Hash Trash - Run #308 (6th Annual Red Dress Run)

The Montreal Hash House Harriers' 6th Annual Red Dress Charity Run was be held on Saturday, August 17th, 2002 from Hurley's Irish Pub in downtown Montreal. 78 runners participated and over $5000 was raised for the Cedars Cancer Institute of the Royal Victoria Hospital.

Hashers: Cod the animal, Just Carole, Little Bear, Mud Muffin, Wintoes, Lips N Assholes, 3D, Cotton Panel, Doofus White Boy, Grab-bag, Abbot, Blow Job, Boner, Brillo, Bush Pig, Danger Girl, Dead Animal, Double Fisted, Eager Beaver, Easy Rider, Eat Me, Fig Leaf, Flipper, Foxy Lady, Fukloric, Going Down, Homo Erection, Just Christine, Just Dawn, Just Dorcas, Just Fernando, Just Johnny, Just Linda, Just Manon, Just Mark, Just Nathalie ,Just Serge, Keeps Cumming, Kristal Tits, LOB, Mr Perfect, Muddy Nipples, Mustapha Kunt, Nefertits, OAP, Old Cheddar, Penguin, Popaweenie, PVC, Six-of-Nine, Skinflint, Snowbored, Snowfrog, Speedy, Total F**kUp, Turkish Delight, Witchy, Yogi, B-Cupper, Captain Hook, Chip'n'Tail, Delhi-Belly, Fat Ass, Finger Lickin' Good, Flounder, Great Sphincter, Just Yuri, Peniscillin, Plastic Jesus, Sticky Fingers, Stinky Puss, Just Kevin, Beth does Dallas, Muther Cummer, Just Ande, Just Per, Giggles, Mrs Robinson, New Shoez, Rub - A - Dub, Poptop, Muffalotta

The Anticipation
Weeks of anticipation and directions stated most unequivocally should have left no doubt in anyone's mind that on the afternoon of Saturday, August 17, 2002, indeed "dozens" of red-dressed hashers were to descend upon Hurley's Irish Pub on the notorious Crescent street in downtown Montreal (just look for the big buildings). Yet at the first glance of grown men in red dresses loitering in a place as remote from suburbia as the twin towers were from certain caves in Afghanistan, on any day excepting Gay Pride, one ejaculates, "absurd! This is madness!" But absurd, as Albert Camus once reportedly exclaimed, is good. In our case, it was better than good: It was, let us have it once more, the sixth annual Red Dress Charity Run of the Montreal 3H!!! (And the first one held in Montreal proper!)

The Pre-Run
Somebody must have been thinking. No doubt in the interests of good order and good economics, hashers were secluded early on and, in segregation from the general bar-going populace, were allotted the top floor of Hurley's. On that floor, exclusively reserved for hash business of registration and such, hash-schmoozing was in session. Many a good hasher, his head light with early-afternoon beer, lost a magnificent opportunity given but once a year to carry on obnoxiously on the streets of Montreal in a red dress. Not so for a few wise men. Our GM emeritus, Dead Animal, accosted first innocent couples on the patio, shoving his inflated balloon titties in their faces. D.A. then proceeded to harass the passer by, urging them to don one on. "Where's your red dress?" he demanded, "Come on, put one on: show that you're a man!" Not to be outdone, Captain Hook was also spotted running up and down Crescent engaging in all sorts of mischief with Plastic Jesus giggling not far behind.

At last the socializing was broken up and hashers were persuaded to form a pre-run circle in the adjacent parking lot. The lot-keeper looked bemused but kept his cool while virgins gravitated to the center and Dr. Krystal Tits prepared to begin one of many attempts to explain the finer points of arrows and blots. No sooner than Krystal uttered a word did Wintoes 69 of the Boston Hash shamelessly attack the virgins' upper cheeks with lipstick-laden lips. When she was finally allowed to resume, under the sun's blazing heat and the watchful eyes and unrestrainable mouths of more than 70 hashers, Dr. Krystal Tits fared admirably well, though Dr. Boner had to step in to remind us of check-backs and hash holds. Presently hashers from a certain very central city in Ontario felt it necessary to interrupt Boner's erudite remarks with the sorry question of "how many people should we wait for at the hash holds?" Restraining himself from replying with an off-the-cuff rhetorical question of the kind that made him into a local media celebrity, such as, say, "how many Torontonians does it take ask an intelligent question?", Boner remained in control and, displaying the mastery of form that made him into the king-of-quips with a local rag, curtly replied, "however many you want."

The circle. (Note the surprised Scotsman at right)

View from above (trying to spelling out our em@il address for the aliens)

The parade
As the virgins, confused as ever, returned to their peripheral spots, a round of personal introductions commenced, with each hasher volunteering his or her name and hash of origin. Members of the host hash were delighted to learn that hashers from all coasts were among us, having been made to come from the distant beaches of Rhode Island, Vancouver, and Florida (that would be the south coast); we were equally honoured, and felt somewhat undeserving, to be in the presence of hashers from the exotic state of New Jersey; and we were happy as ever to welcome our old friends from Ottawa and Hogtown.
With the formalities firmly behind us, Abbot delivered a touching sermon of Quebecois and, armed to a man or woman with full-proof protection from dehydration in the form of a 3-ounce water bottle wisely supplied by our disorganizers, a colourful array of hashers was led up Crescent by a kilted lad and his bagpipes. Up Crescent street we went, all the way up to Sherbrooke, Total F**k Up all the while courageously trying along the way to assuage the cops and inform the baffled public with his pink paper slips. At Sherbrooke we parted from bagpipe man and began our quest.

The Trail
No sooner than hitting the trail did hashers have to make a fateful decision that would affect their sorry shape, windpipes, and beer intake for the rest of the day, and perhaps even their life-span. Rarely is a trail split so early in the game, but such was the will of our hares. Our immediate destination, however, was not an unexpected one--what with Krystal and Boner at the helm, nothing less than the a conquest of the mountain will do. Through meandering streets and parks were the runners led towards the fabulous Mont Royal observatory. Along the way we were treated to a somewhat questionable choice of informative road marks making us aware of some girl school and of Dingo Dave's residence: no doubt Krystal Tits indulging in her tour-guide role. Walkers-and-wimps, incidentally, were made to take the brutal stairs up the hill.
At the observatory the hares and disorganizers once again displayed their superior logistical skills and ingenuity. Getting around the prohibition of alcohol consumption in a public domain, the hares hid the magical substance in the bodies of large water melons. Hashers were, for the moment, appeased.

The descent
On we continued towards the Plateau and Mustapha Kunt territory, while the walkers took their leisurely bloody time to the Peel Pub. After nearly 30 minutes of running, the vultures descended on poor Mustapha who diplomatically declared somewhere around St. Denis, "Beer is not near, but it is not far." Not a moment too soon did we arrive at the fabulous Les Foufounes Electrique, where bottled varieties of the glorious fluid were offered to us with a smile. It was a shameful moment in hashing history, but it must be recounted: as we prepared to leave, two full bottles of beer were left standing, unwanted, unloved, and unclaimed. Shame! Not being able to withstand anymore of this disrepute myself, I climbed onto an alternate mode of transport to conduct some urgent business. From shreds of hearsay and conjecture, I am told that runners made it to the Peel Pub to rejoin their walking mates, where fun times were had.

Climbing the greasy pole
Meanwhile, TFU and I were in last-minute negotiations with the Wanda's gentlemen club owner look-alike. The man was justifiably confused and disinclined to allow scores of red-dressed customers to swarm the establishment which was, after all, not his own; but a burly fellow with a magical smile in a chest-hair-bearing outfit such as TFU was not to be denied on that afternoon. The look-alike finally assented; the trail was expertly re-directed towards the gentlemen club where we were treated to performances from some amazingly flexible ladies. In between acts, Fat Ass and Delhi Belly stormed the stage and displayed their awkward selves in various pseudo-acrobatic positions. But it was without a doubt Plastic Jesus who lorded over the crowd with his signature "slide down the pole in a vise-like grip of the thighs" move, honed to perfection to everyone's delight. Eager to have us all move from this place of sin, and perhaps fearful of the rightful strippers reaction to keen competition, Krystal Tits re-assumed control of the satisfied audience, and directed us back towards the pub that Hurley built.

The Post-Run Affair
Back at Hurley's, the beer was somewhat slow in the coming. The food, glorious, plentiful food, however, was mercifully laid before us. Before long, Abbott placed himself on the small stage and a half-assed circle formed in front of him. Due thanks were given to our sponsors and disorganizers. The hare trio of Dr. Krystal Tits, Dr. Boner, and Mustapha Kunt--who was persuaded to relinquish his expensive digital equipment only after repeated cajoling from the crowd--took their rightful place on stage. TFU was given his due. Whispers were heard among us nominating Krystal Tits to the position of disorganizer-of-the-red-dress-run in perpetuity. The Hogtown hashers distinguished themselves with loud and self-congratulatory songs. And Boner concluded the circle with his unique rendition of "days of the week" thick with theological implications that did not go over well with the crowd.
The Auction of Silly Things followed. I admit shamefaced that I did not stay long, as temptation would have been strong and funds short. But I did spend many fun-filled hours with the red-dress-run fun pack on my return home. The responsibles must be commended on their creative hash mag. What better activity to engage in, while passing the long late-afternoon hours in a beer-saturated state, than locating the number of sleeping LOB's or of squared mini Captain Canada's on the colourful front page? What better way to occupy a sunken intelligence than with the unraveling of foul-sounding anagrams? What worthier objects of contemplation do exist than Dr. Krystal Tits' "getting her to swallow" article juxtaposed with the condom inserted in each pack? What the hell do I have to do to get this guy to shut up?!?

All in all, magnificent event, meticulously planned. Untold (or rather, as-of-yet uncalculated) heaps of money raised for a worthy cause. Till next year.

	"Like mother like sons"
Collections for charity


	"You can dress 'em up and take 'em out, but in the end the boys will be boys."

Tip of the hat to Q92 and CJAD who gave us a ton of free publicity. Thanks to courrir - Quebec's premiere running site, who helped promote the event and produced a nice write up in their newsletter. Also thank to 'Bugs' at Hour Magazine - although he may have read a bit too much into the red dress theme, we appreciate the gesture!

Quote of the Year: "I look for a dress that I run best in - it's short, made of spandex,
it's form-fitting and I get lots of compliments on my figure."

Photo Credits: The Abbot, Mustapha Kunt, Boner, Just Jennifer and special thanks to 3D and Cotton Panel (Jacksonville HHH)

Doofus White Boy, Wintoes,Muffalotta, Lips N Assholes, Cotton Panel and 3D just after successfully crossing the Vermont border.
	"We're almost there !"

	Harassing the neighbors outside Hurley's waiting for the fun to start.
	A group picture on the stairs of Hurley's




	C&M Textiles 7500 rue Saint-Hubert Montreal, Quebec	Diamond Tea Clothing


	Walking tour Friday