Hares: Loo Tenant and Multiple Horsgams
Leather and Lace Run
AKA Full Snow or Full Hunger Moon Run
AKA Heart Shaped Box Run
AKA G-Day Run
Parking lot of Cancer Society on Harmon, just east of Maryland Pkwy.

So there we were, standing and shivering under the near-full Snow Moon in our leather and lace like a band of idiots in the beer parade of life; wondering: why am I hear, why are these people dressed like this, where's the fucking beer, and why, oh why, won't Premature E-whackulation come out of the closet? Gathered for the much ballyhooed Leather and Lace run, we were a motley crew indeed. From those that went through the effort to come up with titillating and ridiculous outfits, to those of us forced to wear upholstery and curtains from Multiple Horsgasm's grand-mother's house, we squeezed into the heart shaped box with our foaming long-necks in an excited and disturbing frenzy. Fearing a small turnout, MH paid off several of her friends to fill the pack, so as hashers met virgins, the hares were off as sexy mistresses Loo Tenant and Multiple Horsgasms went their separate ways in a feeble attempt to split the pack in half (sorry girls, it didn�t work for one second.)

I would be remiss if I didn't at least explain that, among the usual pack of Las Vegas Hash House Harriette seductresses was the astonishing and very fuckable Premature E-Whackulation, dressed in alligator-skin pants and a matching jacket, no shirt, a "Fuck Me" leather dog collar and a flashing hearts head piece. Honestly, this horrendous vision has prevented me from recalling any other outfit. I apologize for not taking the time to describe each and every one, but I've been spending a lot of time in therapy.

But wait! We don't know what the special heart-shaped mark is. Is it a heart-on-on? Just as the pack realized this predicament, Betty Krapper's phone rings. It's the hare-wife, and she's breathing heavily, panting, trying to explain what the marks are. A cellular chalk talk, one like this hound has never seen, ensued via conference call with the hare. Un-fuckin�-believable! To her credit, though, Loo Tenant displayed her amazing ability to multitask by running, holding a flour bag, throwing on-ons, chalking arrows and checks, and talking on the phone all at the same time. Honor! But then again, perhaps this is why trail was a bit difficult to follow at times...

After another 5 minutes of pounding in and out of the heart-shaped box the pack was off. As the FRBs dashed across Maryland, this outpatient was left behind with walkie talkie Bread Box and Golden Eagle who was slowed down by sexy leather high heels. By the time we entered onto UNLV, the pack was splintered and confused. The pack wandered aimlessly around campus like a hasher in a library, confounded again and again by a meandering trail and tricky checks, eventually rising 3 stories to the roof of a building for a St. Valentine's pick up, consisting of a variety of very "cute" and cheezee pins.

By this time, however, the erratic and discombobulated trail had lost half the pack and they missed the pick up because they were simply running towards the nearest obvious beer in the direction of the Hard Rock and the "fruit loop." I, too, seemed to have been somewhat misguided, but when I eventually came upon the walkie-talkies, they were joined by visitor Bone-A-Lisa and led by Tuna Taco and were backtracking through the parking lot of the Thomas and Mack like a tribe of wandering Jews lost in the desert. Leave it to Koresh, he-who-leads-people-down-the-wrong-path, to find trail again. And it took us through the softball fields and to the first beer check at the relatively new Rainbow Bar and Grill, perhaps the classiest joint to ever host the Las Vegas hashers. Having arrived last, I missed the beer and most of the festivities but am looking forward to visiting this fine establishment in the future

Nearly duped in the parking lot, Hunka Hunka Burnin' Shit finally sniffed out trail and led us across the street and in front of an oncoming ambulance with lights flashing and sirens blowing, or was that virgin Hasher Doa with her tits flashing and her whistle blowing? If you have to ask, you don't know! Past the new and trendy Hoffbrauhaus we were thankfully led to hash-classic The Office Bar and pitchers of swill. I believe it was here that the �hash run� officially turned into a �pub crawl�. It was here, at least, that many hashers blood-alcohol content went from empty seats to standing room only, including Hasher Brett who was the second hasher screaming to come out of the closet, having ripped the red dress off Tuna Taco�s back and wearing it proudly. Shenanigan ensued. Visitor Home, Homo, Homo, Homo and Koresh conspired by pouring beer and an ash tray into an abandoned flour bag, Pokey sequestered the Hash Whip into her own heart-shaped box, stealing it from a panicked P E-W, meanwhile an unofficial hash whip was subjected to spontaneous ass-whipping, Crappacino tried to impress transplant Kracka with his dance moves, and it was here that hash prankster Hunka Hunka Burnin' Shit helped clear tables for the bar tender (what a well-mannered hasher he�s turned out to be). We also picked up a man in a $1600.00 suit (you have to be a bit worried about a guy in a suit that wants to be part of the madness that was occurring around our drinking table.

Next stop: Double Down. Very arguably the best bar in town. A virtual echo chamber at 8PM on a Saturday night, the hash owned the bar and quickly took over the pool table, stage area, and several bar stools. With punk rock on the juke box, titties on TV, a long hard stick in Gives Good Head's hands, and the hares playing with Crappacino and Betty Krapper's balls, do I really need to describe this scene any further? Suffice it to say that the mood at the Double Down was quite playful and a good time was had by all.

Informed by the hares that the next leg of trail was long and shiggy-rific, Nero and I took a head start on trail only to take about ten steps before seeing the On-In. Under the bright lights a street light, we circled up between the hood and UNLV. Due to the inebriated state of most of us, circle was raucus and there was loss of control, loss of control, loss of control. Despite this, Golden Eagle and our non-vessel drinking Crappacino kept things going long enough for Las Vegas� finest to arrive. Things were brought to a quick end, but not before 1) the guy in the $1600.00 suit poured beer all over his head (who said head?) and down the front and back of his ensemble (honor and welcome to the hash!) and 2) Poke-A-Cuntess returned the hash whip to P E-W, but only after a severe pussy whipping.

The on-afters were at The Crown and Anchor, where the hashers crashed Hasher Doa�s birthday party and the hashers appropriately filled their bellies what was now officially the Full Hunger Moon. And there was much rejoicing!