The Schnitzel Hash

Reading Trail #714

Saturday 12/13/08  2:30PM

Hares: A.N.G.E.L. and LICK MY TRUNK

ONON: Pres McKinley statue – Reading’s City Park

Numerous powers converged to make 714 an interesting and memorable day in our fair city.

The GM has been itching to try to form some legacy by disrupting 24 years of RH3 traditional winter Sunday afternoon hashes (by doing Saturdays), I had a few soldier buddies who were originally able to leave Indiantown Gap on this date and it just so happened that the hares had open slots on their agendas.

So, a small pack gathered on a beautiful Saturday afternoon at the bronzed feet of our 25^th president. You may recall it was McKinley who annexed the Philippines, Puerto Rico, Guam and Hawaii before he was assassinated by an anarchist.  Much of what Reading is today is a result of this annexation.  Thanks Mr President! 

We were joined by Jersey Gypsy GRABBAG and Albuquerque New Mexico’s FOLLOW THE BLEEDER (although she is a Reading native).

The hares were off, demanding 12 minutes, which left the pack standing in a circle freezing our asses off.  Someone looked down and declared “Check that out – those dumbasses forget 10 pounds of flour”.  TEN POUNDS of flour for a PUB CRAWL in the city.  I guess *WE* were the dumbasses for not getting this omen of things to come.

Omen #1: It doesn’t take TWENTY pounds of flour to hare a simple jaunt around town. Either they brought too much or its gonna be a haul

About  7 minutes later someone’s snot froze solid as it dripped from their nose and we decided it only made sense to get on trail.  The pack was only one block away before the trail cut through a needle-infested back alley and a booming voice from the heavens echoed down – “I will never again do a trail hared by LICK MY TRUNK as he always goes through the filthy back alleys” – yes, it was transcendental voice of missing hasher BETWEEN DICKS – who was reportedly at home in the fetal position as she just turned 50.

The pack quickly made it to Nick’s Café – a truly perfect neighborhood bar.  Nick’s has been around since the 20’s and used to be filled with rows of blue-collar men who were spending their hard earned money on booze.  Times have changed and now the clientele is mainly people spending their not hard earned welfare checks on booze.

It was here that we got on the discussion about whether or not JUST GUSAFO was an Amish kid on his rumspringa.  He declared it to be BS – saying he was ½ PR and ½ some other Spanish breed. Nobody bought it.

We munched on some lard-cooked Good’s BBQ chips – another omen that we didn’t pick up on.

Omen #2: Eat the lard chips – it’s gonna take some energy to plod through this one

We thanked the old fellow for tolerating us and headed back out into the cold.  Someone looked up the street and saw a fat naked man leaning against the glass to spy on us.  GRABBAG said, “everyone point at him!”. We did and he slinked back into his own little piece of Reading paradise. 

Before long we came to Borelli’s – a legend in both the law enforcement and hashing circles of Reading.  Rosa wasn’t working but a few drunks were happy to see us.

BLEEDER is time he didn’t deny it and just gave a big, drunken, Baba Booey-ish toothy grin.

After leaving such a refined establishment we hoofed past the Sovereign Center and realized it was the grand Christmas Show.  7 or 8 new fancy coaches were lined up. This sparked BIGRIG to declare that he recently transported 4 coaches but they weren’t the million dollar kind – just ones pulled by horses.  The show was big – starring Willie Nelson, Celine Dion, Motley Crue and someone else who I can’t remember.  We yelled at the buses for Willie to let us in but we couldn’t tell which one was his as none had smoke billowing from the vent.

I may have the order of these taverns wrong but that really doesn’t freaking matter in the big picture.

The Ugly Oyster soon came upon us. This is where I found another awesome gift I will be using for next week’s SANTA FUCKS THE HASH.  The hares were inside the Oyster.  It didn’t take long for us to realize that we were about 20m from the dinner crowd and us being declared persona non grata. The bartender asked if we were hashers.  We either are or sure have a bunch of folks wearing obnoxious shirts with HHH on them for no reason.  Turns out he is WHERES THE THIRD BALL? or something like that – a recent arrival to Reading who had not yet had the thought process to GOOGLE “Reading Hash” to see if a kennel is here.

Several of us marveled at the giganto urinal in the bathroom marked OYSTERS.  I know I have seen it before but each time is like the first. That’s one might big f’ing urinal.

To announce our departure the bugle was sounded and I saw one rich old bag spill her $8 glass of wine on her $400 dress. Oh well, manners dictate a napkin across your lap and you didn’t have that. Serves you right.

This is about where my mind got hazy.  I think we followed a trail by the hobo camp which is where we saw the dead deer and the nice mtn bike that was no longer nice after it had been thrown from the bridge. Anyway, we ended up at Kaley’s Korner where we imbibed prolificly.

The barmaid was in shorts which is always a great look during our cold winter months when any smart bimbo wears long pants.  Thanks cute barmaid girl.

BIGRIG, always the recruiter for the hash, tried telling the story of hashing to a middle aged couple in the parking lot.  I could tell by her eyes that she would have loved to dump her Viagra popping husband and come along.  But he wasn’t about to allow that and I saw him clenching his fist before they hopped in their Jaguar and took off.

By now the sun was setting and the cold was intensifying.  It was so cold that even the typical load  of sundown  ghouls and goblins weren’t spotted.  The trail went on and on and prognostications were made that we were headed to TROOPER THORN’S.   It was shortly after we hashed PAST this point that I heard the gypsy say something I never thought I would hear – that his LEGS HURT. WTF?? It had only been about 6 measly miles!!!

Eventually we arrived at the Alpenhof – yes THAT Alpenhof on Rt 10.  The smell of Ben-Gay was in the air as dozens of old people wolfed down their suppers.  Kermit was kicking on the accordion as we piled into the bar.

The hares were inside waiting for us.  Word leaked out that the GM **had been** wearing his kilt but a bunch of the krauts threatened to kick his Celtic ass so he scurried outside to change before he got walloped. Too funny.  The pack didn't have the option of changing into another set of duds because our drybags were back in our cars in the park. 

A quick circle was held outside in the cold darkness – JUST GUSTAFO, being unable to produce ANY evidence that he was NOT Amish, and seemingly playing the part well of a guy on his wilding – was named RUMSPRINGA – a well suited name for the lad.

The hares had ordered our food and we started singing along – old German drinking songs, modern classics like Margaritaville and even to songs we had never heard before.   DOODLE asked the guy how she could get HER accordian’s “BAG” fixed – she was sternly corrected that it wasn’t a BAG but a BELLOWS or BLUPO or something – something but not a BAG.  BIGRIG declared that if he had his tuba he would play along. The rest of us banged on our utensils to the beat of the accordion.

GRABBAG sang old WWII German Army fighting songs.  During one of these RUMSPRINGA was heard singing along in her perfect German accent.  Oh nooo, I am NOT Amish - my ass.

The gift shop had fine local PA Dutch crafts for sale but the back corner harbored a giant oil painting of Bob Marley smoking a big doobie.  ANGEL begged GOPHER for the painting for Christmas but he said he already had gotten her his annual gift of socks and underwear.

She didn’t stick around long anyway as some drama arose and they departed quite quietly. Hopefully she attends next weekend so I can say Merry Christmas.

Finally the food arrived – a huge plate on each hand of TWO servers.  Good timing as we were so hungry that we were about to eat the foxy little Fraulein that was serving in the restaurant.  OK, that desire to eat her really didn’t have much to do with our hunger.

Anyway, this is where the Grandmaster’s eyes bulged out of his head and he started choking on his own saliva.  Turns out he drunkenly INTENDED to order ONE plate of a weiner sampler but accidentally ordered EIGHT plates of a the WEINER SCHNITZEL DINNER.  Huge platters of greasy food from the motherland.  All for the mere price of $17.95 each!! One of the biggest hash boners in Reading HHH history happening right before our eyes!! 

We ate the greasy mess and were getting ready to go when we saw a tear come to the big fella’s face. The GM was weepy – thinking of what his old lady was gonna do to him when she found a $150 bartab on his Visa card.  Just because it is the season for giving we each threw in a $20 to try to get him enough of a reprieve to make it to next weekend’s SANTA HASH.

What an utterly shitty trail. It’s a crying shame that so many of you didn’t experience its shittiness as it was a night to remember in so many ways.

ONON to SANTA F’s THE HASH!

Thanks hares – you reached new lows!                        OVEREXPOSED