part of what was really a fairly compact trail with a Desert Storm-like level of logistical precision and pinpoint scheduling: while Shampoo swept trail Moist would cross all the way over to the other side of the Danforth, go to the LCBO, buy sufficient beer and walk with it down Broadview to the beer check, within a stand of trees with a good view of the tennis courts. Give it half an hour, max. Thing is, she was with Natty Porn and they must have gotten to gabbing, gone shopping - you know, the stuff gals get up to.

So after we had been waiting at the beer check WITHOUT beer for a few minutes - and Sex Tourist had already proved what a shitty trail it was by stepping on a turd (species unknown: Human? Dog? Capybara?), Shampoo ran over to Broadview to see what was what and saw that Moist and Natty were slowly making their way down the street. They had indeed been shopping. They'd bought corn chips, a bag of ice. And beer, of course, though Casket Case made a nuisance of himself by complaining about it. Really, what could be more Canadian on Canada Day than Canadian? But after he'd finished nattering on about the beer selection he got on to down downs in the pleasant environment of the great outdoors.

0 N 5 surprised us all by actually staying for circle! And Moist sang her song about the rude aye-aye, which delighted Ring Tail no end, what with her particular involvement in the love lives of lemurs. We had some surprisingly robust singing, in fact, considering there were all of nine of us.

0 N 5 did indeed disappear after that, but the rest of us continued on to a pleasant on in at The Old Nick, enjoying the fresh air of the back patio, under the grape vines. So you see we can have fun without all the rest of you, thank you very much.

June, 2016
Hogtown -That didn't use to be there- Hash
Monday, Jun 13, 2016
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Monday, June 13 was another fine day for a hash! We met at An Sibin, an Irish pub at Queen and Broadview that, in this case, was actually crowded with Irish football fans. When we gathered outside the hare, Casket Case, proudly showed off his not one but two homemade pipe bomb-anthrax cannon-flour dispensers (and surely to God he appreciates the forbearance Fish Fingers must display while he tinkers with his sexbots at home…). Visiting from out of town was Keekeekeekeekeekeekee (she did specify there were seven “Kee”s in the name) and there was a new boot (Alana?) who arrived with Can Cum, who looked all sheepish when questioned if she was actually there as his date. So then we were really cruel to him, and said that when they split up and one of them got to stay in the hash, we’d get to pick her.

And Rose Eh finally showed her flushed face and icy hands, now that the weather is finally warm enough for her liking.

At the start Haipoogai emulated 0N5 as he dashed across Queen on the red light, with a look on his face like a beagle with its head out the window of a fast-moving car as traffic whizzed by him and death started him in the face.

But this head-start brought him to the arrow pointed across Broadview, so we followed him through a newish development and into a park. In the park were several charming sculptures of animals, including one of four squirrels worshipping a giant acorn. Kee7 just had to stop and pose for a selfie with it, perhaps wishing that she had a big nut to call her own.

Through that, we headed west on Queen, crossing over the Don and running into the new West Donlands neighbourhood, the source of the hare’s “this didn’t used to be there” claim. Now I find its architectural similarities to the set design of Logan’s Run or THX1138 or any other of those dystopian 1970s sci-fi movies disturbing, but maybe that’s just me. Disturbing, I mean. Still, it needs to be hashed through, if only to show the new residents what they’re in for.

After a quick swing through the Distillery District, we headed back to the West Donlands and climbed the hill of the new park there, where there wasn’t a beer check but we were welcome to go down the slide into the sand pit. Then it was time to loop around some more of these new streets, thoroughly familiarizing ourselves with the place.

But that was enough. The trail followed the path of the somewhat creepy park area beneath the underpass, then went up the long switchback ramp to Eastern, then crossed into the empty field past the on-ramp next to the BMW dealership.

Guarding the entrance to this bit of property was, of all things, a swan, sitting glumly by itself in a ditch. But if you carefully stepped around it you could enter a copse of trees (with an encampment of homeless guys to one side, the DVP on another, an angry swan on the third), within which was a fairy-circle of beer-checking hashers. Though it took some time for Rose Eh and Haipoo to come and join us, fascinated as they were with that swan.

When it was time for down downs Casket insisted we use the smaller of his big black PVC flour dispensers, the one that didn’t have the ball on top. Maybe it was something about having that big black pipe to her lips, but Rose Eh came out with a delightfully filthy variation of the “Head?” chant: “Face? I’ll sit on his face. And he licked. He licked for hours and hours. Like a fat kid with ice cream on his face. Face?...” I think she’s been saving up all winter for that one. - Shampoop

May, 2016
Hogtown Hash
Monday, May 16, 2016
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Maybe I'm losing my mind, but I could have sworn we had the same hare at the same venue about a month ago. But on Monday, May 16, there we were again at the Crooked Cue at Bloor and Royal York, at the tender mercies of Moonman. Either they have a short attention span at the bar, or it's Moonman who does.

We had a better turn out this time, though. There was a gaggle of the usual west-end stalwarts (Attaboy and Funky Monkey, Loopy, Ultimate) as well as the welcome appearance of Trix Are For Pricks. And visiting us was NARC, from Boston.

Our hare had abandoned us, and we were given over to Moist Leatherette as our temporary GM, bringing about a Jekyll and Hyde transformation in her. We started off running up the same side street as the last time we were there, heading to the same check, and once the checkers had returned a tardy Dutch Rudder was magically standing there like a low-countries leprechaun, with an aroma of sulphur, cheese and shmokes. But the trail headed over to go south on Royal York instead, and a short while later both Shampoo and Trix were wondering how Blurry Beaver can be pregnant out to here, and yet easily pass them and even increase her lead...

Veering west, we traipsed through a leafy enclave over to the Mimico Creek. After some confusion with the check at the footbridge, we picked our way along the creek side, with ominous-looking clouds gathering to the north, back up to Bloor and over the bridge to the first set of lights. Another check. This was where the rain began to pelt down, along with a big gust of wind that nearly blew poor Funky Monkey off her feet. Nothing wrong with being blown, but maybe not like this?

So we got steadily soaked, though the trail markings held up remarkably well. After jogging back south of Bloor, we got as far as Islington, then back up to Bloor again. The long diagonal rail bridge there provided some welcome shelter from the rain, and the troll-like figure seen coming the other way was actually Moonman, thoughtfully doubling back to remark trail and rescue stragglers (even if it was only NARC, in the end, who was helped by this).

A further northward leg brought us out onto Dundas - this is where Dundas actually runs north of Bloor - and a most welcome beer check at the Fox and Fiddle, a chance to get wet and dry at the same time. So those who had made it to the beer check - AttaFunky, FirstBeaver, Ultimate, Haipoo, Moonman, Shampoo, Loopy and a couple of others - sat dripping and then drying, while a few others (Moist, Dutch Rudder...) gave up and went back to the start. Meanwhile, Cougar Bait had also disappeared, but texted Moonman to tell him he was in one of the bars along Bloor, flirting with the girl behind the bar. And then texted again. And again... This seemed to be a highlight of Cougar Bait's life.

When we left the beer check, at least it had stopped raining. Another 15 minutes or so and we were back at the Crooked Cue, where Moist Leatherette doled out bitter punishment like she'd saved it up at home. - Shampoo

Hogtown Hash
Saturday, May 07, 2016
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Saturday, May 7 – The subway was closed between Bathurst and Jane, so getting to The Bar With No Name required alternate methods. I decided to walk from Bathurst; it looked like it would hardly take any longer, I’d get a bit of non-beery exercise and I would miss out on the opportunity for mass frottage by being squeezed on a bus with 200 other people. So hashers gradually trailed in, with tales of their various routes taken. It must have been hardest on Aims Low – there was no parking on Bloor and she had to walk from – several – blocks – away…

However, TBWNN is by no means the worst place in the world to wait for people to take their time showing up. Cougar Bait and Golden Showers were already there, along with a new boot named Steph, who kept insisting throughout she was having a good time but really didn’t show it. Also appearing were Popeye from Mumbai (who says he now lives here so let’s keep an eye out for him) and Landing Strip from Sydney (which I believe is somewhere in New Zealand?).

Also joining us for the first time in a long while was Hump Day, who’s been to Hell and back (really, it’s a town in Norway – he has a picture to prove it).

Our hare was Pissing Doucheman, who seemed relatively sober and had actually arranged to be at his own hash, so here’s hoping. Then he dropped the bombshell that the beer check was going to be a beer mile. Once we finally got Landing Strip out of the can (he was too, too fascinated watching the water go down the drain the wrong way) we set off in the direction of High Park. Except for Aims and Hump Day, who set off walking because they had inside knowledge of where the beer mile was to be. There was a relatively uncomplicated trail through the park. Climbing up one slope, however, the trail markings (in flour) had been rubbed out. Pissing was adamant that he had laid a most comprehensive, well-marked trail. Then someone mentioned that a couple of civilians had come down that way, had asked if were we hashers – and then must have rubbed out the marks! That’s us, spreading joy and goodwill everywhere we go…

We crossed Parkside Drive without getting anybody picked off in traffic, got as far as the Queensway and then ran through the St. Joseph’s Hospital grounds. We made a bit of a noisy commotion as we ran past the “Tranquility Entrance” that unfortunately might have set off some of the patients.

Then we were going through Parkdale, ending at a park at the top of Sauroren that included a long loop around the perimeter that led nowhere except back to where you started – which was the same trick First Lady played a few weeks ago, and which suckered several of the same people who had run that trail too.

Crossing at Dundas, at 20 to 7:00 we were waiting at the track at West Toronto C.I., the location of the beer mile and also our beer check. While standing around having our first pre-beer mile beer, we enjoyed watching Duals finally appear in the distance to catch up with us – turning the corner around Dundas and following the arrow on the sidewalk precisely as it led him behind the baseball diamond, hemmed in by the road embankment, the railway tracks and a 12-foot chain-link fence. What to do? His solution was to clamber over the fence, we hope and pray without leaving any body appendages on the spiky bits at the top.

I guess in a city where a pot shop has apparently sprung up on every corner nobody is going to worry much about the social danger of a beer mile. By 7:00 there were about a hundred people gathered around the track, most of them young and taut and wanting nothing to do with us. We are clearly our own worst advertisement. Organizing a hash team took some doing, as we were a couple of beers up by then, though Pissing Doucheman and Golden Showers and a couple of others did represent. You would think our years of wily experience and quasi-alcoholism would pay off in such an event, but nah. Youth and energy won.

Back at The Bar With No Name, we were actually able to crowd around for a confused and noisy on in. After much contention (you know this is code for “shouting”) Just Michael was named Foul Ball, for some reason I can’t remember, though a strong case was made for Boaty McBoatface, since apparently they aren’t using it to name that ship. I think we should name our next hasher 'RRS Sir David Attenborough' just to really confuse the world. - Shampoo

April, 2016
Hogtown Hash - Half Boobs Wedding Hash
Saturday, Apr 23, 2016
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Saturday, April 23, saw us celebrate both a solemn and a joyous occasion: the hash wedding of our own Half Wit and Stunt Boobs, to be hereafter known, in the manner of all celebrity couples, as Half Boobs (though considering the enormity of what they are proposing to do, perhaps Stunt Wit would be more appropriate). They may have told the world it's going to happen on the last day of April, but I think that's just some misguided scheme to try filing a joint tax return.

This being the west end, west-enders Ultimate, Loopy, National Pornographic and Funky Monkey chose to come out of hibernation and join us. Some of us came dressed for a wedding - Moonman and FLAB, for instance - though in his battered top hat Moonman looked more like a Hasid, or maybe Freddy the Freeloader, than a best man. And it was a lovely, sunny, calm day for one, apart from the car that had crashed into a house down the street. While we gathered out front in the sun, once Can Cum hove into view to finish his last-minute dash up Jane we were finally ready to go.

We began with a short jaunt down Jane, before heading into the winding streets of Baby Point (the other, other white neighborhood). It was here we were confronted by the first of Half Wit's explanations about where she had wanted the trail go, but had not actually marked in that direction, when we were milling about confusedly and lost - not that it wasn't all our fault of course, because this was her special day!

However, she soon sorted us out. Although Half Wit did direct the walkers at this point, the check overlooking the valley at Old Mill did not actually offer a good opportunity to shortcut (Shampoo). The trail actually carried on down to Bloor, where it crossed the Humber on the high bridge before leading down a steep flight of steps on the other side. There First Lady was on the phone with Blurry Beaver, trying to arrange a stroller-friendly route for her. Booze Buggy is what, three years old, and can't fend for himself? Maybe I simply don't understand these kids today

This stretch led through the park up to the Old Mill. There was a shooter check there, in an only slightly obscure spot under a low footbridge, so from above I'm sure it sounded like 30 or so bridge trolls had suddenly invaded their property. Backdoor Buzz and Can Cum in My Mouth just brushed their heads against it when standing upright (this was still early in the day), as well as Short Cockasian when Can Cum hoisted him up like a ventriloquist's dummy. Casket Case and Fish Fingers, busy social butterflies as they are, had joined us by this point.

After cocktails our trail then crossed the low stone bridge over the Humber and followed its banks in Etienne Brule Park. Five minutes of clear running brought us into a section of budding woods, with nice soft shiggy underfoot. A little bit further along these winding trails brought us to the park entrance, with a cleared spot for the beer check, once Stunt Boobs corralled a couple of helpers to get the cooler from the car.

At this point the hares were heard to be conferring vigorously by cellphone. Half Wit was bringing up the lagging contingent of walkers, and directions to the beer check were being discussed with Stunt Boobs. I say this is no time for marital strife and discord - you two will have a whole lifetime for that!

Except for having to climb the steep slope out of the valley (are there no funiculars in this city?), following St. Mark's Road brought us directly to the on in. Beer. Pizza. The arrival of Showerhead, in case things were getting too sedate. Hash wedding. The celebrate the occasion, FLAB and Moonman and family had produced a lovely little cake, decorated with a couple of charming little pigs representing the bride and groom, posed in a position of some delicate intimacy - I hope it wasn't meant to be instructional for the happy couple.

As much as I would love to take credit for the cake, I can't. That honour goes to Blurry Beaver, First Lady, and Booze Buggy (who I understand did a lot of stirring). It really was a great cake! -F.L.A.B.

Hogtown Hash
Monday, Apr 18, 2016
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It felt like summer had rambunctiously charged in on Monday (April 18). The Crooked Cue, our hash central at Bloor and Royal York, had a retractable roof on the second floor that was open to the sky, offering the beautiful prospect of a balmy summery evening in which to enjoy one's nine-dollar beer.

And where were all of you, anyway, on such a pleasant evening? Don’t tell me you all had things like “families” and “lives” and “things to do” to keep you away from the hash? Not when Moonman went to so much trouble setting it, and having only knuckleheads like Shampoo, Can Cum, Cougar Bait and new guy Andy to run it? And ancient mariner Shadow, looking like he’d salvaged Shampoo’s beard after he shaved it off, to handle the walker’s trail?

We started off with a brief jaunt through the tony Kingsway neighbourhood, exiting it before they had the chance to set the dogs on us. Cutting up beside the recreation complex, we were soon greeted with a tempting “SC”. Unfortunately it was meant merely to draw our attention to a pile of snow, presumably shovelled out of the rink.

The trail then crossed Mimico Creek – by bridge, thanks – and the pack cut across a ball field over to Islington, except for Shampoo, who decided to go all the way around. (As always, way out in left field.) Crossing Islington, traversing a couple of streets of apartment blocks and townhouse developments brought us out to a check at Bloor.

At that point Can Cum checked in a likely-looking direction to the west and nearly ran into a police station, possibly by instinct.

True trail followed a side street south of Bloor to come out onto Islington, where by a lucky check we saw the unlikely sight of Shampoo leading the pack. Turning east back across Islington, the trail headed back to the creek, crossing by yet another fortuitous bridge, to have us clamber along the side of the creek just as twilight set in. Suddenly we were running over a stretch of deep, soft, good-smelling loamy soil. Humus? No, not the Middle Eastern mashed chickpea dip. The cremains of Rob Ford? Anyway, it felt good to the feet.

Another couple of hundred feet the trail ducked under the Bloor bridge and through a car dealer lot and there Moonman was parked by the creekside. It was pleasant. There were ducks on the water. We drank beer and watched the athletic girls running sprints across the stream, who resisted our gentle blandishments.

After our refreshments, circle, nostalgic musings and manly guy-talk, Moonman drove a carload of us back to where Andy had left his car, just as parking control was finishing up writing him a ticket. Oh well. - Shampoo

Hogtown Hash
Saturday, Apr 09, 2016
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April 9 was a crisp, sunny Saturday in the season people are now calling sprinter -technically it's time for spring, but the temperature is about as chilly and bitter as Rose Eh on a first date. Oh, and apparently all modern technology had broken down. It was like The Walking Dead but falling just short of zombie cannibalism – the subway was half-closed, College streetcars were diverting onto Dundas, Queen was effed up as well… the two solitudes of Parkdale saw a cask beer festival on one side of Lansdowne, while we were on the other side of the street at the Euro-Sports Bar and Cafe, a name containing at least four lies in those few words.

So I think our hare Cougar Bait was having a bit of a laugh at our expense. Or he was filled with an ill-disguised resentment at being tasked with setting this trail. Or he had already spent most of the day with the cask beer.

The Euro-Sports Bar and Cafe was a dismal unlit windowless hole that was strangely filled with guitars and drum kits and had one other customer, who was a ringer for 'Bubbles' from the Trailer Park Boys. Maybe Saturday's their slow day. Maybe business has dropped off since their nasty Zagat review. Anyway, you could get any kind of beer you wanted as long as it was Budweiser. And if you didn't want Bud, there was Budweiser. Wet Pussy? You've been outclassed in the dive bar category, even after Sun Fa from a few weeks ago.

Since it was almost impossible to get around town, the no-shows and latecomers called in to send their regrets. Open Pit, Backdoor Buzz and Dipsy Doodler were all trapped on the Queen streetcar, because when one Brock is late, all Brocks are late. Airtight was there and had already been to the beer fest, but had to take off again to go home and 'post something on the internet', which is a euphemism I haven't heard before. But we gained one – let's call him a 'es-show' - when Sheep Escort bounded up after the pack set off. I think he'd been afraid to step into the bar.

The run was invigorating and energetic, what with a small pack and the desire to keep warm through (ugh!) exercise. 1 Hump or 2 and Showerhead wandered off on a walking trail of their own and said they would arrange things at the beer check, because they knew where it was and were capable, competent, trustworthy professionals. First Lady and Blurry Beaver kept taking wrong turns and disappearing for a while, perhaps impelled by some kind of telepathic control by Booze Buggy in his stroller, commanding that they go anywhere else. Pretty much all that were left to scout out checks were Can Cum, who was trying to avoid breaking his free glass from the beer fest, which he had wrapped in a sock and was carrying on his person, and Shampoo the bio-mechanical man, who was simply afraid about falling and not getting up.

We started off playing Frogger by running across Dufferin a couple of times, with no casualties, and there was a long stretch of running about aimlessly in Dufferin Grove looking for marks that may or may not have been there. Once back on track we trended to the southwest, crossing Dundas and Lansdowne into Parkdale proper, then up Sauroren back to Dundas without major incident. There there was a large blob of spilled chalk where the hare had made a boo-boo. He'd gone back to the bar at this point, intending to finish later. And he left his bottle of chalk sitting outside the bar because who would possibly take it? Somebody took it.

So the newly-laid last piece of the trail led past the high school and into a park. We gathered outside the field house, with the sun shining on our happy faces, to await the golden elixir delivered by the capable and competent 1Hump and Showerhead. Except those two were afraid to show their faces, because they had been utterly unable to find a beer store.

So, slowly freezing, while Open Pit, Buzz and Dipsy had finally joined us, we waited for delivery. It was Sheep Escort who came to our rescue, when he called in to say he still had beer in his car from a previous hash. Ten minutes later he'd driven up, with just enough beer to go around, with a bit of sharing, for those hashers who are still drinking. I'd say I'd bear his children out of gratitude, except he's already spoken for and I've probably gone through the change by now.

Inexplicably, we returned to the Euro-Sports, which was just around the corner, and by then they had two more customers. Well, at least they didn't demand we tone down our down downs - they probably couldn’t even see us… - Shampoo

March, 2016
Hogtown Hash
Saturday, Mar 26, 2016
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Saturday, March 26, saw the heaving climax, messy conclusion and hastily performed moist towelletting (followed by the inevitable feelings of guilt and remorse) of the four-hashes-in-a-row haring orgy perpetrated by Airtight in a Swordfight, in this instance unably assisted by Backdoor Buzz. Together they managed to create an Easter freakin’ miracle: an 8 kilometre run set with only one piece of chalk.

We gathered at a bar new to us, Sauce, on the Danforth a bit east of Greenwood. It had a vibe and appearance similar to the Only Café a few blocks west, so it was all good. The improving weather brought a few folks out of hibernation: FiFi and Casket Case (though he still looked like an angry sleepy bear), Didgeridoo, Chaz and Cheesy Box – (yikes! Guess she eats a lot of KD or something). And Open Pit, though maybe we should change her name to Filling-in Pit (note to Hash Case: does she pay double now, or does she get a freebie?). We enjoyed watching Wet Pussy practise for his future life in Miami Beach as he took seven or eight attempts to park his hybrid. You mean those things don’t park themselves? As they say, if you don’t like the way I drive, stay off the sidewalk.

Also joining us were two hashers from North Carolina: Major Tom Soiler and Poohbies. And their two kids – or at least somebody’s kids. I don’t know if the North Carolina equivalent of Childrens’ Aid was aware of this, but then the North Carolina equivalent of Childrens’ Aid would probably demand to know why those kids weren’t at work.

It being Easter weekend, the hash was religiously themed (and you’re lucky it wasn’t Palm Sunday, ‘cause who wants to know about my sex life). The first station of the hash saw us leaving the bar (always a minor achievement) and running as far as the corner, then heading south until reaching a check in Monarch Park.

During the second station of the hash we passed a group of cosplaying youngsters in Monarch Park preparing to wage a mock battle royale. This was refreshing because it proved to us there is at least one other group of people leading lives more socially awkward and image-unconscious than us. The trail continued on through the tunnel under the tracks.

And so on and interminably on, through many more stations of the hash, and there were sore travails and grievous scourgings at all of them. The sharp-eyed managed to stay on trail and enjoy further punishment, while those who faltered were cast into the wilderness – such as continuing to trudge along Dundas when the trail oh-so-discretely – there’s that one piece of chalk again – arrowed across toward the hash hotel.

The trail headed down to Woodbine Beach, and there was supposed to be a shooter check down there somewhere, but Casket, FiFi, Shampoo, a few others actually believed the YBF and so missed it. Curiously, trail markings tended to hug roads and other hard surfaces, leading to a mystical belief that a bicycle or an automobile must have been somehow involved.

Coming up to Lakeshore, another tunnel brought us safely over to the north side, with a romantic view of the sewage treatment plant. Continuing west on the cycling path, we finally veered north of Queen – and far from home.

Eventually, the beer check. After the pack was stymied and confused in Greenwood Park, alternately finding, losing and finding trail, the “BC” at last appeared on Greenwood and it was surmised it was going to be at the Left Field Brewery. And so it was, only they claimed they were at capacity and couldn’t fit us in. Only it didn’t look too crowded…hmm… Now, Buzz was already inside, wearing his Easter bunny ears, so he may have made the mistake of telling them his friends would be joining him in a minute.

So then there took place another Easter miracle. Airtight bought four quart bottles of beer and it was magically enough to satisfy the vast multitude. What that meant was that we gathered under the pines at the local high school, passed bottles back and forth and managed to get at least a couple of swigs each. And at this point Can Cum in My Mouth, who was not present at the start, appeared arisen like Jesus Christ Himself. He has His hair, anyway.

This placed us pretty close to the on in, so at least there was not much more of that trail bullshit. The bar thoughtfully put us in their awninged back patio, but it had heaters so we were all warm and toasty and didn’t have to huddle together for warmth. The usual exodus of Wet Pussy, 0 ‘n 5 and the Durhamites had taken place, and finally lonely Moist Leatherette showed up, which was a relief to me ‘cause I’m probably too old for Tinder. And 1 Hump or 2 popped in to act as a restraining influence on her husband (I’m sure he hoped for the restraints). As an added attraction, Major Tom entertained us with a couple of songs of exuberant scatology and remarkable filthiness.

Post-circle, eight or ten of us went up the street for Ethiopian food, which isn’t hard to find in that part of town. We even made the hares welcome just to show how forgiving we are. - Shampoo

February, 2016
Saturday, Feb 27, 2016
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The trail on Saturday, February 27, was set by Wet Pussy in his annual birthday exercise of threatening to never ever hare again. As always he was kidding, and he took care of us as usual.

Example: our starting venue, the Sun Fa, was one of those carefully curated Parkdale hipster theme bars where the hipsters had nurtured themselves into such a state of artful perfection that many of them had had their teeth extracted and undergone botched rhinoplasties in order to cultivate that fashionable look of unemployable alcohol- and welfare-dependency. Well played, sirs.

Actually, it was the sort of place where the special of the day is duck. Or rather, “Duck!” So we clustered together not making eye contact until it was time to circle up. When we gathered outside (the large Alsatian with the Hannibal Lector muzzle on the sidewalk was a nice touch) Waiting 2 B Done had a look of triumph on her face as she brandished a couple of condoms she’d found in the washroom. I find it hard to believe that our sweet, innocent-faced W2BD could be given over to such lascivious thoughts of a dirty weekend. I find it even more unbelievable that she used the washroom.

She was braver than Dipsy Doodler, however, who refused to change into his running gear, so reluctant was he to step into the can. Maybe he thought they were going to give him a bad prison tattoo or something.

After waiting a few minutes for the hare to set live we were off, running west on Queen Street. Duals had his bitch with him on a long lead (hey, she’s a sweet-tempered Beagle – whatever were you thinking!) but she wasn’t much help in finding the rare and indecisive chalk marks. With as much intuition as evidence we eventually crossed Roncesvalles and passed the hospital on the Queensway, and were led to High Park.

After a couple of straightforward checks we found ourselves in the little zoo. Just Adam was super eager to scout every possible route through it, running up and down the sides of the valley – but also taking the opportunity to get familiar with the yaks and bison.

After the trail veered off past the dog park we were greeted with Passchendaele-quality mud (as one point I saw Showerhead so deep in the mud that only her head and shoulders showed. I offered to pull her out but she said it was alright: she was sitting on Duals underneath her, and there were no complaints from him, either.

Naturally, every filthy Labradoodle in town wanted to play with us, recognizing in us fellow mud-loving creatures.

By the time we got to Bloor and Keele the idea of a beer check was sounding pretty good, but we continued on Bloor for a bit before ducking up a side street. But as the next best thing, soon we reached a house with “SC“ scrawled in front.

We stood in the back yard and watched Can Cum in My Mouth try to work the burrs out of his pants (or maybe he was rubbing them in) while imbibing WP’s home-distilled grappa. By its flavourful bouquet and refined palate I’d suggest it was vintage last week, with the distinctive tang from the radiator of the ’82 Volare it was made from. But nobody’s gone blind, so far, and as far as convulsions and delirium go, how can you tell with the hash? Wet Pussy, Dipsy Doodler and Open Pit were upstairs with the residents, and when they emerged from doing whatever they’d been doing she was already several months pregnant – I know it’s powerful stuff, but that seems lightning quick even for hasher spunk.

Post-shooter check, Dipsy magically appeared fresh as a daisy and ready to run, and took off prancing like the supreme athlete he is.

A jog down Roncesvalles didn’t bring us to a beer check, either. It was on Queen, at a bar not quite as atmospheric as the Sun Fa, where we huddled in the corner closest to the door while the other patrons watched the fights. Okay, some of them watched TV instead. While we were corralled for safety, Blurry Beaver popped in, with Booze Buggy in the stroller, who looked at us with that saddened, disillusioned, reproachful expression he so often has when he looks at us, as if he wished his parents could find nicer friends.

But with access to cheap beer and undemanding surroundings, this was judged to be the better place for circle – probably correctly, going by the frosty reaction we got from the hipsters at the On In proper, the Tennessee, and that’s without Buzz yelling in his indoor voice. - Shampoo

Hogtown Hash #1538
Saturday, Feb 13, 2016
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February 13: this is what hashing in Stalingrad must have been like. The same searing, breath-stealing cold, the same tragic struggle of unwilling human beings compelled to endure unimaginable suffering at the insane whim of a mad dictator. At least at our hash no one got run over by a tank, though 0 N 5 came pretty close to getting clipped by an Aveo while dashing blindly across the Queensway. But with a car that size who knows who would come out the worse?

But seriously – it was cold. Kudos to Feldmarschal von Paulus… er… Loopy, for setting the trail. Not so sure marking the trail with hot sauce was such a great idea. Maybe use a little bit more? Possibly a little hairless dog named “Consuelo” came along and ate it all. The official story was that the hot sauce was in a squeeze bottle, and it froze.

That is how cold it was.

It all added to the indignity of not really being able to see checks and marks, so we couldn’t tell where to go, resulting in us all standing around freezing. Or at one check soon after the start, trying to huddle into a bus shelter until Funky Monkey eventually broke down and phoned the hare for directions. (The hare set us loose around her home in south Etobicoke, but thought shortcutting was the right option for her.)

But once we’d oriented ourselves we followed trail to the Queensway (location of 0 N 5’s near-collision – perhaps the sight of his two dead-white legs emerging from an orange puffy jacket distracted the driver) and then west over to Mimico Creek. The prospect of a nice outdoorsy jaunt dispersed the pack considerably at this point, but true trail actually proceeded up a northbound street. Shampoo and Backdoor Buzz got tangled up in the underbrush trying to get to it, because they didn’t feel like running through people’s back yards like other, smarter members of the pack.

This brought us into Jeff Healey Park, a place I’d have to say there’s really nothing much to see. But the hare was waiting for us there with shooters (spiced rum that could be described as “smooth” because it was just barely liquid).

From there, we traversed a school field, crossed Royal York Road and wound through some streets of almost hilariously small and perfect, child-sized bungalows until getting back on the Queensway, and to the beer check at the Galway Arms. Seldom has a low-end faux Irish pub been more welcome – primarily for heat, with beer as a secondary attraction.

That’s a lie; it’s always about the beer.

And back at Loopy’s house the serious draining of the keg (Attaboy’s special brew, made with St. Valentine’s love) got underway, while Backdoor Buzz kept pestering

Loopy’s sister Luisa to draw him naked. I think he meant while he was naked. I hope to God that’s what he meant.

Not that I want to see Backdoor Buzz naked. I mean…

Ah… maybe I should shut up about this.

January, 2016
Duhhh Hash
Saturday, Jan 23, 2016
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January 23 saw the first Saturday run of the new Hogtown regime, which is essentially unchanged from the old regime. One thing I got wrong in my last trash was that hash cash has changed from Aims Low to Loopy, because Aims was judged too math-challenged and Loopy considered more responsible – which goes to show that our collective judgment of character is about as fucked up as ever.

We met at a Gabby’s on Yonge north of Lawrence. 0 N 5 was our hare. He promised a trail that might be “icy in bits” and would be no more than 5 kilometres long. I am beginning to suspect that he is one of those affable, normal-seeming, disarming types of psychopath, as opposed to one of the insanely-giggling and knife-honing ones, as a more effective method of putting his victims at ease. So let’s say I had my doubts as to how much to believe him.

We had one new boot, Sameera. She demanded answers to a lot of questions about what exactly it was we did and had lost one of her gloves, so Shampoo loaned her some of his. Let’s say Sameera arrived with a lot of baggage. Literally – she walked the whole trail shouldering a handbag like something out of a Sophie Kinsella novel.

Once the trail started we got as far as a check at Yonge and Lawrence before realizing that those “icy bits” were in actuality most of the rest of the trail. It went through the parks and ravines stretching to the southeast, of course following the little-travelled paths hugging the ravine slopes. And these were covered in snow that had been partially melted, so you were trying to find a grip on icy footprints.

his wife, Just Joanne (they showed up for the first time at the AGM). She’d been ranging widely and then disappeared. He seemed pretty relaxed about it, which maybe somebody should let her know. (Good news: we did eventually find her.)

Also about then, Aims Low and Urine My Pants were set upon by several large dogs. Incidentally, they were both wearing animal onesies – Urine was a zebra and Aims some kind of gazelle or wildebeest. Now onesies may be warm and easy to wear, as well as wicked stylish, but I think they also made them look like game.

Coming out at Bayview, we crossed it to have a shooter check on the other side, standing by the side of the road like the classy people we are. The walkers – Sameera, Backdoor Buzz, Pissing Doucheman and Dipsy Doodler – left us at this point, but the rest of us pushed on through Sunnybrook-Glendon College property to emerge behind the Toronto French School, an exclusive address at which to have our second shooter check. And after that the hare treated us more or less gently, with a fairly direct route back to the start and no adding on another 5 kilometres.

At circle, we thought Sameera had disappeared on us, but she’d gone across the street to the Tims. Moonman interrupted down downing Shampoo for being a fool for lending her his gloves to go look for her, didn’t find her, and then continued circle, and some time after that she reappeared. And Shampoo got his gloves back. - Shampoo

Hogtown Hash - AGM
Saturday, Jan 16, 2016
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The AGM was on Saturday, January 16 and it was run out of the Christie Pits Pub, which also doubles as an Ethiopian restaurant because, well, why shouldn’t it? Since it was the AGM there was a considerable turnout, because people are always afraid they’ll find out they’re the new GM or something if they don’t show up.

Also joining us was a couple from West Virginia. He was a cousin of First Lady – a “double cousin” he said – which is a new one on me. I don’t know much about Appalachian genealogy, but I think he has a very good chance of becoming his own grandpa.

We started off going up Shaw, past a couple of checks that offered more than the usual level of confusion, because they should have been placed a street further on than where they were drawn. In this case, we will attribute the underperformance in the key performance indicators to less than optimal specifications (it’s good to see that Moonman is integrating so well into the upper echelons of Bombardier management).

We found ourselves as far west as Ossington before being pulled to the east. There was another clusterfuck of a check at Davenport and Christie. The hidden clue was that you had to go back of the Loblaw, up onto the tracks, then through a hole in the fence back toward the Loblaw – not so good for First Lady pushing Booze Buggy in the stroller.

A bit north on Christie brought us onto the tracks again, and soon after to the shooter check. It was well located: in a wasteland on the wrong side of the tracks, a field of mud with various abandoned oil drums scattered around, containing PCBs or maybe Soylent Green.

There was a choice of two liquors: vodka and something called a beer liqueur. The beer liqueur tasted like well-aged urine and I’ve tasted enough urine over the years to consider myself a connoisseur. The vodka was “Stars and Stripes” brand so it was all-American just the way Jesus first distilled it, but it was pre-mixed with cranberry juice so it lost a bit of its macho fervour. Maybe someone like Marco Rubio would enjoy it.

Crossing Bathurst, we skirted George Brown College, waited at another check while 0 in 5 ran frantically in all directions, then continued south on Spadina to enter the Annex. We got to enjoy the grand old mansions on both sides of the Annex, east and then west of Spadina, and reached Bloor. And soon after we were at the beer check, in a small anonymous bar near Bathurst.

In his last and surely most misguided and irresponsible official act, Moonman decided to make Shampoo acting GM for the day. Sure, let’s give the plutonium to Kim Jong Un – what can possibly go wrong?

Hey Wouldja offered a fashion show for her down down while modelling her alluring pink “infinity scarf.” The down down was for lying, because there was no way that thing could be worn an infinite number of ways.

Cumfulai was singled out for twice heeding the call of nature by heading in the direction of the kitchen. I guess she must have misinterpreted the big cauldrons for something else. She was intercepted in time, but I strongly recommend they check the urine content of the soup.

Wet Pussy got his for being the lucky hybrid driver – not only do they get all the hot chicks, they also get to park right in front of the bar. Actually, by “hybrid” I meant “Lamborghini”, but he still got a spot directly in front of the bar.

Moist Leatherette, not present, had sent a message that she’d just completed a 20-mile jaunt to raise money for Syrian refugees and wanted Shampoo to come home and massage her feet. Pissing Doucheman very kindly offered Duals to come and do it. Duals readily accepted. So down downs for them. It’s not that Shampoo minds stuff like that, but he does want to keep a little of that unfamiliar feeling called “pride.”

Last and finally, the transition of power. In the end, it all came to nothing. Regime change in the Hogtown hash is on the same level as a Central Asian republic. The new mismanagement is as it was, from Moonman on down (“…meet the new boss, same as the old boss…”), including 1 Hump or 2 as hash horn, and when was the last time she blew anything? Maybe we can ask Airtight about this. Oh, the one exception is Dipsy Doodler as the new hash flash, replacing Showerhead, who apparently had been taking too many pictures of her upper thigh.

I’m sure now we can all expect to see too many pictures of Dipsy Doodler’s upper thigh.

Hogtown Hash House Harriers 1st of 2016
Saturday, Jan 02, 2016
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We met at a virgin bar for the first hash of 2016, a Firkin within a brand new concrete neighbourhood overlooking the lake near the mouth of the Humber. It would be a lovely spot in the summer. Unfortunately, it was January 2, so maybe not so much.

We were 19, a good turnout for us. As always the new year is a time to make resolutions. Maybe not good ones – Johnny Cockring’s, for instance, was “hash more often.” And the same could be said for the hare, Ultimate Asshole, who took the opportunity to live up to his name and work it – own it – and set the ball-buster trail that had been fermenting inside him for all those months.

Others were steadfast in their resolutions, like O in 5, who once again had decided that pants with legs were unnecessary, superfluous, evil, and would play no part in his lifestyle.

The start of the run soon led to the Humber bridge, where the trail split into the runners’ trail on the east side of the river, and the walkers’ trail on the west side. Shadow was split somewhere on the horns of this dilemma and seemed to disappear at this point. And the runners went off and did their thing, which rumours suggested went up as far as Bloor, featured one beer check and was anywhere from 9 to 12 kilometres in length.

Shampoo and Backdoor Buzz were having no part of this. They kept to the walkers’ trail, which swung under the Queensway, cut through the streetcar loop and led back to Lakeshore, almost at the start. Huh. But it carried on into the park that juts out into the lake, so they followed the bleak, wintery, silent path around the shoreline, lost in their loneliness and deep contemplation.

It brought back to Shampoo a long-suppressed, almost hidden memory from so long ago, when he had similarly walked into the woods with the large, scary man…

He never saw the puppy then, either…

But at the end there was parking lot, with a BC marked. And no fellow hashers. A rigorous, meticulous grid-pattern search (well, some random poking about in the shrubbery) failed to uncover any beer. So Backdoor Buzz and Shampoo stood around awkwardly and uncomfortably at the beer check for a few more minutes, the way middle-aged men will do in the park, before deciding to pack it in and head back to the bar, visible shimmering temptingly in the distance. But just at that moment Ultimate drove up and hauled the beer out of its hiding spot, where it had been cleverly disguised in an orangey-pink garbage bag, so not at all visible.

Others joined us by and by. You know, the company of hashers is tolerable, given enough alcohol.

Back at the bar they put us on the second floor, on a sort of balcony, so we were sequestered from the common folk yet had the benefit of nice booming echoes off the raw concrete walls. So we never sounded better. At least, so far this year.

Wet Pussy gave his circa 1987 Armani suit jacket to Pissing Doucheman, who of course looked good in it, with his sleeves all rolled up Miami Vice style. It was like Doucheman was the Bieberesque son WP never had.

Ten or 12 liars got up to claim they had performed in their own sex video with their significant other. Or hell, others. Two or three dithered and weren’t sure – whether they had really been there, or maybe it doesn’t count if you’re on the bottom? My dictionary defines pornography as “the explicit description or exhibition of sexual activity…. intended to stimulate erotic rather than aesthetic or emotional feelings” so I will end by saying I have never performed in a pornographic video. Of course there is a site for every taste, no matter how sick, so who knows… -Shampoo

December, 2015
Hogtown Hash: Feuerzangenbowle with dinner after ! (A to B)
Saturday, Dec 19, 2015
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December 19th. Open Pit was the hare. We were waiting for her to show up at the start point, the Gabby's on Kingston Road near Vic Park, and the conversation was of a caliber that reminds me of how when I was looking for activities to pursue and groups to join, it always came down to a choice between the hash and Mensa. We went from the ongoing dilemma of Waiting 2 B Done's false pregnancy, which led to the information that one of FLAB's babies was blue like a Smurf when it was born, segued to post-pregnancy breast size increase (we vote yes!!), and then Dipsy Doodler mentioned that when one of his kids was born they presented him with a brown one by mistake – but he kept the child for the next 12 years to see if he had any kind of a jump shot (I made that part up). It was like the legendary Algonquin Round Table, but with a large, angry monkey trying to pound it into a square hole.

Then Moonman, Backdoor Buzz and Shampoo had a brainwave about an app for connecting exclusively with eligible pregnant women. Shampoo, being the high-concept, big-ideas guy that he is, came up with the name after only a few seconds of deep thought: Due Dates - Your Nine-Month Window of Opportunity. But immediately Moonman and Buzz engineered a ploy to squeeze Shampoo out, such is the way of that harsh Silicon Valley dot-com bro culture.

The hare did arrive it was noted that she was riding a bike - always a bad sign for those hoping for a sensibly-paced trail, even if it does do wonders for her glutes.

Before we departed, Moist headed on home, possibly the most sensible decision of her day. We got all the way to the first check before hitting the first snafu, after which the trail headed generally south of Kingston Road. The trail markings were a little vague, of course, so it was easiest just to follow the lady on the bike - oh, and to go in any other direction from what 0 in 5 had marked. Soon we reached a long, steep hill, but remarkably the trail headed downhill to Queen Street. How often does that happen?

After running east past the water works, some of us were fooled into climbing hand over hand, clinging to a fence, down toward the lake. But it was a false. Then most of us stepped off Fallingbrook to descend into the warren of streets also all named Fallingbrook (this is where they really ran out of imagination) even though there has never been a way out through the golf course and you just have to climb back up a very steep hill to get to Fallingbrook again.

After getting back up to Kingston Road, we went east. And east. And east. And east again, every check offering the tantalizing promise of finally turning toward home, but no. But after such a long series of disappointments, the beer check was a bit of a gem: Busters, on Kingston Road near Birchmount, a fine old grotty-yet-comfortable pub of a type that is rapidly disappearing – even in Scarborough – where we could relax and settle in. Except for Backdoor Buzz, that is, who was last seen determinedly heading east, destination Pickering.

Since we are such giving, caring, sharing people, especially right before Christmas, we saved a glass of beer for him, which still had about an inch and a half left in it when he finally joined us.

After the beer check the trail unbelievably continued to the east, apparently, before swinging around to stop for a shooter check in the old quarry lands north of Gerrard, before continuing on to the Dutch Pit, where various tasty German libations were enjoyed (the one that loosely translates as ‘set your head in fire with flaming alcohol’ sounded especially delicious).

‘Apparently’, because Shampoo had to leave after the beer check (following shortly the also-departed 0 in 5) to join Moist in their happy home. While trundling along Kingston Road he came across a figure emerging from the dark, mysterious, solitary, like the legendary fourth Magi bearing presents of gift cards and crisp ten-dollar bills from grandma for the baby Jesus. But actually it was Shadow, so let's all hope he managed to join the group and is not still wandering. - Shampoo

October, 2015
Saturday, Oct 10, 2015
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When it's your first time, it should happen in a setting of mutual love, support and understanding. You should show each other respect and appreciation, and be free to express your emotions about each other and this big step in your relationship. Remember, this is a big moment that can really affect how you go on to do it in the future, so make sure you don't feel pressured or coerced into committing to something you are not yet ready for. And most important, remember that this is your decision.

Oh, and no anal. Not on your first time haring.

Whatever did you think I meant?

It was Waiting 2 B Done's first time haring, silly, on September 10. It was a Saturday, as it so often is. We were at Bloor and Dundas at the Jekyll and Hyde, a bar I'm sure people have lost it at before, too. Waiting's sister and the sister's boyfriend were there with her, perhaps to help buck up her courage in case haring really was like being inducted into the Turkish navy.

Also joining us were Kaylie, who we welcomed for the first time only the previous Monday but has already been named Party Princess, and was with a recently acquired husband, perhaps to give the guy some idea of what he is in for.

Right off the start, we crossed safely from the north side of Bloor to the south side of Bloor - on the green light, the way most of us were taught when we were about six - except for O in 5, who as usual nearly got himself flattened dodging traffic against the light on Dundas.

Heading west on Bloor, we made a short dip south, across and back up to Bloor. This soon brought us into High Park, where we went only a short way before the very kind hare had arranged a shooter check, if you appreciate Fireball whiskey. Much refreshed, we continued on, past the check that had us trudging up the loooong hill, and soon were out of the park again.

We were now on Wallace, standing outside a townhouse in a new development that was taunting us with a -BC- scrawled on the sidewalk in front of it. It was believed to be Waiting 2 B Done's house, but she was nowhere to be seen. I think she took -sweeping- the trail to mean, literally, sweeping. So we had to wait for an interminable, unacceptable, outrageous length of time - I mean, we're talking two or three minutes here! - before she showed up to let us in.

Bit at least we got to drink inside, with a lovely view of downtown from the top floor. We met W2BD's friendly little dog Willow, and got to listen to Waiting's explicit observations about her little dog's unusually large and distended nipples and vagina. I tell you, the people we attract...

Wallace is the street with the footbridge over the tracks, so it was quick work to connect with Dundas and so on back to the Jekyll and Hyde. We'd had our session of mugwumpery about moving to a new bar, but decided to stay there, where we had lots of room for circle because apparently Saturday night is their slow night.

Monday, Oct 05, 2015
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The hare for Monday, October 5 was Aims Low. And kudos to her for setting such an entertaining and clever hash - I'm sure while she was baked too - and on a Jewish holiday as well. But "Shmini Atzeret"? I can never remember if that's before or after Christmukkah, and what you should bring.

We started at the Bishop and Belcher, Church at Bloor. Maybe it was the lingering nice weather, or maybe it's a tradition of the "low" holidays, but there was a good turnout for a Monday of about 20. Included were Tin Man, visiting from Ottawa, and a couple of new boots, Kaylie and Mackenzie, each of them cheery young women who seemed to be good sports about it all.

Short Cockasian showed up because the run was seemingly within the radius of his ankle bracelet monitor. Showerhead had sort-of recovered from her European DTs and was ready to operate! Just Lynn attended for the second time, and she seems intent on getting a name quickly by saying odd and noteworthy things. Unless I'm having auditory hallucinations (in addition to my regular kind), but I do believe I overheard her say something like "stripper pants," in reference to something or other. Of course the first time she joined us it was "c**t locker."

With a few additional late-cummers like Sheep Escort - with Pissing Doucheman and Duals materializing out of nowhere while we were circling up - and we were off.

We did not have an auspicious start. We got as far as the northeast corner of Church and Bloor before we were flummoxed as to where the trail led next. After some minutes, somebody actually checked or the hare took pity on us (it's not like we have all night!) and we took off up Davenport, past the Canadian Tire and the Masonic Temple, as far as another check where Bay runs into Davenport. This led us through the Jesse Ketchum schoolyard and then up Hazelton, and we were on Davenport again.

Here Aims Low decided to arrow the trail back across Davenport, with the eastbound view of the street obscured by construction hoardings and traffic bombing along obliviously. I think everybody made it across. If not, at least they'd paid already. This brought us onto Hillsboro, where both Moon Man and Shampoo at one time had apartments. Separate apartments, I should point out; we might be odd but we were never a couple.

A turn through Ramsden Park led us across Yonge at the Rosedale subway station; we toured through a bit of Rosedale to emerge at a check at Rosedale Valley Road. Straight ahead or to the right would mean crossing our trail, so to the left it had to be - as far as the Mount Pleasant bridge. Climbing the embankment brought us soon after to Jarvis, where good sense dictated the beer check must be close, unless the hare really wanted to punish us - and that would make it date night. There was rumoured to be an outdoor beer check, and a bit of intuition brought the pack to the park next to the 519 community centre on Church, where Aims Low was indeed waiting for us with beers, along with the walkers and short-cutters of the other half of the pack, the bastards.

And no great distance back to the start, either. All in all a clever and well-laid trail that kept the runners running and let the cheaters cheat (or "hash smarter").

September, 2015
Monday, Sep 21, 2015
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On Monday, September 21, the hash met at Betty's at King and Sherbourne. Pissing Doucheman was the hare. Was going to be the hare, that is, since he was still in the bar past 7:00, trying to find the closest beer store with that Internet thingy. Time management issues had gotten in the way, so he was going to have to do it live.

The pleasant woman wearing the Lausanne Marathon shirt hanging around the bar actually was looking for us. This was Lynn, our new boot. Welcome aboard. When we circled up outside and introduced ourselves, a somewhat tipsy woman who was standing around in front joined in. She was also named Lynn, she said she'd heard about the hash and would check us out sometime. "My wife is named Lynn ,too," piped up Wet Pussy. All I can take away from this is that we will see at least one Lynn again, and at least two of them woke up the next morning regretting their lifestyle decisions.

It turned out there was a trail, sort of, that led down Sherbourne to Queens Quay. It is now getting dark by hash time, so flashlights would have helped, people. After much nosing about, it was eventually found that the trail circled Sugar Beach, the Corus building and George Brown College, then cut through both sides of Sherbourne Common up to the Lakeshore. There it ran east along the dark, lonely, derelict-inhabited path underneath the highway pillars, though that one derelict who startled Shampoo was in fact Wet Pussy, conducting a hydrological test against one of the pillars.

This took us to the Distillery District. There the pack found itself running along Mill Street toward the new Canary area - unfortunately still fenced off (and it's only been a month) after the PanAm Games. Luckily we managed to turn around and go back before we were all cubed like some kind of soft meat.

Retreating along Front, we crossed Parliament and there was the beer check in a park on the Esplanade, where our hare had supplied a nice selection of craft beers. Keep sucking up, PD. And the evening temperatures were still holding up, so it was even more of a pleasure to drink in public.

Back at Betty's we had a standoff between the people who wanted to be inside and the people who wanted to be outside. Eventually we settled in at the back of the patio, partly because the temperature was still tolerable but the decider was that there we would be able to better pursue our chosen lifestyle. Also it helped to clear the eruptions of intestinal gas from Backdoor Buzz. As it was we only drove one table to flee.

Now to Gordon. He'd been working real hard to get a name, having participated in several beer-related incidents including spewing all over HaiPooGai. But this night something finally stuck, after the shotgunning money-shot mishap he performed on himself. So welcome, for now and forever, to Can Cum in my Mouth.

Monday, Sep 07, 2015
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Give HaiPooGai credit at least: he may have been trying to kill us, but he did at least agree to hare a hash on a day that was as hot and funky as Satan’s ass crack. So give the devil his due, I guess.

So let's see who comes out on a holiday Monday in an atmosphere like the Dark Lord’s fetid taint: Backdoor Buzz arrived at the Jester on Yonge soaking wet from swimming all the way to the hash. Check that, he ran most of the way, and he was drenched in so much sweat he made Humpday seem as smooth and rosy as a freshly-showered cheerleader… dusted with baby powder all over her gangly yet supple limbs… as her curious fingertips lightly brush, absent-mindedly, her quickly stiffening nipples ...

Where was I? Oh yeah, BB was real sweaty. Fish Fingers and Casket Case made the big two-block walk over from their house. There was young Master Bait (Cougar, that is) as well as Seoul sister Statutory Ape. And Helen Keller was there for a beer and wisely decided to not bother with the whole running business.

Our trail started off up Yonge, going as far as Heath Street, where there was a check offering a variety of bad directions. The one we took was across Yonge and the church grounds, then a right (or in Duals-speak, a “left”) and then down the stairs into the ravine. One good thing about that, it was a lot cooler. But we popped up again, crossing the St. Clair bridge, where there was a check on the other side that again offered a lot of possibilities. The right way was diagonally across St. Clair and back into the ravine.

We worked our way down it for a bit, until if you took the uphill path less travelled you were greeted by the grinning hare at the top of it, at Mt. Pleasant. A brief detour through the quality streets on the other side of the road was refreshed by a brief, beautiful, very welcome rain shower.

Crossing to the other side of Mt. Pleasant, we scandalized Rosedale for a bit before descending once more into the ravine. Delirium, dehydration and alcohol withdrawal had taken away most of the pain by now, anyway. But relief was soon at hand. We finally made our way out of that well-worked-over territory, making our way to the Rosehill Reservoir mere steps from our start, where we planted ourselves at a picnic table and slaked our thirsts with one of the best beers of the day. And the setting sun shone on us.

August, 2015
Hogtown Hash
Saturday, Aug 01, 2015
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Orange is the new black (and blue):

It was August 1, the Saturday of the long weekend, and many of you had other, perhaps better places to be. Was it the ominous line of dark clouds scudding along to the north of Kingston Road? They never did rain on us – it looked like they were preparing to dump on Scarborough instead (maybe blame the downtown latte sippers again). Or it could have been the sight of Dutch Rudder, the hare, gloating at almost topping 20,000 paces on his step counter, just from setting the damn hash, that might have convinced some people that spending more time with their families didn’t sound so bad after all.

Then again, the Hogan’s the night before had seemed to go long and large for some folks. Hai Poo Gai in particular looked like he’d slept in the gutter, with his hair all matted in the way that curbs will do. (It should also be mentioned that both Hai Poo and Just Gordon arrived at the bar at exactly the same time, both wearing baby blue t-shirts, both with fragile and overburdened expressions on their faces, like they needed to be protected from loud noises. Am I the only one who’s noticed a sort of George/Oscar Bluth thing with those two?)

We met at the Grover on Kingston Road, an old-time hasher hangout until it wasn’t any more. Anyway, they didn’t throw us out, so I guess all is forgiven or forgotten. Honkin’ Hooters was already waiting for us at the bar, whinging about the long walk down Main from the subway station. Hey, it’s all downhill, pal. Rose Eh, Dipsy Doodler, Shampoo, and Blurry Beaver, First Lady and Booze Buggy rounded out the pack, I think. And of course Open Pit to smack the hare when he deserved it.

Our initial moment of confusion came right at the start, at the first check at the corner of Main and Kingston, where a choice of three potential directions had us bewildered for several minutes. This might have had something to do with the tiny teeny size of the chalk marks, or maybe all our eyes are bad. But eventually things were sorted out and we headed more or less in the direction of the lake. Down by the boardwalk there was great rejoicing when the mark for shooter check near was crossed, less rejoicing when the long haul past it brought us grinding to a halt at a checkback. Once that was figured out, we left the boardwalk and went up a street to the real shooter check, on the front porch of what turned out to be where the long-AWOL Liquor Ass and Hurdle Her live.

After we reassured the nosy neighbour – we told him we were only there to break in and steal liquor, and he seemed happy with that – we settled in to enjoy the tasty cherries-in-boozy-jello shooters. I’ll say it: I liked popping Open Pit’s cherries!

After that, the trail, mostly through the workings of suggestion and intuition, took us north of Queen to skirt the Glen Stewart ravine, first on one side, then on the other. This seemed a bit too much of a tease, and finally after following a number of the curving leafy streets the hare did take us down a long staircase for some of the woodsy bits. We popped out back on Kingston Road, just a short jog from our start at the Grover, where we finally had our beer check.

Refreshed and recovered, we trooped over to the Dutch Rudder/Open Pit household for downs downs and a delicious barbecue. I’ll say it: I liked swallowing Dutch Rudder’s meaty sausage!

July, 2015
Hogtown Hash
Saturday, Jul 04, 2015
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We had our next trail a few days later on Saturday, July 4, which coincidentally the Americans celebrate as some sort of holiday as well. So Blurry Beaver and First Lady came along with Jude, that freeloader. Also in attendance were Didgeridoo and her brother Roadrunner, Chaz and KitKat. A well-refreshed Airtight and Short Cockasian had already been enjoying their own private Idaho Swordfish. Humpday was the hare, and we met at a Thai restaurant on Queens Quay.

The trail started off with a Frogger-style dash across the multiple lanes of traffic of Queens Quay. Hai Poo Gai immediately nearly managed to get himself flattened by a streetcar – I’d say “smart like streetcar” except the streetcar followed a steady, regular and undeviating path, unlike Hai Poo. Then it was through and between the crowds of ambling tourists, across the swinging bridge over the yacht basin and a circumnavigation of Harbourfront – with Statutory Ape tagging along to join us at the last minute – to bring us to a Hash Hold on the east-side pier.

The reason for the Hash Hold became clear as Humpday negotiated to get us aboard a water taxi. Once settled on the barge-like thing, we motored across the harbour, managed to not lose anybody overboard and stormed the beaches of Cherry Street in the Hogtown Hash’s Batley Townswomen’s Guild version of D-Day. Nobody having lost an eye, trail recommenced to bring us along Lakeshore to Parliament.

At Parliament, the trail went back along Queens Quay as far as Sherbourne, heading north to veer through the St. Lawrence neighbourhood, up Jarvis to King, zig-zagging a bit through the bidness district to bring us to the corner of King and University. A check there seemed to lead south, which it did, but only after the pathfinders (Wet Pussy, for one) overran the marks for true trail, which led down into the bowels of the earth to an underground parking lot. There both First Lady and Shampoo got to play soccer with the scion of an extended family, probably convincing the kid for life that people sure are different in the big city.

We emerged from underground, crossed Front and climbed long multiple flights of stairs to a wide podium to be rewarded with the beer check, an exciting selection of frosty tall cans, a panoramic view of the Rogers Centre/Ripley’s/CN Tower to the right of us, the ACC to the left of us, Steamwhistle in front of us, and the little people below looking just like ants from way up there.

Back at the on on, Shampoo used his natural wit and charm (through some incredible lapse of judgment he’d been made GM for the day) to immediately drive Durham, Rose Eh and a few others away, leaving a smaller group on which to apply his cloth-tongued down-downs.

Full Buck Moon Hash
Wednesday, Jul 01, 2015
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Like the cicada emerging from its years-long hibernation, Honkin’ Hooters kindly volunteered to set a full moon trail on Canada Day (though in truth, he’d sat in with us as a sensible non-runner at The Only Café a few weeks before).

vAnd it was gratifying to see that so many of the assembled multitude (well, a dozen and change, including Sheep Escort and his little dog too) sported their red and/or maple leaf themed shirts. We met up at a bar called, appropriately enough, the Maple Leaf, on the Danforth near Jones (and which seemed to continue the tradition that any bar called the Maple Leaf will appeal to patriotism over quality).

The trail was simple enough, or should I say the trail exhibited a refreshing rectangularity and a humane length. What this means is that it went up and down on a few streets and laneways north of our start, then cut more or less across to Greenwood, down to the Danforth and then west to the beer check at Rails and Ales, near Donlands – total length around three and a half k. The fact that O in 5 and Shampoo were the first two to make it to the BC says something about the level of ambition of the pack.

Back at the on on we were confronted by a ranting cranky Greek guy, but it had nothing to do with any economic crisis, it was just Moon Man fulfilling his duties as GM. (Though some of that yelling had the important purpose of stopping new guy Gordon from helping himself to the down-down beer.) Backdoor Buzz joined us as a latecomer, and Pissing Doucheman was already waiting for us, sporting a new haircut of the sort most often seen on Nordic extremists.

June, 2015
Hogtown Hash
Saturday, Jun 20, 2015
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Showerhead said she was feeling “dizzy” so she wasn’t going to drink and she wasn’t going to run (though in the end she did both, brave girl); Airtight was happy to have a beer but said he had more important people to meet so he wouldn’t stay, and this was true; Shampoo just wanted a beer and hoped the trail wouldn’t be too painful. They all contributed to the roster of ugly customers at the glorious Lakeside Bar and Grill, an establishment to which the hare himself gave the Yelp-worthy recommendation of “you may not want to eat at this dive.”

The rest of the crew gradually trickled in to the further reaches of Etobicoke: Pissing Doucheman (the hare), Aims Low, Wet Pussy, Just Pat My Log, Waiting 2 B Done, 0 in 5, Dipsy Doodler. We circled up when everyone who said they were going to show had shown up; waited a bit longer for Duals to stroll in, as usual; rejoiced at the announcement of two forthcoming beer checks; and finally managed to separate ourselves from the schizophrenic drunk (this might be too judgmental, he might have been a drunken schizophrenic) who had been compelled to join our circle.

Trail started off humbly enough on the north side of Lake Shore, cutting north a block or two and drifting off into derelict industrial areas. Hopeful imaginations dreaming of an early beer check had their wishes dashed as we sailed past both Pissing Doucheman’s and JPML’s homes. The trail then headed back south to a check at the Humber College campus, where attractive greenswards beckoned, but instead we crossed Lake Shore again, north past a football field, through the backyard of a house under construction, through a townhouse complex and into a park near the railway tracks.

Doucheman had offered life-sustaining shooters along the way, so at least alcohol deprivation was avoided. Finally we reached the first beer check, in a shady, especially mosquito-ridden corner of the park.

The hare insisted on leading us yet further west after this, before working us down to the waterfront. Along the way we came across two newish pool noodles in someone’s (presumably) trash, which allowed the Doucheman and Duals to stage an epic sword fight where they each could finally measure up to their own imaginations, noodle-wise. Down by the water we were offered beautiful lake vistas, refreshing breezes and, most important, lots of out-of-the-way places to take a piss.

This brought us to the filtration plant/yacht club/parkland south of Humber College, by which point the pack was widely separated and mostly ambulatory. But 0 in 5 soldiered along at a good clip, as always, and he decided to shortcut at a check that looked like it led nowhere but on a long circle jerk out onto the spit, but in reality went to the second beer check down by the shore. So he disappeared on the in trail back to the worst bar in the world, where he was never to be seen again, while Shampoo took true trail to the beer check, searched futilely in the clearing for the beer and waited for the walkers to arrive and find it for him.

We were just settling down with our frosties when Backdoor Buzz charged in at full tilt, having found trail on his own. We still had plenty of brew, so this beer check segued into circle and down downs. Or as we told the occasional parkgoer as they hurriedly shepherded their children past us, our “picnic.” This also could be true, since we still did have a number of jello shooters left over from the Pink Dress Run, particularly the pudding that by this time had the colour and consistency of old, backed-up blue-balled semen, not that I would know what that looks like. Down down lowlights included Wet Pussy’s graphic demonstration of the “you’re a pain in the asshole to me” part of the song to Waiting 2 B Done – yes, W2BD, you are being tested – and Shampoo getting gonged for being too verbose (though he preferred to think of himself as erudite).

As a finale Duals insisted on organizing a “spank tunnel” in honour of Doucheman’s birthday, which was after all the occasion for him haring. This smacked (so to speak) of wish fulfillment on Dual’s part, considering he was so eager about it and it was so top of mind for him. This involved the pack lining up a couple of feet apart, with their legs spread enough for the birthday spankee to crawl through under the not-so-tender ministrations of the spankers. It’s like a human centipede of BDSM.

At the end (so to speak) of it, Pissing Doucheman’s skinny, juvenile buttocks were rendered almost as red as the back of JPML’s neck – the Doucheman insisted on gifting us with this sight. I was reminded more of badly seared poultry than of manflesh. All the better to help one lose one’s appetite before trudging back to the on in. - Shampoo

Full Strawberry Moon Hash
Tuesday, Jun 02, 2015
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Tuesday (June 2) saw Humpday haring another Humpday special, a day early in this case but there you go. It was typical for Humpday in that it was harder than you would think, showing flashes of cleverness – at least clever enough to stump the slack-jawed pack of us – which should lead to exasperation but in the end you just can’t help loving the big lug.

The hare was enjoying a beverage with Haipoo Gai when Shampoo arrived at the Urban Café (Dundonald and Yonge). Joining them was Statutory Ape, back from South Korea, living in Hogtown temporarily. Short Caucasian showed up, wearing his stylish and practical seersucker running shorts, because he will attend hashes starting within a two block radius of his apartment (and apparently no others). Cougar Bait was still among the walking wounded. Rounding out the pack were Aims Low, Cum Foo Lai and Backdoor Buzz.

The trail jogged up a street from the on out and went east a short distance to a check. This stymied the pack for a bit, until Shampoo of all people discovered true trail went through the parking lot behind an apartment building, and then cut through an obscure gap in the fence (which I believe in this neighbourhood is known as a “glory hole”) leading to the vast expanses of more condos beyond.

This led us over toward Jarvis and Charles. There the pack was finally widely dispersed trying to cross the busy intersection while the ghost of Ted Rogers cackled from above. Somewhere around there Duals popped up, late, but following the trail full tilt. We continued to Sherbourne, past the stretch of long-abandoned houses next to the subway entrance that are finally being renovated, where another check thoroughly confused the pack by offering multiple choices, just like high school. Oddly it was again Shampoo who sussed out the correct direction, which was across the pedestrian bridge spanning the Rosedale Ravine, then more or less directly to Castle Frank subway station.

Another check. He took the path that led through the hobo jungle down to Rosedale Valley Road. You know a trail is some fucked up when Shampoo is breaking checks. Down there he saw marks heading up the road, marks heading down the road – and up the slope, from somewhere, Aims Low and Haipoo Gai yelling on on.

At the corner of Bloor and Parliament the various lost sheep convened, gathered by our good shepherd Humpday. He pointed us in the right direction – south on Parliament – but then we had to figger out for ourselves that it went through St. Jamestown, across Wellesley, across to Bleeker and back up to Wellesley. Aims Low, Haipoo Gai, Shampoo and Short Caucasian took turns in this voyage of discovery, none of them wanting to strain their tender brains too much. Another check at Jarvis proved a real stumper, perhaps because we were almost back to where we started from and were beginning to suffer from alcohol deprivation, until I think it was Aims Low who discovered she had only to run up one short street to be almost at the beer check.

Which was in the park beside 519 Church. Where we were enjoying our cans of beer – Humpday had even thoughtfully provided go cups – when Shower Head bounded up to join us, better late than never, and getting there just in time for the good stuff.

And then shortly back to the on in, for the on on. Two pitchers of down down beer for about ten of us, and the chance for Backdoor Buzz to yell at us in his indoor voice. - Shampoo

Hogtown Hash #1489
Monday, Jun 01, 2015
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The Monday June 1st trail convened at the George Bell Arena off Runnymede (Definitely named after Buzz's grandfather, so spread the word). Buzz was the first to show, finding the hare, Sheep Escort, elbow deep in french fries. They were soon joined by Moonman, Loopy, Hump Day, Half-wit, Cougar Bait, and Aims who was sporting some hounds of her own. Chalk talk revealed that Cougar Bait had lost the ability to use his feet for running (likely due to some horrific sex accident with a MILF), but was joined by 3 others on a walking shortcut of the trail.

Moonman, Half-wit and Loopy, with the the hare in tow, set off on the actual trail. Cutting north near Runnymede, the trail found its way through the old Black Creek Site lands, with Moonman and Loopy opting to skip a romp through big piles of mulch and a fence hop. Meeting up again, the group found a water crossing to which Loopy conceded her dry feet to simply wade through. Emerging from the river bed, a glance up the road revealed the walkers, sans Hump Day, who had ventured out on his own.

Sheep Escort, channeling his inner Clark Griswold, took the trail through a housing project, "Hashers, are you noticing all this plight? Okay, roll 'em up." With that the hashers were off to Weston Rd. Here the runners went offroad, while the walkers took the sidewalk to the ever nearing BC. Runners, passing under railroad bridges emerged into a disused city yard, which had a View Check. The view was the entrance to one of the city's large underground storm water storage tanks, and for the urban explorers, the "fortress of solitude" chamber lay beyond.

Continuing on, the runners cut across some soccer fields, all the while fighting the urge to push the 10 year olds off the ball and let loose a torrent strike at the tiny keeper. Passing around Sheep's worksite, and up some blocked off stairs brought the runners to the York courthouse. The grassy knolls gave way to forests, and after traversing a number of paths brought the runners to a log crossing of a river, swollen with water from the weekend rains. It was here Half-wit and Loopy decided to back track to the BC, but Moonman, followed by the hare, forged on across the river, 25 ft across and 8' above.

Successfully passing the log, the trail cut through a homeless man's luxurious accommodations, complete with spice rack. One last dash past a baseball practice and across live traffic brought us to the BC. Here the walkers (sans Hump Day) had assembled on the grass. Shortly, Loopy and Half-wit sauntered by, oblivious to the yelling of Hashers. Their eventual return was followed by Hump Day, who had back tracked the trail.

After beer and lies, the hashers walked back to the circle, careful to avoid the last shiggy section laid by Sheep, given his apparent dubious ability to detect poison plants. Thus, by the end, no one ran true trail, but no one really cared, as beer was plentiful and we all managed to feign boredom for another day. We closed circle and headed for food or home.

Oh, also, Pissing showed up at this point. The End. - Sheep Escort

May, 2015
Hogtown Hash
Monday, May 18, 2015
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There was a small turnout on Victoria Day, which is a shame, because FiFi and Casket Case laid a great trail while so many of you were engaged in your far more important activities, like "quality time" and "relaxation" with your "families" or "going to CoMo."

The pack consisted of Moonman, an oddly relaxed and beaming Rose Eh, Wet Pussy and Shampoo. We left from Gabby’s on the strangely still and quiet Yonge Street strip north of Lawrence. But just before we set off Sheep Escort came bounding up like a big happy puppy.

Trail headed east in the direction of Wanless Park (I looked it up) before turning south to cross Lawrence. By this point Shampoo of all people was FRBing, followed by a hard-charging Sheep Escort. Shampoo achieved this simply by the good luck of getting every check right; maybe he should start buying lottery tickets.

Crossing Lawrence we were then in the swanky streets of North Toronto, the St. Leonard’s and St. Ives’ and all that, home to people who look better and smell nicer than us and who were all in Muskoka. This led over to Bayview, where the trail went south past Sunnybrook Hospital and then turned into the ravine on the west side. This continued – with a pointless stream crossing – into Sherwood Park, where the amazing Shampoo finally took a wrong turn at a check and relinquished the lead to Sheep Escort.

Another pointless stream crossing when leaving that park, achieving nothing but extremely smelly shoes, and then Sheep Escort blazed the way up the ravine slope and on up the long hill heading to Mt. Pleasant. There Shampoo regained the lead after the check pointed up Mt Pleasant and back into the ravine, still heading west. But at the next check Shampoo again miscalculated and Sheep Escort led the way through the labyrinth of hedges and rose bushes and necking couples to come out at Yonge Street.

Across Yonge Shampoo was first to see the longed-for BC leading somewhere into the woods. The beer was hidden there unless, as Casket Case feared, the "hoboes" had gotten to it first. Eventually Shampoo saw a garbage bag half hidden under the leaves and tapped at it with a stick to determine if it contained beer or body parts. Bad news if it was a cooler filled with human heads.

Yay! It was beer! Way more tall boy cans than we needed, but who’s complaining? There was even a nice smooth fallen tree to sit on. Shampoo and Sheep Escort got to enjoy some bro time until the rest of the pack showed up. And some time after that who should appear but Duals, or "Drools" as we started calling him, all tanned (or at least partly tanned) after Commotion by the Ocean. This was so bucolic and we had so much beer we had circle there, where we could discuss the finer points of the FHRITP controversy and sing our one-and-a-half songs in peace.

One advantage of hashing in tonier parts of town is the better quality of trail treasures to come across. Somewhere on our walk back to Gabby’s Wet Pussy snagged a clump of uprooted hostas from a construction site. He looked as proud as shit cradling his 12-pound bundle of foliage to take home and plant, or maybe he’s holding those hostas hostage. He’s probably still piecing together the ransom note. - Shampoo

Hogtown Hash
Saturday, May 09, 2015
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It’s not that we particularly want to get rid of Diamond Duck (though there is some popular objection to Temporary Foreign Hashers in this country), but if it had to happen, this was the way to do it – with Mexican food! (Meanwhile, somewhere in China, Jorge Garcia Ramirez is being sent off with, I don’t know, pizza?)

Anyway, on May 9 DD got to be his own executioner by setting the trail for his departure hash. Though come to think of it, another Diamond Duck-set trail reminded us that, even though we may be losing him, the upside is we won’t have to run any more of his trails.

He set it from the Hai Poo Hut at Eglinton and Mount Pleasant, but only after he was able to borrow some chalk and flour from Hai Poo, since he had otherwise disposed of all his worldly goods. You’d think under those circumstances, using somebody else’s materials, he could afford to be generous…

Various people we haven’t seen for a while shrugged off their hibernation: Casket Case, Ultimate, Dead End. Johnny Cockring appeared in case anybody had a tort. Newbie Jacqueline decided to give us another chance. Duals, meanwhile, showed up looking like he’d just come from a Khalsa Day parade.

We started off running straightforwardly enough through midtown on the streets once referred to as the Hash Hood, now sadly diminished in the number of resident hashers. Backdoor Buzz was all atwitter when he discovered some girl’s clothes left out on someone’s lawn, even if they weren’t his size. Maybe he was thinking of making soup. Hitting a check at Mount Pleasant, the trail then led through the cemetery before emerging at Moore Avenue and continuing into the ravine on the other side of the road. Soon there was a shooter check – this is where you can afford to waste chalk by marking it, Diamond Duck – which a fair number of people overran. Some of them gradually straggled back, but a couple never did get to enjoy their liqueur and/or whiskey.

After that we went south as far as the big railway bridge, where we turned right to climb the steep slope and emerged onto the tracks, because, well, safety first. Hint: shiny rails mean live rails, proven by the big choo choo that came barreling past us. Cum Fu Lay must have watched a lot of Westerns in her youth, which maybe gave her the idea to put her head down on the tracks to hear if another Iron Horse was coming.

We followed the tracks west for what felt like four or five miles. In truth, it was only as far as Mount Pleasant, where we left the tracks and ran across the road, which has to be more dangerous than dealing with trains. On the other side the trail went back under the bridge and into the valley below. This was where Ultimate Asshole found a pair of somebody’s old jeans – empty, thank God – which he seemed eager to touch all over. What is it with hashers and discarded clothing?

The trail now led through the bursting greenery as far as the cemetery, again, and then through that to the Beltline. A quick couple of streets brought us to the park at the corner of Mount Pleasant and Davisville, where a couple of picnic tables of hashers were already assembled for the beer check. This included a second shift of Funky Monkey and Attaboy, Shadow, Aims Low, Loopy and Just Pat My Log, who actually would rather be sailing, but showed up for the important stuff.

On the trudge back to the start we passed one of ours from long ago, Deep Throat, out for a run. He looked fit, active and healthy, so you can see why he doesn’t hang around with us anymore.

That delicious Mexican food was waiting for us when we arrived back at the HaiPoo Hut. Kudos to Moon Man for the tasty food, and it really did look just like a taco (though Fish Fingers pronounced, from her experience, that “it’s hard to stuff a taco”). Helen Keller finally arrived home from work so Hai Poo Gai was indeed telling the truth, that stinking pile in the back yard was leftover decaying barley after all.

And thanks to Ultimate Asshole for wringing his sweaty bandanna into the down down beer. The salt gave it a bit of a tang, and what was that other flavour? Cardamom? - Shampoo

April, 2015
Hogtown Hash #1483
Saturday, Apr 25, 2015
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On April 25 it was First Lady and No Hash Name Glenna’s turn to hare the Saturday trail. And a very fine day it was. At last it seemed our Stalingrad-worthy winter was over and our potential trail to come was bathed in sunshine. And there was a good turnout at the Bar With No Name on Bloor near Keele, including three new boots and three other recent new boots, who we haven’t driven away yet and who decided to re-up for another round of punishment. Airtight and Shower Head arrived in an already-refreshed state, having decided to get in their down downs early (“I’m fucking hammered,” I think was her medical self-assessment).

After Glenna impressed everyone, in particular Moon Man, with her freehand skills in drawing a perfect circle to illustrate her checks, it was off on the trail. Sympathy is offered as it looks like Jude has now graduated to a tricycle stroller instead of riding Glenna like a 27-pound monkey on her back. We first passed what looked like separate Indian and Ethiopian weddings at the Lithuanian House, and when our heads cleared from that we were on Roncesvalles, confused again. A long, pointless check south resulted in nothing, while true trail dodged over into darkest Parkdale before turning back to Roncy.

It continued on down to a check at Queen. Cougar Bait was last seen crossing the pedestrian bridge over the Gardiner, only to be confronted by the vast expanse of the lakeshore, where the hares had decided to save on chalk. There was much checking of boardwalk, bike path, parking lot and grassy field, with little to show in the way of marks. Hai Poo Gai and Hey Wouldja eventually did discover a route that followed the boardwalk west before leading back over the Lakeshore and into High Park. Unfortunately for them, the trail at this point actually featured a shooter check on the boardwalk (with yummy little jello fishies laced with alcohol), so they missed out in their enthusiasm.

We went through the park past the zoo animals to come out to a big check at the Grenadier restaurant, with about 12 potential routes to follow, which took about that many minutes to solve. It was now getting close to 7:00 pm, so it was just as well the trail exited the park at Parkside Drive and soon led to the beer check in Glenna and First Lady’s tiny basement apartment. Twenty to 25 people crowded in, with PBR to drink.

From there it was only a short slog back to the Bar With No Name. Finally it was mild enough to have outdoor circle on the back patio, even while the temperature fell rapidly and Rose Eh’s hands turned to icy claws.

And during this, at last, Glenna was named. Why ever did this take so long, considering the available material. So owing to her appearance on American pubic, er…., public television, NHN Glenna has left us, to be reborn as "Blurry Beaver". -- Shampoo

Saturday, Apr 11, 2015
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The CumWit Birthday Hash (Cum Foo Lay and Half Wit are twins apparently – isn’t that adorable?) began at the Half Wit/Stunt Boobs abode on Jane Street. Beautiful day. The start of spring. And the usual long, involved explanation from Half Wit of the series of hieroglyphs and scratchings worthy of Linear B ostensibly giving us useful directions for the trail (if only there had been nearly so many of those marks on the actual trail…). Spring brought out two new boots to join us, as well as some long-hibernating old-timers like Johnny Cockring.

After waiting for the last-minute Duals to get himself organized (he was late from “making pudding” – no, not a euphemism for masturbation, but actual pudding, and more on that later) the hash began with a dangerous dash across a very busy Jane Street, though some kindly drivers did stop to help prevent too many squished hashers. Whatever else they are going to be, the StuntWit kids will be agile, if nothing else. Not far on the other side of Jane a long, steep hill led temptingly – too temptingly – downhill. All too often in the hash, what goes down comes back up again (and not just beer and bimbos), but in this case the check at the bottom of the hill did in fact lead delightfully through the woods and then along the Humber though bosky dell and verdant meadow (sorry! sunstroke!) all the way to Dundas.

After we successfully negotiated the Intersection of Doom where Dundas, St. Clair and Scarlett Road sort-of meet, our path continued up Scarlett to a somewhat waterlogged Smythe Park. This gave Stunt Boobs the opportunity to show off his balance beam skills by crossing the stream on a fallen tree, when there was a perfectly good bridge not more than 50 feet away. Soon after we crossed a schoolyard and FLAB announced that the school over the way was named Rockcliffe, and her mother had tried desperately to keep her daughters out of there because it was the worst school in the city, which is why FLAB is so smart today. Well, in the far distance you could see hashers standing around scarfing back those pudding shots, so no wonder the school has a bad reputation. And the pudding shots performed their social-lubricant magic, because the girls (and Diamond Duck) soon started a game of hopscotch.

We continued on to the beer check soon after. All it took was one last climb up the hillside to meet Half Wit waiting with cans of beer to enjoy in the late afternoon sunshine, with an expansive sweep of the city stretching away to the north. From up there, those last stragglers looked like thirsty little ants as they made their way up. Said new boot Jacqueline about why she’d “come” that day: “I like running and I like beer.” Good answer!

Back at the Halfway House there was yummy curries and plenty o’ beers. Despite these attractions Attaboy and Funky Monkey decided to leave early because he had to get up early the next day to “sand his boat”, which I think is a new way of describing self-pleasuring. Despite missing the actual trail, Moon Man was full of pithy and pointed punishments for the various transgressors. For instance, Sheep Escort got a down down for his bleeding hand, which he got from punching a stop sign. So in this case, he fought the law and the law won. However, Johnny Cockring was quick on the draw to offer him his card in case there’s a lawsuit.

Moon Man suggested people might like to go back to his place to sit in the hot tub, but I gave that a pass. I don’t want to go back to 1983! -- Shampoo

January, 2015
Hogtown Hash #1467
Monday, Jan 26, 2015
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It was a cold cold night but still a dozen of us turned up at Rails & Ales on the Danforth for the Monday Hogtown Hash on January 26. It may have been cold outside, but the warmth of our companionship and good cheer warmed our hearts on the inside….. naaaah….. you believe that? It was the same barely-concealed backbiting and verbal abuse as usual, fuelled by beer and the reality that many of us got no place else to go.

Once off to a sluggish start, the trail headed down Greenwood and veered to the left, through a park, past a school and into Monarch Park. We went south through the tunnel under the tracks, symbolizing the stimulus-resolution-climax-release nature of the hashing experience. At least I usually feel royally rogered – maybe that’s just me.

Good thing Cougar Bait was an eager beaver at finding trail, since our hare Half Wit managed to set the whole trail with two pieces of chalk. One pink. One blue. Broody, you think?

We know how tough teachers have it now.

After a puzzling series of marks and checks that many of us weren’t able to see, we crossed Coxwell and humped along Gerrard until a check at the ravine on the north side. Much of the pack balked. Of course the trail went through there, and it was all magical and dark and icy and scary, and the women (and Duals) had to huddle together for safety and take pictures of each other.

Emerging safe and sound back on Coxwell, we made our way back up to the Danforth, but instead of having a beer check at one of our usual haunts there, it was at a sad little bar we’ll call the Sad Little Bar On The Danforth. Moonman was already there waiting for us, having walked over because he was a big festering ball of infection. It was just us and the bartender and what appeared to be a friend of hers, instead of an actual paying customer. That made for personalized attention, at least. And after we’d been there for a while, Sheep Escort finally showed up at the SLBOTD, all by himself, after running as much of the trail as he could find. “I just kept circling the block”, he said. “But I thought I was going to find that Malaysian airliner after a while.”

He was down-downed for that, of course, as was Shampoo for returning (unmolested) Half Wit’s long, wide, big black… water bottle… that had “somehow” found its way into his backpack at the last TWAT. And finally Cum Fu Lay got a down down for sucking on her little green lollipop, which she’d been sucking on when we started at Rails & Ales. So kudos to her, if she can make a little green ball last so long. -- Shampoo

December, 2012
Hogtown Hash #1223
Monday, Dec 03, 2012
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Liquor Ass and Hurdle Her set trail for the first Monday night hash in December, at Castro's Lounge in the farther eastern reaches of Queen Street. Our first incident was when the bartender asked Aims Low if she could move over to the same table Liquor Ass and Shampoo were sitting at, since she hadn't ordered a beer. And Aims Low made fun of him (we all know what that's like) and he got all princessy with her. So this must be a new (Aims) low… four hashers in a bar, and we’ve pissed off the bar.

Besides that, Wet Pussy and Backdoor Buzz pretty much completed the small pack – though Duals surprised everybody by showing up on time. Our trail set off east along Queen Street, and turned inevitably in to the Glen Stewart ravine after a surprisingly complicated series of checks. Now this was covering the same territory as the Durham trail the previous Saturday, only this time in reverse and, of course, uphill, which makes it unrecognizable to the average hasher.

At Kingston Road, Shampoo decided to risk his neck dodging traffic to check out the Catholic school across the road (maybe hoping the field hockey team was having a late practice?) but the trail actually doubled back down Kingston and then south. We were on a street that would have led us back to the ravine but the trail turned west instead. This took us to another school, and the pack happily frolicked in the jungle gym out back, except for Wet Pussy getting stuck in the tube slide.

After a tour of the parking lot we emerged on Lee, and from there the trail went straight all the way to Woodbine. There was a very welcome SN at the corner, and a little bit of checking revealed trail leading into the cemetery at Woodbine and Kingston Road.

Very quiet, cemeteries. No snarky bartenders to deal with, but a lot of rows to look through and not many people to offer directions. A few minutes of searching led to where Hurdle Her had set up a line of tequila shots on a headstone on a hill with a nice view of the surrounding neighbourhood.

Liquor Ass and Hurdle Her set trail for the first Monday night hash in December, at Castro’s Lounge in the farther eastern reaches of Queen Street. Our first incident was when the bartender asked Aims Low if she could move over to the same table Liquor Ass and Shampoo were sitting at, since she hadn’t ordered a beer. And Aims Low made fun of him (we all know what that’s like) and he got all princessy with her. So this must be a new (Aims) low… four hashers in a bar, and we’ve pissed off the bar.