I still wasn’t feeling quite myself as I stumbled through the front door of Joe Mercury’s. Even though I had already been in the post-InterAm detox program for two straight days, I was fairly certain that pure Lawnmower Beer was still coursing through my veins instead of blood. And then there were my legs… Between the fire ants and the poison ivy, they were a red and pussy mess. Someone at work had noticed the swelling on one of my ankles and asked what tattoo I had surgically removed. My reply? "That ain’t no tattoo scar! That’s the bite of a big-ass fire ant who got royally pissed off at the Rugby Fields from Hell when I wouldn’t give him a piece of my chicken-fried steak!" I thought back to the InterAm pamphlet and the prophetic words it contained: "…Or we’ll kick your ass!" Bite my ass is more like it!! And who could forget the farewell on the last page: "Ya Cum Back Now, Ya Hear!" We will consider coming back if y’all ever bring about the complete and total annihilation of the man-eating insects that inhabit your accursed State (y’all conveniently failed to mention them in the "shiggy" section of your incredibly informative brochure). Ok, I’ll stop bitching now. I’ll stop bitching right after I say one more thing! F*CK L3!!! ¹

To my relief, I found that Rose Eh!, Mrs. Robinson and Sex Toy weren’t doing much better.

Mrs. Robinson looked every bit the Poison Ivy poster-girl, while Sex Toy was complaining that she still felt completely dehydrated (although she claimed that no alcohol had touched her lips since Monday). Rose Eh!, on the other hand, was giving the rest of the pack her critique of the IAH2001 weekend while proudly displaying an oozing sore on her ankle that looked more like the first signs of flesh eating disease than an ant bite.

As I stared out the window of the Joe Mercury’s, I noticed a familiar figure standing on the sidewalk. It was Bumbeads. The hares were obviously concerned that the pack might have difficulty finding the bar and had apparently posted Bumbeads as a sentry on the corner of Bloor and Dundas to steer lost half-minds in the right direction. To keep their sentry content, the hares had also purchased some treats from the nearby McDonalds. While this high cuisine certainly appeared to keep Bumbeads happy (as evidenced by his enthusiastic scarfing), it completely defeated the purpose of his presence as he was so involved in eating the McLips and Asses that a number of harriers walked right by without getting so much as a nod.

We soon circled up and were on our way. The trail took us through the city and into High Park. Here, with thoughts of poison ivy still fresh in my mind, I experienced a brief but intense panic attack when I spotted something on the ground that was green and had three leaves. Fortunately, another member of the pack ran up beside me and pointed out that I was standing in the middle of a small patch of clover.

At the Beer Check, F.L.A.B. gave a free lecture on the intricacies of her new flour laying technique. F.L.A.B. revealed that she had managed to single-handedly revolutionize the hashing industry (although no other kennels were aware of this yet) by covering a tennis ball with flour and making marks by bouncing the ball off the ground. Apparently her countless years of studying the round shape of the Moon, the circular orbit it followed and that funny thing that smart people call "gravity" had made her an expert in bouncing various types of spherical objects up and down. Many Hogtown harriers believed a genius mind was behind this invention. I, however (being only half as stupid as I look), wasn’t as easily fooled. I knew that pure laziness had been the motivating factor for this hare, who obviously wasn’t willing to bend over for anyone. Not even her own pack.

As I walked back to Joe Mercury’s, I listed with great pleasure to the story of how Shadow had managed to lose the anchor to Trix R 4 Prix and Kazoo’s boat while they were in Austin. Shadow had learned a valuable lesson that he would no doubt carry with him for the rest of his life: Boat anchors work better when you actually tied them to the boat. Although I had already heard this same story seven times, it still hadn’t lost its appeal!

Back at the On In, the pack was happy to discover that the newly hitched Bottom Scrawler had decided to join us for dinner. Sadly, it appeared he had already lost his wife (who was nowhere in sight).

Moonman (substituting for BirdBrian) doled out down downs to the following imbeciles:

F.L.A.B. and Moonman – for being the hares
Just Liz – for being a virgin
Bottom Scrawler – for getting married
Sex Toy, Rose Eh!, Mrs. Robinson and H2Ho – for going to Austin and coming back with a nasty rash
New Shoez – for not being capable of properly baring his ass
Sex Toy and Shampoo – for FRBing
Bumbeads – for eating McDonalds before the run and for puking after New Shoez run

On On
H2Ho

p.s. F*CK L3!!! ¹

¹ L3 – "Long 3" (naming convention for IAH2001 trails). Otherwise known as The Death March and unanimously voted as the worst trail of IAH2001. Considered by many "survivors" to be the worst trail ever laid in the history of hashing. I couldn’t lay a trail this bad if I got a lobotomy, blindfolded myself and walked out into the middle of a freeway during rush hour with a bag of flour and a stick of chalk in my hand.