Each Hash is run by a Mis-Management Committee of a General Manager (GM), Religious Adviser (often the most unholy of people), Hare Raiser, Hash Cash, Beermeister and Haberdasher. Ankles for Earrings, Passed Out Pumping, Play In My Pants (PIMP), Clitty Litter, Stick It In My Socket and Naughty Man are all Hash names that evoke a certain fear as to what devious behavior earned them these names.įor as off-the-wall as it sounds, most Hashes are well-organized groups. Most likely, it is not a flattering name. Often, it is after you screw up or do something stupid. Really, everybody does down-downs.Īlso, if you become a regular you will be named. Front Running Bastards (FRBs) do down-downs. Hares do down-downs, defined as singing a song and then slamming down your beverage of choice in one gulp. These violations could be sex on the trail (no, not REALLY sex, just PDA), technology on trail, shortcutting and numerous other invented violations. Punishments are assessed for the stupid stuff people do along the trail. Just make sure you are not that person.Īfter the run/walk, there’s always the Hash circle. On any given trail, there is a 100% chance someone will get lost at some point. These symbols are explained at the beginning of the trail, during the chalk talk, given for the Virgins in the crowd.įlour marks the dead-ends, song checks, beer checks, boob checks, the real trail and false trails. Symbols on the ground, generally made with flour, mark the trail for hashers. And at times nobody even knows where the trail is. It’s also possible nobody knows where the trail begins. The catch? Nobody knows where the trail leads. One foot in front of the other and keep going. There is always singing and perhaps a little debauchery. Most meetings include some form of running or walking and alcohol, often both at the same time. This social club meets in cities throughout the world. The Hash, more formally known as Hash House Harriers (HHH), is a self-professed “Drinking club with a running problem.” Founded before World War II, the Hash has grown into a worldwide phenomenon. Marathoners, teetotalers, pot-bellied couch potatoes, multi-lingual math geniuses, beach bums. They may be Marines guarding the local embassy, the pilot who just landed your plane, that guy who manages your off-shore bank accounts, the CEO of a haircare company or a recent grad teaching English to locals. It weeds out the straight-laced, responsible people.
Think of the Hash as kind of a social filter for great friends. You kinda run some, but not always, and there’s definitely lot’s of beer, maybe even a bit of nudity. You usually first hear about it in whispers. New in town? Looking to explore out-of-the-way, non-tourist places? Know where to meet fun people? The answer is the Hash.
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