Night of the living . . . yuck!

These are just a few from a quick edit that seemed to work as photos. The real blackmail material comes in a couple days . . . .

From the archives: Men in bras

Sadao Hash gets the take-it-off-put-it-on thing tragically wrong . . . .

Sadao bites the dust

Well, it's happened. Those heartless bastards at Yahoo have pulled the plug on Geocities, and the once glorious, award-winning* Sadao H3 website has gone down the drain with it. Hopefully Rotten & co. will launch a new and even better site. In the meantime we'll try to revisit a few Sadao Hash highlights here over the next couple weeks.

*For those too young and innocent to remember, Sadao H3 won the "Cool Hash Website of the Month" in November 2004, an actual international award. Though it was really more a testament to Conebrain's blarney than the site itself. He somehow convinced the judges that we were running through minefields, Muslim insurgency, hordes of cobras, etc. Well . . . weren't we?

Night of the Living Dead

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Vengeance is Mine!!

Well, the green-haired man delivered on his promise. Six+ hours of trail-laying, two hours of running it, one search and rescue mission, and somehow no tragedies, though not for lack of trying.

A technical analysis of the run will have to await someone who knows WTF we were (Egghead, that means you!). But let's mention the day's main achievement, apart from survival: naming Rudi, Mamy Poko's boy toy. We had two proposals, Rudi the Red-Nosed Rooter and Poko Porker. Try as we might, repeated votes kept coming out dead even. I can't ever recall this happening before. So the only choice was to combine the two. He's now Rudi the Red-Nosed Poko Porker, a name which he can proudly wear for the rest of his days. All proving that while individually we may have the intellect of Beavis and Butthead, together we have the wisdom of Solomon.

Revenge? Moi?

When asked if he had any comment about tomorrow's run, Yardo had this to say:














NO!

B there B4 4!

Here's how to make sure you're part of our run on Saturday rather than being left behind and becoming a sad, lonely beer truck guardian. (Of course that's not to say that all BTGs are sad and lonely. Some of them are drunk, fat, and happy.)

The trick is: simply leave for the hash exactly 30 minutes earlier than you normally do. (Gan Yao, 31 minutes for you.) Do this from now on till we tell you otherwise, around February. But especially do it this Saturday, because hare Yardo is out for revenge and would love nothing more than to strand some hapless hashers up there on the mountaintop in the dark. So we're circle-izing at exactly 4:00:00. And that's as determined by Knackerwurst, who is not a man to be trifled with, time-wise. On-on . . . on-time!

This week’s good news!

SH3 Run# 1480: Saturday 24th October 2009: 4:00 p.m.

Yes, you read it right 4:00 p.m. That is the minute after 3:59 p.m. and the one before 4:01 p.m. which coincidentally is precisely 29 minutes in advance of the time that last week’s run started and by an even stranger coincidence, is precisely the same time as we started the equivalent run last year.
To continue:

Hares: Yardstick…
Misdirections, and I quote, “From Ko Yor intersection go 4.7km & turn left. Go 10.3km and turn left again. Along the cement / dirt road for 2.2km and runsite in the rubber”
Oh and don’t forget, the run starts at 4:00 p.m., 1600 hours, 4 o’clock, 4-in-the-afternoon, four zero zero, no minutes past four, nought before four; you get the picture?

Sundays HH3 run…. Has been cancelled as Buk Toy, Sex Sprinter and Palm job as well as others of a Thai persuasion are heading off to red-shirt land for a bit of R’n R. But Union Hash are running at 4:00 p.m. (The same time as SH3 the previous day – wow! There’s a coincidence for you!) form the sala on the right about 5½ k down Poonakan road from Wat Keow Kloy (From the Ko Yo intersection go 4.7k and turn left then go 8k and turn right). Please come along and show some goodwill towards our errant grand-daughter who are currently GM-less, the incumbent having resigned last week so that he could “call his time his own” again. Pheu!

And don’t forget that next week’s SH3 run is the birthday ‘Night of the Living Dead’ bash and details of the run site will be released at this weekend’s SH3 run. You can also register at this week’s birthday run (which starts at 4:00 p.m., don’t forget) for 150 Baht or 300 Baht for guests etc. with kids at a very reasonable 100 Baht.

Finally advance notice that there will be a joint SH3 – KL Full Moon Hash weekend on the last weekend of November (27th – 29th) with a beerie sort of run on Friday with food after, which may or may not double as the next-but-one Full Moon run, plus our regular run on Saturday and a pay-as-you-go On! On! after if you’re into that sort of thing. More details as they’re worked out. Anyone got any ideas about where to arrange a good nosh for them on Saturday night, and even more to the point anyone willing to help out and organize it? Pheu!
On! On!

Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Colorado

Below is the result of a writing assignment given by an English professor from the University of Colorado. A “tandem story” was to be written by two students, one male, one female. The story was to be compiled in alternating paragraphs via email, with CC’s to the professor. There was to be no communication between the writers aside from each successive email. The story would end when both participants agreed a successful conclusion had been achieved.

THE STORY:

(first paragraph by Rebecca)
At first, Laurie couldn't decide which kind of tea she wanted. The chamomile, which used to be her favorite for lazy evenings at home, now reminded her too much of Carl, who once said, in happier times, that he liked chamomile. But she felt she must now, at all costs, keep her mind off Carl. His possessiveness was suffocating, and if she thought about him too much her asthma started acting up again. So chamomile was out of the question.

(second paragraph by Gerry)
Meanwhile, Advance Sergeant Carl Harris, leader of the attack squadron now in orbit over Skylon 4, had more important things to think about than the neuroses of an air-headed asthmatic, tea-drenched bimbo named Laurie with whom he had spent one sweaty night over a year ago. "A.S. Harris to GeoStation 17," he said into his transgalactic communicator. "Polar orbit established. No sign of resistance so far..." But before he could sign off a bluish particle beam flashed out of nowhere and blasted a hole through his ship's cargo bay. The jolt from the direct hit sent him flying out of his seat and across the cockpit.

(Rebecca)
He died almost immediately. But not before he felt one last pang of regret for psychically brutalizing the one woman who ever had feelings for him. Soon afterward, Earth stopped pointless hostilities toward the peaceful farmers of Skylon 4. "Congress Passes Law Permanently Abolishing War and Space Travel," Laurie read online one morning. The news simultaneously excited and bored her. She stared out the window, dreaming of her youth, when the days had passed unhurriedly and carefree, with no cell phones, no Internet to distract her from her sense of innocent wonder at the beauty around her. "Why must one lose one's innocence to become a woman?" she pondered wistfully.

(Gerry)
Little did she know she had less than 10 seconds to live. The wimpy peaceniks who’d pushed the Unilateral Aerospace Disarmament Treaty through Congress had left Earth a defenseless target for hostile empires determined to destroy the human race. Just hours after the passage of the treaty, alien ships were on course for Earth with enough firepower to pulverize the entire planet. Their lithium fusion missiles entered the atmosphere unimpeded. The President, in his top-secret mobile submarine headquarters on the ocean floor off the coast of Guam, was rocked by the inconceivably massive explosion which vaporized poor, stupid Laurie.

(Rebecca)
This is absurd. I refuse to continue this mockery of literature. My writing partner is a violent, chauvinistic, semi-literate adolescent geek.

(Gerry)
Yeah? Well, my writing partner is a self-centered tedious neurotic whose attempts at writing are the literary equivalent of Valium. "Oh, shall I have chamomile tea? Or shall I have some other FUKING TEA??? Oh no, what am I to do? I'm an air headed bimbo who reads too many romance novels!"

(Rebecca)
Asshole.

(Gerry)
Bitch!

(Rebecca)
FUCK YOU - YOU NEANDERTHAL!!

(Gerry)
In your dreams, ‘Ho. Go drink some more fucking tea.

(Rebecca)
I hate you. Don’t ever talk to me again.

(TEACHER)
A+ I really liked this one.

Run 1479: Revenge of the Pussies

Throughout the history of warfare, men have happily killed and maimed each other on the battlefield without any particularly hard feelings. When it was over, it was over. The job of going out the next morning and performing grisly acts of revenge on the remaining wounded soldiers of the losing side . . . well, that’s always been the job of the women.

This is the theory behind the pussy run.

Hares Crackwurst, Only a Yolk, Meals on Wheels, and Temporary Relief (but where was she?) fully lived up to this tradition yesterday, setting a run from 7.5km down the NYR that weakened the strong, humbled the mighty, and just about lost Yardstick forever.

Poor Yardo, operating with just half a face, apparently took a wrong turn somewhere near the top and found himself serious jungle-ized as the lights went out. Trying to navigate by occasional flashes of lightning, he finally realized that he’d rather face a night of hunger, thirst, and mosquitos than tumble down some cliff in the dark. So he had curled himself into fetal position to count down the 11 hours till dawn when, faintly in the distance, came a hash-like cry. It was Sex Sprinter, who along with Egghead had mounted a search and rescue mission, and once again proved himself as good at finding lost hashers as he is at finding paper.

Even for those of us who made it back before dark, this was one kick-ass run. The visiting Fog Horny rather ruefully made a comment to the effect that “parts of that were a little dodgy”. Egghead, who provided technical assistance to the hares, had made the mistake of doing an ambitious birthday run recce the day before and was in sad shape even by the halfway point. Rotten Johnny was but a shadow of his usual overachieving self, and as for Beavershot, well, suffice to say that he could have picked a more gentle re-introduction to Songkhla hashing after seven weeks of soft life on the road.

Looking forward to getting a break next week? Dream on. It won’t be a Yardstick Memorial Run after all, but a Yardstick Revenge Run, lovingly plotted by GPS to show us all how much he enjoyed his adventure yesterday.