The Mark of the Beast Hash
The evening began somewhere around 7:15 or so. Many hashers gathered at the Philosopher's Stone on E. 7th Street and sat directly in front of a very symbolically loaded mural depicting strange acts of hedonism and debauchery. And there was much consuming of alcohol (PBRs were a mere $1.75) and eating of the flesh of small animals to celebrate the evening's "once in a hundred years" date (o6.o6.o6). Live…ehem….um…dead music was played as a means to torture the hashers and many other lost souls (unfortunately dressed in khaki's and Old Navy-ware…yuck) that had come to the establishment. Small pointed objects and ball-peen hammers were distributed to those that would rather subject themselves to self-induced permanent hearing loss than suffer the retched scatting of a 70-year old cover song artist. After an hour of stretching the sole, numerically-challenged waiter on a Catherine's Wheel, we moved on.
At 8:15 the group of "almost sober" hashers wandered two doors down to an almost illegally gathering of preps, frat boys, and mid-twenty golden boy-banker-types that worshipped the very socially acceptable definition of god…y'know, the one that requires heavy financing through republican oppression of small brown people around the world. Yes, we went to Jackalope's (Dos Equis were a mere $2.50). Here the hashers met up with many late-cummers and engorged the jukebox with hundreds of dollars to play nothing more than "Devil music." Songs ranged from "Shout at the Devil", "Highway to Hell", "Running with the Devil", and "Hotter than Hell." We posed next to a very large wooden rabbit and under a license plate that read "HELONWLZ". And there was much rejoicing. After 45 minutes of randomly running into the men's bathroom and screaming "What's all this then?" we moved on.
Our third location was a few blocks away at "Hawthorne Pizza." To our amazing surprise, Stella beer was sold at a remarkably unheard of…$2.00 a pint. After we collected our jaws and eyeballs from the floor, there was mass consumption of the tasty alcoholic beverage. Unfortunately, we were unable to recruit any new-cummers to our celebration at this point. The beer was great, but the crowd and music were…dead…HA! So, we moved on.
The fourth bar was planned to be "Mo-Fo's." Sadly, these pin-headed, vacuous, malodorous, shallow, mongoloid, excuses for an abortion-clinic-bombing were unable to open their tiny, hallow, dump of a bar up for twenty-ish people who wanted to drink. Even after repeatedly banging on their street front door and window. So, we moved on to better things…"Carpe Diem." This restaurant is run by the most upstanding, tasteful, and fun lesbians in town, folks…let there be no debate (unless you're a master-debater). Yours truly has even attempted at least two manage-a-trois with employees here…so it's got to be good. At the bar, many hashers were ready for something other than…gasp…beer. So Irish Car Bombs were ordered. Sadly, they were out of Guiness and Jameson's. BUT!...through the improvisation of the wonderful bartender and yours truly, there was a new con(cock)tion created that would curl the toes of Mel Gibson. And…there was much rejoicing. After 25 minutes, and a debate against astro-turf, we moved on.
Two doors down, we arrived at "The Loft." This bar is high on the posh list, folks…with a beautiful view of downtown Charlotte from their outdoor balcony, as well as huge transformer that hangs from a telephone pole only inches from being in reach of a small child. It's great. Local celeb', Ryan Miller was on hand to take requests as our guest DJ. Much Skinny Puppy, NIN, and Ministry was played to appeal to our crew. By this time, several members of the local fire-twirling crew from Charlotte had joined our punchy pod of anguished alcoholics. A plan was devised to actually twirl fire on the outer deck. After a definite resounding NO from the proprietor, we went outside and blocked all the doors out and did it anyway. After being thrown out, we went to the empty graveyard-like parking lot next door to continue the fire-twirling….HA!
Since there was no beer in the parking lot, we moved on after only three minor burns and crimping of hair. Our sixth and final destination was a deep, dark hole-in-the-wall of an establishment known as "SK Net Café." Upon entering into the abyss, every hasher, burner and goth received his/her very own magic-markered, personalized, "Mark-of-the-Beast" on their hand to designate that they were an upstanding, paying client. Yours truly was gifted with a proverbial "666" in black with red outline. Unfortunately, after the mass consumption of alcohol at this point…I don't remember any more than standing in the middle of Elizabeth Avenue, stopping the taxi to go home. Hey, they don't call me "Lightweight Larry" for nothin'.
I'm sure that after my departure, there was still much rejoicing and consumption of alcoholic beverages…hell, maybe even some more fire twirling and molesting of young boys. Be sure to watch "To Catch a Predator" this week to see if we're on. For those of you that had poor excuses for not going out, to hell with you…you missed THE BEST HASH/PUB CRAWL EVER!!!
ON-ON / NO-NO
Stigmatically bleeding from a strange orifice,
Lightweight Larry with a Flintstone Flop a.k.a. Lobster X