Half-Mind Weblog

Flying Booger's repository of dubious Hash House Harrier wisdom




© 2004-2019 Paul Woodford. All rights reserved.

The Half-Mind Weblog is a Gang of Six™ Production

A Visit from St. Gispert

’Twas the night before Hashmas, and all through the land,
Hashers were stirring, the trail would be grand;
Their hash bags were stuffed in the B-Van with care,
In hopes our Grand Master soon would be there.

The harriettes were wrapped all snug in their sweats,
Speaking, as usual, like they all had Tourette’s;
And the wife in her Spandex, and I in my tux,
Were up for a trail, no matter how fucked.

When from the next lot there arose such a clatter,
We ran for the fence to see what was the matter,
Over barbed wire we hopped in a flash,
Ripped our shorts as we did–what the hell, it’s a hash.

The full moon shone down on a ragged tent city,
Inhabited by homeless, on whom we took pity,
When what to our wondering eyes should be there,
But our Grand Master–and dressed as a hare!

With a great big beer belly, and a tankard of lager,
I feared the GM would soon lead us to slaughter;
More rapid than bad news his co-hares they came,
And he guzzled, and belched, and called them by name:

“Now Magic! now, ZiPpY! now, Papoose and The Wolf!
On, Wilma! on, Groper!, on Bus Job and Psycho!
Through the worst of the shiggy, through valley and dale,
Now, hare away, hare away, lay us a trail!”

As after long circles dry heaves we do retch,
The hares sprinted off with nary a stretch,
And into the woods with their flour they flew,
While we sang Father Abraham, and Wanking Day too.

And then of a sudden, headlights loomed in the dark,
The pack watched in silence as an old Yugo did park;
Then from this rust-bucket there sprang with a hail,
Our Religious Advisor–who we thought was in jail.

He was dressed in hash rags from his head to his crotch,
And his clothes were all stained with drool and scotch,
His mouth it hung open in a great gaping leer,
And all four of his chins did glisten with beer.

A well-worn hash whistle he held tight in his teeth,
And his BO encircled the pack like a wreath;
Our long-missing Hash Shit he did clutch in his hand,
He looked like a refugee from some war-torn land.

His eyes, how bloodshot! His nostrils, how hairy!
His cheeks were all stubbled, like Yassur’s, how very;
His nose was all runny and his stomach did sag,
The way it rolled over his shorts, even Vax Headroom did gag.

He was a homeless camp reject, a man of no status,
Tooth Fairy did laugh while Zippity passed flatus;
And the droop of his eye, and the point of his head,
Soon gave us to know we had reason to dread.

He said not a word, but went straight to the tap,
And filled up his mug, the free-loading sap;
Then putting his thumb up one side of his nose,
Blew a great wad of snot, which he wiped on his clothes.

He took off down the trail, leaving us stunned,
It was hard to believe such a fat fuck could run;
But we heard him exclaim as he faded from sight,
“Happy Hashmas, dear harriers, and to all a good night!”

- Flying Booger dedicates A Visit from St. Gispert to all departed hashers.

© 2016, Flying Booger. All rights reserved.

About Flying Booger  Hash House Harrier, man about town.


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