ANOTHER GREAT YEAR OF FAYETTEVILLE HASH -- April 1999 to March 2000.

# 15:  April 1999 -- "GOODNESS GRACIOUS, GREAT GOBS OF FLOUR"
Hares:  Mr. *%@#ing MC Monty Microphone, GloNuts, Licks My Meat
        Meeting at the Fayetteville High football field, everyone was
mysteriously instructed to wear a bandanna and carry a banana.  The trail
was well marked to say the least, with prodigious, mountainous blobs of
flour placed every few feet.  The trail could have been easily followed from
an airplane, and may well have been by travelling hashers flying over
Fayetteville.  After two malt-liquor checks, the on-in led to Rick's house,
where the cryptic purpose of the bananas was revealed:  just to see if we'd
actually do it.  Phil became Snak Pak by downing numerous jello shots in
quick succession.  The evening ended with an empty keg toss against the
neighbor's house.

#16:  May 1999 -- "THE CREEK IS AN ON-BACK.....GRASSHOPPER"
Hare:  Sugar
        After a trail briefing warning us of ticks and bears (oh my), eager
hashers plunged into the woods near Lake Wedington for a true wilderness
experience.   After experiencing a few false trails on the ridge, the pack
turned back in the direction whence they came.  As I paused at the beer
check, Sugar pulled me aside and said, in a solemn, mystical, zen-like
manner, "Paul.  The creek is an on-back."  I began to wonder whether he had
informed the others or if I had been singled out, but these thoughts were
quickly driven from my mind by simultaneous cramps in both hamstrings.  Upon
recovery, I was able to catch up with the pack enough to see Rick Hedge
felled by a log, only to spring back up immediately to earn the name
"Suddenly Erect."

#17:  Early June 1999 -- "LIVE HARE IN A CAR," or "FRICKE PANICS"
Hare:  Sucking Udder Fricke
        The hash was off to a bad start when early on Sunday, Fricke
realized he had forgotten to buy beer.  Valuable trail-laying time was
wasted in a trek to the Missouri border for Sunday beer.  With time running
short, the hare recruited his children to help him finish the trail.  This
resulted in a rather sizable gap in trail near the now-infamous Barn in JB
Hunt Park.  Confused hashers milled about this area for over 20 minutes
searching in vain for further marks until rescued by the hare.
Overcompensating, Fricke now decided to beef up the markings on the rest of
the trail, laying new marks from his car every few feet or so.  Soon the
pack could be seen in his rear-view mirror, ignoring the newly-placed marks
and simply following the car to the on-in.

#18:  Late June 1999 -- "THE BLUE DIAMOND"
Hares:  Janie Pulella with Stacey Jones
        Leis and grass skirts fashioned from garbage bags were provided to
the hounds as they gathered behind The Dome.  As the trail wound through the
woods of Gregory Park, it soon branched into a turkey, or "Green" trail and
an eagle, or "Black Diamond" trail.  Attempts to follow the Black Diamond
led to great confusion, with lost hounds scattered throughout a square-mile
area.  A sub-faction led by Dirk Bisbee kept inexplicably drifting down
toward the Gregg/North St. intersection, while Ricky and Shane gave up on
the marks completely and blasted due south, somehow stumbling upon the beer
check.  At the on-in the outraged and intoxicated hare futilely demanded we
go back out and complete the Black Diamond, which had by then been
inexplicably renamed the Blue Diamond.

#19:  July 1999 -- "SEARCH FOR THE CARETAKER"
Hare:  Silvershorts
        On one of the hottest days of the year, the FRB's stayed home and
the pack ran together as a group.  Following a pleasant, well-marked trail
through and around the UA campus until finally heading north, several
harriers began to sense strangely familiar surroundings.  Some hashers
experienced flashbacks from the previous year's White Trash Hash as we
passed dangerously near the haunts of the legendary Bloody Caretaker of
T-shirt fame.  The on-in was held at a pool virtually across the street from
the BC's pool, so hopes were high for a sighting.  Sadly, nary a trace of
the gentleman could be found, not even a bloodstain.  Attempts to contact
his spirit were unsuccessful.

#20:  August 1999 -- "WHITE TRASH MEETS GREEN SEWAGE"
Hare:  Dirk Bisbee with Wiggly Worm
        A disgustingly dressed bunch of yokels gathered behind Springdale's
AQ Chicken for the second annual White Trash Hash.  The trail wound through
fine neighborhoods befitting the hashers' attire before plunging underground
through a half-mile dank passageway full of mud, water, and a questionable
green substance.  Naturally the group halted in the heart of this muck for a
beer check.  Emerging on the other side of downtown, the trail terminated in
the trashiest yard yet, but only briefly, as the owner peevishly chased the
group away into Dirk's inappropriately tidy yard.

#21:  September 1999 -- "WELCOME TO THE OZARKS"
Hares:  Mr. *%@#ing MC Monty Microphone, GloNuts, Licks My Meat, Bob Lufkin
        About 30 hashers amassed at Devils Den State Park at midnight on a
late September Saturday to participate in the Hash Witch Project.  The
legend spoke of a mysterious entity causing the disappearance of several
innocent hashers through the years; the pack was determined to locate the
Witch itself or perish in the attempt.  Before long, the entire pack was
under the Witch's spell and foundering blindly in the wilderness, thanks to
the timely removal of several "False" markers by hikers unknowingly working
for the Witch.  The reggae proved more potent than the Witch's mojo, and the
on-in was soon located by sound.  However, the evil was just beginning, as
the beer and liquor flowed virtually until daylight with entertainment
provided by hare Ricky "Mr. #@$%ing MC Monty Mic" Williams.  The survivors
awoke the next morning shocked to find alcohol left and quickly worked to
rectify this unacceptable situation.

#22:  October 1999 -- "IT'S STICKY IN THE BUSH"
Hares:  Jon Bitler, A Little Puke
        The second annual Halloween Hash saw costumed revelers gathering at
the Holiday Inn Express and bullying whiny hotel guests into leaving.  The
trail was short yet exacted a sizable physical toll on the pack, as it led
through a rough creek bed, three tunnels, and some exceedingly thick briar
patches.  Hounds staggered into the on-in covered in beggar lice and blood
from the briars; Melissa Opela's tights were completely obscured by the
insidious, velcro-like seeds, earning her the name "Sticky Bush".  During
the requisite bonfire a seemingly random coal arced directly into Amy Mac's
cleavage; her sudden explosion of shrieking and writhing confused and
frightened the crowd until she expelled the errant ash, exposing herself to
the entire pack and becoming "Fire in the Cleft."  John Bailey closed the
festivities by burning a plastic lawnchair.

Date: Wed, 17 Nov 1999 13:45:52 -0600
Hashfest '99 Synopsis
For months, Fayetteville hashers had wondered what other hash experiences
were like.  The answer would be found at Hashfest '99 in Hot Springs
National Park.  On the Friday afternoon of November 12, 1999, four innocent
yet determined hashers set out for the resort to commune with one of the
oldest kennels in the country, Little Rock Hash.  Fortified with G-D Miller
beer and some G-D barbecue, Rick Hedge (Suddenly Erect), Paul Lowrey (A
Little Puke), Jon Bitler (no hash name), and Scott Letts (would get named
this weekend) rolled into the streets of the spa city abuzz with
anticipation.  Soon the foursome was downtown, surrounded by high-rise
buildings that soared above even the formidable hills of the park.  These
monoliths intimidated the four, who wondered what giants could have made
such marvels, and what men dared to tame them with hash.  None was more
imposing than their hotel, The fabled Arlington.

After checking in, the group split up to visit what would become their
favorite haunts of the weekend:  Jon, Rick, and Paul to the Hashpitality
Suite, and Scott to the bathroom.  In the Suite, Room 223, the trio met
Blowjob?, and Hopeless Road Trash, and Cocks Pit (or was it Cock Spit?), and
the notorious Watch'em Wiggle.  We had expected this to be a mainly LR event
and so were surprised to find hashers visiting from Tulsa, OK City, Wichita
Falls, Baton Rogue, Memphis - even Venezuela.  Our search for a liquor store
was abandoned as we found the bathtub filled with the cold cheap beer we've
come to expect from the hash.  His business temporarily finished, Scott soon
joined us in the suite.  In a meeting that would affect the rest of the
weekend, Scott was introduced to Watch'em Wiggle.

Jon, who occassionally mixes hashing with running, had to attend a runners'
banquet, so Scott, Rick, and Paul would begin Friday night's pub crawl
without him.  At 8 p.m. a crowd gathered on the Arlington steps to observe
the notorious hashers being coached through calisthenics by Blowjob?.  Here
we learned the proper days of the week for such activities as drinking,
wanking, and rooting.

At 8:05 the pack followed a flour trail into the woods behind Bathhouse Row,
only to emerge and cross Central Avenue to the first stop, the Ohio Club.
Here, every hasher was assigned a couplet to sing in the "Old Chicago" song.
All hashers delivered their lines wonderfully, except for Scott, who was
inexplicably unable to get his sperm out.  After a beer it was on-out and
on-on to the next club whose name I don't recall but had a band playing
Skynyrd, which was reason enough to stay.  Here Watch'em Wiggle clutched
onto Scott at the first slow-dance opportunity, specifically the
(non-Skynyrd) song, "When a Man Loves a Woman."

The smoldering romance was temporarily derailed as the pack moved down the
street and into the tiny Maxine's.  A funky coffehouse with no fire code,
Maxine's was our favorite of the weekend.  A mysterious entity known only as
"The Dude" stood silent guard over a trivia game which was soon discovered
by Paul.  A feeding frenzy of coins ensued and Paul quickly found himself in
the lightning round.  The Dude, who appeared female to the casual observer
but was rumored to actually be male, seemed stoic at first, but was soon
caught up in the excitement of the speed round.  Or was it Paul's charms and
trivial expertise that had melted this sentinel's icy facade?  Regardless,
The Dude had suddenly transmogrified, offering assistance and shouting
encouragement, trivia gods be damned, until being stomped back into angry
silence by the unprovoked but well-placed boot of Watch'em Wiggle.

The pub crawl now took a cruel turn as it started to resemble a running
hash, arcing out into unfamiliar territory and away from the comforting neon
beer signs.  With bellies full of sloshing and foaming beer, several hashers
began to feel that familiar urge to retch - most likely A Little Puke would
live up to his name.  Just when regurgitation appeared imminent, the fourth
stop, a Mexican restaurant, loomed.  Salvation from spewing had the pack in
high spirits as they roared out the "Yogi Bear" song.  Jon, fresh from his
banquet, had followed our path of destruction and finally caught up here.
However, he was unable to locate the restaurant entrance and could only peer
waiflike at the jolly crew through the window.

After learning the names of more bears than they knew existed, the reunited
foursome accompanied the pack in the trek to the fifth stop, an unnamed
dance club.  The courtship of Scott, now known as Wiggly Worm,  continued
and most hashers hit the dance floor to mingle with the dentally-deficient
local talent.  Several hashers found true love for the next several minutes
but others were not so lucky; OKC's Tooth Fairy was rejected by one of the
club's larger denizens.  Thankfully, solace was found in the arms of a
prepubescent female who disturbingly resembled a toothless Troy Aikman.
Alas, the moment was bittersweet as the hashers soon had to abandon their
new companions for the Three Monkeys Bar.

At Three Monkeys, the hashers were funneled immediately to the back room so
as not to frighten the dinner crowd.  Most didn't seem to mind, as the beer
was free.  However, the curious hounds could not resist the lure of the
Forbidden Room, where a band was playing.  Tooth Fairy had soon rallied the
troops to seize the room, to the chagrin of many.  The dancing and conga
lines continued for what seemed like hours, with occassional forays back
into the techno-heavy back room for Eurotrash dancing. Wiggly Worm Scott
amazed all who would listen with his impressive knowledge of the "Bust a
Move" lyrics.  In what probably seemed like a good idea at the time,
Watch'em Wiggle unsuccessfully attempted to mount the stage and join the
band, only to be spit violently back onto the unforgiving concrete -- she
spent the rest of the weekend in a wheelchair nursing her injuries.

All things must pass, and the exhausted pack eventually found themselves
staggering back on-in towards the Arlington, except for Rick, who had
apparently overindulged and was headed straight for the Rehabilitation
Center.  No more sober were the two crack geologists, Scott and Paul,
arguing over the origin of a rock outcrop that turned out to be fake.  The
trail finally ended at the hotel's Hef-sized hot tub after a detour to
dogpile Jon, who had left Three Monkeys early and retired to bed.
Unfortunately, crtical naked mass could not be achieved in the hot tub, and
the remaining hashers sulked off to bed to drown their sorrows in a Baby
Ruth.

Much of the next day was spent nursing old hangovers and cultivating new
ones.  Nobody was worse off than Rick, who was essentially nonfunctional.
Scott spent a lot of time in the bathroom.  As soon as the goal posts were
torn down at Razorback Stadium, all hashers gathered again on the Arlington
steps, this time in their finest red dresses.  Several chose to accessorize
with hats, boas, and garters, though no hat was prettier than  Paul's.
After more calisthenics the pack was off again to shock and disgust the
tourists and townspeople on Hashfest's 2nd Annual Red Dress Run.

To honks and cheers a red serpent of humanity angled through city streets
packed with gawkers amazed at the collective poor taste.  In a quieter part
of town, the live hares had a moment of panicky hesitation, which was enough
to allow them to be caught by Jon, who apparently had not run hard enough
that morning.  The pack regrouped to the strains of "Bestiality's Best"
while waiting for the hares to lay more trail.  In a mix-up that could have
easily become much nastier, an unidentified hasher mistook Jon for a hare
and berated him for not laying the trail through the busy center of town.
Fortunately, when corrected, she sheepishly disappeared into the pack and
was never seen again.

Her message must have gotten through to the hares, though, because the trail
now looped back to Central Avenue, sending red-clad hounds through the
cheering, picture-taking masses.  The flour led straight to none other than
Maxine's, again, for free hash beer.  The revenge-minded Dude was nowhere to
be seen.  Discontent in the pack ranks boiled over into a hare coup d'etat,
with Tooth Fairy and Guido seizing the flour bags and finishing the trail.
With the pack divided into warring factions, the hash quickly disintegrated.
Some chose to simply trot directly back to the Arlington, while others
halfheartedly attempted to finish the hash on the new trail.  The especially
lame changed out of their dresses.  A group of ten or so, including your
heroic Fayetteville hashers, was able to follow the new trail for a while
but lost it when it crossed the previous night's markings.  The prodigal
group was touched to find the once-hostile blocs reunited on the hotel steps
awaiting their return.

Down-downs were administered at the hot tub to the original hares, the
usurping hares, and all visiting hashers.  Anyone left out was assigned
down-downs on principal.  The singing apparently frightened the other hotel
guests and security was summoned for the second time in the weekend.
Threats to "shut this place down in 15 minutes" proved  ineffective, and the
party continued until everyone was thoroughly sloshed and ready to continue
the debauchery at dinner.  Rumors of a post-supper return to the Three
Monkeys bar by several hardcores could not be substantiated by any
Fayetteville Hashers, who all retired relatively early.

Sunday morning saw an alarming drop in blood-alcohol levels, so a mimosa
party in the hashpitality suite was in order.  With fortification deemed
sufficient, the hangover hash began, much to the surprise of Fayetteville H3
who had never experienced this phenomenon.  The truly hung over (including a
hare) opted out, only to pay with multiple down-downs.  This pleasant,
low-key ramble up and down the trails of East Mountain (the one with the
tower) ended at -surprise-- the hot tub, with an unexpected cameo
appearrance by Fayetteville's own Mr. #%@#$& MC Monty Microphone, decidedly
more subdued than in his previous performance.

Multiple down-downs and songs failed to provoke security for the third
strike.  As the group dwindled, Rick, Jon, Scott, and Paul stayed to try to
finish the last of the beer, but one can only ingest so much Red Dog in a
weekend.  We departed the Arlington with the hash's blessing and some road
beers.  On the trip home through the mountains, each hasher was alone with
his thoughts.  Scott, sporting his new hash name of "Wiggly Worm", pondered
his numerous close calls with Watch'em Wiggle.  Jon wondered why nobody
would drink with him.  Paul worried about where The Dude might turn up next.
And Rick silently cursed the others for making him drive the van.  On-on!

#23:  November 1999 -- "ON-ON...AND ON...AND ON...AND ON..."
Hares:  Dog Dish, Wild Ride
        Down the Lake Lucille spillway and through endless miles of woods on
the slopes above College Ave., a beer check finally appeared.  At this point
Dog Dish dared the true hashers to continue further; others could slink back
to their cars.  Thus challenged, the pack forged ahead into the unknown and
further away from the on-in.  Periodically Dog Dish would appear with an
enormous log in his truck; the thought of the conflagration this totem might
produce was the only thing that kept the pack laboring through mile after
endless mile of hash.  With darkness looming and hashers still wandering
antlike along the western slopes of Mt. Sequoia, the hares finally sent out
rescue wagons and the pack gathered to watch the huge hollow log sing and
burn.

#24:  December 1999 -- "BEER NOT VERY NEAR" or "BUTTOCKS HIDES THE KEYS"
Hares:  Buttocks, X-Rated
        Snow was forecast, but as a few hardy souls showed up at the
Bentonville Marriott, the skies were clearing.  While the turkeys soared,
the eagles were stuck in impenetrable briar patches.  The two groups
reunited at the beer check to find that Buttocks had locked his keys in his
car.  As he began the lonely trek home for the spare car, the pack began the
second half of the run.  The grumbling pack, disheartened by the realization
that this was another marathon hash, cheered up considerably at the
appearance of "beer near" signs.  Unfortunately the signs proved untrue, as
the beer was still locked in the car at the first beer check.  Eventually
the hare caught up to the pack in his car and enforced a mandatory beer
check in the NWACC parking lot.  The trail finally ended at Buttocks' home
as freezing hashers warmed themselves with hash Christmas carols in the hot
tub.

#25:  January 2000 -- "FORE....ON-OW!"
Hares:  Rear Winda, Cantaloupe
        Instructed to appear in golf attire, the puzzled pack gathered near
deserted Drake Field for Fayetteville's 25th hash; a few showed the Full
Seve with spikes and golf bags.  The reason for the links motif quickly
became apparent as the hashers found themselves parading through the
Fayetteville Country Club golf course atop South Mountain.  Initially
curious and tolerant, the Club members rapidly tired of the pack's antics
and shouting; by the time the 30th or 40th hasher ran past, angry duffers
were hurling insults and threateningly brandishing their wedges and putters.
Luckily an arboreal beer check provided the hunted pack shelter from the
golfers' wrath.  At the on-in, Bill Lufkin offered german shepherd Lucy the
first taste of his burger to earn the moniker "Licks My Meat."

#26:  February 2000 -- "A TACKY SEA OF RED"
Hares:  Stacey Jones, Wendy Magness
        Visiting hashers from Texas, Missouri, and Mississippi as well as
Little Rock converged on Fayetteville for our 2nd annual Red Dress Hash.
The festivities began on Friday night with a pub crawl through no fewer than
six downtown taverns.  On Saturday 50+ red-dress-clad hashers spent the
first half of the run hopelessly lost but recovered nicely after the beer
check calisthenics.  The on-in continued for hours and eventually spilled
over to Sticky Bush's house, and later on to the emergency room at
Washington Regional, where all good parties eventually wrap up.

Date: Thu, 17 Feb 2000 09:58:14 -0600
Hash Trash - Red Dress 2000
The Fayetteville Hash community had been abuzz for weeks with excitement
over the impending Red Dress weekend.  Murmurs of, "What should I wear?"
"Where will we go?" "Who will be there?" "What is a pub crawl?"  were heard
repeatedly in hushed, almost reverent tones, like children talking of Santa
Claus.  Finally the weekend arrived, and on Friday, February 11, hashers
from everywhere gathered at Sugar Gottschalk's house in anticipation of
Fayetteville's first pub crawl.

I arrived at 8:05 p.m. to find a house full of thirsty runners gathered
around a cold keg of Heineken, the air thick with anticipation.  Surely the
crawl must begin soon!  Alas, there was no flour as the hares, Sugar and Jon
Bitler, had completely shirked their hare responsibilities.  Quick thinking
resulted in a call to the dependable John Gulley (Puddle Slut), who assured
he would be over soon with flour aplenty.  To the amazement of all, he never
appeared, and the first leg of the crawl to Powerhouse Seafood proceeded
with no marking whatsoever.

Fortunately, dollar drafts awaited at the back bar as well as Stacey Jones
with a full bag of flour.  Wanker bar patrons gawked in horror as the pack
roared out the "Yogi Bear" song in its entirety for the first of
approximately sixteen times that weekend.  Thus refreshed, the group set off
for Dickson St., where the aroma of smoked meats and the flour trail led
them straight to Corky's (a false trail led to Ozark Brewing where I
recruited Chappy but was rebuffed by Sticky Bush and friends).  Puddle Slut
was inexplicably waiting, flourless, at Corky's, and happily did a down-down
for his "efforts".

On-on it was to Tables and Ale for $1 Shiner and an attempt at the "Old
Chicago" song, which quickly petered out because it wasn't "Yogi".   By the
time the pack reached the next stop, US Pizza, it was ready for something
different.  In the basement, a band was entertaining a few peaceful diners,
who quickly scattered like frightened rats to the exits when they saw the
crazed hashers.  The cavernous room practically cried out for an impromptu
40-foot conga line, which soon materialized.  The band loved us but the
bartenders didn't, so we departed for our final stop.

The Hoffbrau was packed, but not too crowded for singing, so another
rendition of "Yogi" could soon be heard echoing off of the big plastic
marlin.  The exhausted pack began to dwindle, and many decided to eat, or at
least stare catatonically at, food at Hog City.  Eventually I followed the
Little Rock crowd to Sugar's for more Heineken.  Just when the night
appeared spent, at 2:30 a.m. Holzum from Flopsum, who's not from Flopsum at
all but from Oxford via Guam, and Tite Boxx, from San Antonio via Tulsa,
arrived to prolong the festivities.  Silvershorts and Rear Winda arrived
shortly thereafter recruit me for a Denny's run, delivering me from the
impending carnage at Sugar's.  Unable to focus on items as advanced as
"words", we ordered by grunting and pointing at the menu's prettiest
offerings which, to the best of my recollection, we then ate.  By 4 a.m. I
was snuggled into the only floor space available at Sugar's:  feet in the
living room, torso in the hall, and head in the bathroom.

At 3 p.m. Saturday over fifty ridiculously dressed hashers gathered at
Eureka Pizza on Mission Blvd.  A sea of red dresses washed over Fairview
Memorial Gardens, alarming the geese and surely startling the dead.  After a
false jaunt through the cemetery, the pack spent the first half of the run
hopelessly off-trail on the northwest slopes of Mt. Sequoia.  Curious
residents peered tentatively from behind curtains and cracked doorways; the
bolder populace came right out to the streets to cheer, gape, and point.
Several got second and third chances to view the spectacle as repeated
forays to find nonexistent trail markers proved fruitless, forcing the pack
to backtrack yet again.  Sugar mistook 3-month old toilet paper for a mark
and led us all down yet another maddening dead end.  Finally the worried
hares led the inept pack to the correct marks, which soon led to a beer
check.

After refreshments and a song, which was surprisingly not "Yogi", the pack
followed marks downhill to the northeast and almost immediately became lost
again.  A few SCB's finally located a segment of the trail on Mission, and
the pageant was on with honks, jeers, and wolf whistles from passing
motorists.  Surprisingly, no wrecks were reported as the trail led directly
to one of the busiest intersections in town at Crossover Road.  Several
unsuspecting citizens out for a quiet day of grocery shopping got a shock as
the trail led straight into Harp's Grocery, where the hares handed out
goodies for the on-in.  This development did not sit well with several
shoppers: one upset elderly lady was overheard telling Hung Like a Fish,
"You can't do this!" but he fled before the authorities could eject him.

On-on, through the neighborhoods and woods east of Harp's the trail wound,
to finally end at the home of Andy, Heather, and Tamas Coleman, the last of
whom had just completed his second hash in a stroller.  For almost an hour,
red-dressed hashers trickled in to the on-in, but a few never made it.
Watch'em Wiggle drove her car for the first half of the run and still was
unable to finish; she and Cock Pit had reportedly bailed and were already on
the road back to Little Rock nursing a thermos of bloody Mary's.

Virgins, visiting hashers, and hares all did down-downs, after which new
names were bestowed to Chrissy (Skid Mark), Wendy (Deep Throat), Shane
(GloNuts), and LR's Mary (Lost Pussy), who skipped a tattoo appointment to
hash.  The best dress contest resembled Sunday night at Ron's, as men in
sequins, garters, boas, wigs, and falsies paraded their goods for the
hooting rabble.  Wiggly Worm (Scott Letts) was an early favorite, but he
narrowly lost out to Alfredo Gonzalez, who simply had a larger, better rack.
Festivities continued into the evening with wig tradings, pantsings, more
singing (including the inevitable "Yogi"), and yet another naming (Lufkin is
now Licks My Meat).

As this party was winding down another was beginning, and quite a few
hashers eventually found themselves at Sticky Bush's house for her birthday
party.  More singing ensued, with Holzum from Flopsum attempting to teach
Fayetteville a song other than you-know-what.  The revelry continued
unabated, complete with shameless living-room mugging, until the keg lines
became too long.  The remaining hashers finally began to disperse, some to
Chester's, some to JR's, and others to the ER to patch up Hopeless Road
Trash (rhymes with Road Rash), who had executed a direct face plant into a
rock wall while leaving Sticky Bush's.

After being deposited at Washington Regional, the waiting began.  One hour.
Two hours.  Three hours, and still no treatment.  Road Trash (Jerry
Southerland) was scheduled to lay trail at 3 p.m. the next day in Little
Rock -- would he still be in the ER?  Sometime after 4 a.m. the
reconstructive surgery began and a large flap of skin the approximate shape
and size of Ohio was reattached to Jerry's forehead.  Attempts by Sugar to
bribe the attending physician to also stitch his eye shut were unsuccessful.
Sugar and HRT finally got home to Duncan St. to find Huggy Bear occupying
the entire hide-a-bed.  Thus at 5:30 a.m., Sugar, the last hasher standing,
settled down to sleep in the only remaining floor space:  a narrow wedge
through the living room, hall, and bathroom.  Dreams of the next hash surely
followed.

On-on!

#27:  Early March 2000 -- "IS THAT ALL THERE IS?"
Hare:  Sucking Udder Fricke
        "Kill Caesar" was the theme as the Ides of March approached.  Most
hashers donned togas, while others made do with shower curtains.  The course
was uneventful, owing to its ridiculously short length of less than a mile,
ending within plain sight of the initial gathering.  As penance, Fricke did
his down-down in a swimming pool half-filled with unidentified but decidedly
vile substances.  He will soon be renamed.

#28:  Late March 2000 -- "NUPTIALS BE DAMNED"
Hares:  Fire in the Cleft, A Little Puke
        A beautiful spring day saw thousands of people descend upon Eureka
Springs; only 25 or so were hashers.  After a beer check downtown, the trail
wound up, up, utilizing every possible staircase to the Crescent Hotel at
the summit.  Outside the Crescent, a startled wedding party was astonished
to see their ceremony interrupted by brazen, raucous hashers plowing
directly "ON-THROUGH" their makeshift aisle.  Returning downtown, the pack
threaded its way through literally hundreds of gawking tourists and up and
down more stairs. Details of the on-in, the on-after, the on-after-after,
and the on-after-after-after remain hazy, but apparently included several
taverns, a hot tub, more stairs, a bowling pin, OE Malt Liquor 40's, a Magic
8-Ball, a mermaid, and the World's Biggest Biscuit.

Date: Thu, 12 Oct 2000 11:51:42 -0500
BEWARE THE DUTCHMAN'S ADVICE
        "I don't recommend the Eagle trail."  This ominous example of bad
Dutch advice, a warning to some but a challenge to others, still resonated
as a gaily-clad pack began last Sunday's Holland Hash.  Five minutes and a
frightening freeway crossing later, the Eagles relaxed at the first beer
check within shouting distance of the start, while the Turkeys straggled in
from the Netherlands nearly 15 minutes later.
        Taunting the authorities by brazenly jogging through Steele
Crossing, probably the least trespass-friendly area anywhere, the harriers
admired the perfectly rendered flour windmills serving as checks, while
puzzling at their origins.  The eager hounds loped northward past several
more of these mill-checks, dodging traffic through the consumer Hell of
downtown Northwest Arkansas and straight into the NWA Mall.  With no clear
trail marked, the choice was obvious:  "Through the food court!"  Casual
Sunday shoppers were clearly stunned by the spectacle, while others feared
for their safety, shielding their loved ones and food from the big St. Pauli
Girl and the little white dog.
        After a second beer check and the weakest "Yogi" rendition to date,
Senator Diggler resumed his position at the pack's head and led the hounds
up Joyce, Old Missouri, and Stubblefield to an on-in several miles later.  A
lighter-fluid conflagration provided by Sean "Burns When I Pee" Slape kept
hypothermia at bay.  The exhausted hashers scarcely were able to catch a
breath and a burger before squaring off into Dutch Style Beer Relay teams.
        Dressed in the leonine garb of a crazed Dutch soccer hooligan,
hare/emcee Tom drained his glass to signal the first heat, which resulted in
Team 1 soundly thrashing Team 2.  The dominant Team 1 was never threatened,
routinely dispatching Team 5 and, with full sudsy bellies, the 3 vs. 4
winner.  The triumphant 1's then erupted in a celebratory orgy of
chest-thumping, cup-spiking, and power-mooning, culminating with one team
member symbolically wiping his posterior with the cardboard windmill-check
template.
        With the keg and lighter fluid depleted, the chilled hashers
retreated inside to unleash Milwaukee's Beast.  After numerous juggling
exhibitions and breast exchanges, the only thing left was to measure
everyone's body parts.  Fortunately a tape measure was located and several
appendages and extremities, including calves, waists, and of course breasts,
were subjected to the tale of the tape.  Results were surprising and remain
confidential, but one source claims that A Little Puke finished as "puniest"
in every category except for the 22-inch waist sported by the chick in the
leopard-print teddy.  On-on, ALP

Date:  Wed, 14 Feb 2001 11:03:25 -0600
Red Dress 2001
     Some missed it altogether, some were there and can't remember, and a
few aren't sure if they were there or not -- Red Dress 2001.  Eager hashers
gathered at Sugar's Hostility Suite on Friday night to tap the traditional
Heineken keg and drink their way through Fayetteville's finest dives.  Old
man winter had returned with a stiff northwest wind and blew Mr. %$@&ing
Microphone into the suite with 400 or so green and orange jello shots to
begin the pub crawl fittingly.   The crawl was largely uneventful until
reaching the obscure Radar club, where the dormant pack suddenly exploded in
ugly dance frenzy.
     A few never left the dance club, while others vowed to return later
in the evening.  Rodney, flush with jiggy Radaric excitement, attempted
irresponsible "fancy running" en route to the next stop; his butt-plant into
a stationary jeep earned him the moniker Up the Ass.  Eventually the pack
descended upon the Hoffbrau and dominated the bar with festive drink and
song, the latter of which was poorly received by a few irritable bar
patrons.  One of these, clad in an especially stiff shirt, was even
overheard grumbling petulantly, "I don't like the singing."  Several hashers
attempted to calm the overstarched and confrontational whiner, only to have
their efforts repeatedly thwarted by the white-faced Mr. &#$%ing Microphone,
who at some point had received a dose of flour in the chops from an angry
hare.  Midnight's last call prevented escalation, and many hashers homed
back in on Radar, while at least half the pack made the inevitable Denny's
run.
     3 p.m. Saturday saw 400 or so red-clad hashers assemble behind
Jose's.  After calisthenics the pack followed glitter-laced flour up Mt.
Nord and down into Wilson Park, where it found itself in a familiar
position:  off trail and following Senator Diggler, who was following
nothing.  Darting pinball-like through the park, the Senator was finally
overtaken and true trail was located, which led to Brewski's for a beer
check.  As Blowjob? directed traffic on Dickson St. the pack left the bar
and proceeded south for yet another pass by the ever-popular Radar and
behind the City Hospital, just in case anyone (Jerry) might attempt
additional, reckless "fancy running."
     A double-back onto an abandoned RR grade regrouped the pack on-in to
George's Majestic Lounge.  Down-downs were administered to deserving and
undeserving parties alike, and contestants paraded across the stage for the
best dress contest.  Five finalists were selected to perform, Motley Crue
style, with a stage pole:  White Trash, Heath, Auke, G Spot, and Bella.
Despite valiant frontal nudity from Heath, the finals came down to the Dog
and the Dutchman.  Crowd response awarded a narrow victory and $400 or so
from Condom Sense to Bella, who will reportedly use the winnings to purchase
a "vibrating bone," whatever that may be.  Undaunted, the acrobatic Auke
remained onstage posing, exposing, and swinging from the rafters to become
Dutch my Monkey.  Hare Stacey, who has laid all three of FH3's red dress
trails without a hash name, finally was dubbed Dick Whipped.  A few diehards
returned to George's later in the evening, which for once ended free of
blood or the need for emergency services.  On-on!