The Girl who Goes Places and Does Things
(and her little Dog, Tu)
by Hellen_Wheels with special correspondent Wendy Darling Needlespeople
In this column: Death and Hash.
Or "The Fuzzy Bunnies of Death".
A funny thing happened on the way to the funeral.
I discovered that people are binary. Zeros or Ones. Nice or Mean. Happy or Sad. Good or Bad. Trite or Fascinating. Screw popular bathroom scrawl "There is no black and white, only shades of grey" crap. Make that brown and I’d agree. What I’m saying here is that some people are pretty damn nice and other people are Giant Screaming Bungholes.
My grandfather was one of the nice ones. He died on January 8th. I received the dreaded call at the Hour of the Wolf and have been howling and reeling ever since. When I was a real little kid, I thought Grandpa was the president (Richard Nixon) and also an actor (Walter Matthau). In fact, I never did see the three of them in a room at the same time…
Anyway, whilst sorting out my Grandpa’s things, my mom and uncle keep finding slips of paper throughout his belongings where he’d first written "Life", then replaced it with "Time" and followed with:
"Time flies like the wind.
Fruit flies like a banana."
From what I can surmise, my grandfather was going through his mementoes for what he knew was the last time (he’d been sick a long time and Grandma kept urging him to put his estate in order). As he looked through his life’s treasures- clippings and letters and stamps and photos- he grew wistful. And Grandpa always did love a good pun. I can imagine him leaving these messages for us that he knew we’d come upon and enjoy and "get". Some were written on old envelopes from the ‘60s, others on his prescription slips from the ‘90s. All penned in the same scrawl, in the same ink.
My grandfather will be mist.
So back to the airport. Our flight is delayed at SFO (unexpectedly shocking!). We get to our first stopover and miss the connecting plane by mere seconds. The nice lady at the customer service desk, Chequita Prince, cried with me, administered a Prozac facial, and then got us to the funeral on time and against all odds. Two more flights, 14 more hours, two different airlines. But she did it. Thank you, Chequita.
During the return trip several days later, still badly shaken and sadder than sad, I was happy to learn that the captain of the United flight was flying his last flight and therefore offering Everyone!!!! In the plane a free drink. I ordered Courvoisier on the rocks. What happened next still makes me cringe like a boy. I spilled it right into my skirt on my stockingless lap. A tad chilly for a few seconds and then oh dear Lord it started to BURN!!!!!!! Owwwwwwwwwwwww!! my soft pink parts on fire. Fire, I say! And I’m not a redhead. Then, in an unconscionable move, the incredibly sniveling sky waitress would not back up her little cart to let me by! Instead she kept trying to hand me a dinner plate!!!!!!!!!!! Chicken or Beef! Shit!!!!! I’m hopping around pointing South and she’s upset cuz the roach meat is getting cold. Finally I’m begging her "Lady, no need to be nasty. My soft pink parts are BURNING, please let me by". She was Satan personified and dressed in a little suit. She pulled the cart back with a wicked sneer and I hobbled to the icebox.
Back in San Francisco, people follow the same binary path. It’s up or down, left or right, day or night. Below, I offer as example replies from the House of Hash Holes concerning last week’s White Powder Caper Column. Decide for yourself who’s who.
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Yo: Hellen_Wheels@hotmail.com
From: Smegma
Subject: The Great White Way
Heard about your article in the SF Herald regarding the man throwing
"white powder" throughout Golden Gate Park and surrounding neighborhoods. As you surmised, the powder was flour and the runner was laying trail for a Hash House Harriers run. Depending on what day you saw this man, Monday or Thursday, depends on which local HHH group was setting the run: the San Francisco HHH or the Gypsies in the Palace HHH. The SFH3 (as we Abbreviate ourselves) is a drinking group with a running problem. We meet every Monday night at varying locations within the city. Two persons determine what trail the runners will run by dropping blobs of flour and drawing chalk arrows to direct them. At various points of the trail, confusion reigns as the "hares" have left no marks causing the pack to determine the correct direction. All this is in the hopes of finding where the keg of beer is located (usually about 5 miles into the run or when about 1 mile is left). Once the run is complete, we finish off the keg, sing raunchy un-pc songs, and make fun of people. Find out more about the Hash House Harriers at
www.vmeng.com/sfh3/
From: Rainman
Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha,
ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha,
I hope you're not serious.
From: Grandmaster, Sacramento Hash House Harriers
Subject: Clueless columnist scared by Hash trail
In case no one else has written, I will ease your mind.
The policeman was correct, it was flour being thrown by a member of the
Hash House Harrier Running Club, also known as the 'hare'. He/she uses flour To set a trail which is then followed by the 'hounds' after the hare is given a 15 minute head start. It is just a way to stay in shape without running around in boring circles all the time. This is an old game that was invented by the English in the late 1800s in response to using live hares and hounds. The English used bits of paper but flour is more bio-degradable and won't hurt Tu.
On On,
Grandmaster
If you think that a drug dealer would go out for a run
to dump their stash...
but since you and scooby poo feel the need to meddle
in the affairs of THE ultimate international
conspiracy, I'll give you a clue to what the white
powder is used for. Your clue is one word, and it
rhymes with "stash."
Good luck. Crack this case and you'll be promoted to
semi-private dick
From: Accidental Bloody Stump Dick, Religious Advisor, Sacramento Hash Harriers
You should really go
into police work. I read your little column about the powder that the joggers
were dropping while you were walking your dog. You ma'am, are an idiot.
Maybe you could have hoofed your ass and followed the little joggers you would
have noticed that the flour might resemble some sort of trail. hmmmmm.. had
you the sense to follow this you would have had your answer and you would not
have needed to be so naive and so concerned for your fellow citizens.
IT'S FOR A DRINKING CLUB WITH A RUNNING PROBLEM.... here's the solution for
your idiocy. go to www.hash.org and read. maybe even meet up with this "hidden
circle of tyrants"... c'mon lady, don't be such a puss. Did you really think
that these runners were trying to poison or drug people... you're a fricken
moron...
by the way. I'm merely 1 out of 100,000 world wide. Stick your nose in the right
place every once and a while and maybe you'll be able to keep your job stating
the facts. Get a brain you Fricken numbskull
Yo: HellenWheels
From: analintruder
The man sprinkling white powder in the park was part of a US-based splinter sect of the Tokyo death cult that released nerve gas in the subway. This group has been well-documented in the
Japanese press, but has to this point been little-noticed here. You are a true genius of the American press to have discovered them. The powder was most likely a new biological weapon that they have developed. Please call your doctor if your tits fall off or anything like that.
Also, many members of this group are known dog molesters. Please take care that this man did not follow little Tu back to your house. You may come home one day to find little Tu skewered upon some fiend's throbbing erection.
Yo: HellenWheels
From: Some Asshole
get a life..........bitch.......
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My response to the Hash Holes:
Mystery, Solved! And there, sadly, also goes my last best hope for a secure retirement. I hope those guys on Haight Street don't remember what the babe selling the white stuff looked like. Tu and I will be laying low for awhile.
Thanks to those Hashies with kind explanatory replies and double thanks to those with Screaming Bunghole replies. My divine twin, Wendy Darling Needlespeople enjoys those the most.
To those of you who actually think I'm an investigative reporter who gets PAID, sorry to disappoint. I'm just a girl, out of work, paranoid and confused, catching trails and humiliating herself.
The one and only, sad, embarrassed and lonely <sniff>,
XO and On-On,
Hellen Wheels
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As the kids in Suburban Trailer Park used to sneer, "Well pull my britches down and slap me in the face!!!!!!!!". Them crazy alcoholic Hashers are always up to something, you just never know where they’ll lay a trail next.
Note to Hashers: If you’d like to buy me some rum punches (I don’t run or drink beer as I’m a Republican), may I suggest Hobson’s Choice on Haight Street? The alliteration possibilities are endless (think about it) and Tu gets the run of the place since being crowned the unofficial Guinness Dog after having several beers and a coaster dropped on her. And because her tits are just as nice as the Guinness Girls and she doesn’t need a padded push-up bra to make them so. The coaster was sticky on the bottom and glowed in the dark, so as you can imagine it makes for a lovely tiara which accentuates her darling eyelashes.
I flip United Airlines 10 birds, and that’s only cuz that sky waitress is twisting my arm.
We love getting fucked with! Please SpamSlam us:
HellHoundSaltzman@hotmail.com (Yes, Tu is Jewish)
To read more by Hellen Wheels, click here