By Super Sneaky Stalker

I don’t like responsibility. It’s too much heavy-lifting. Sometimes, Hash-respect, Rules and Ritual get me kicking like a mule. Call me a REFUSENIK, because rules give me a stiff neck.

This scribe is the most frequently punished hasher. Even this essay is a form of punishment. Understand this. I just can’t conform to the gimmickry of wearing white socks not black not brown, but white. Or not pointing or smoking or…

It all started in the circle

Sunday. July thirteenth. Oppressive heat, just outside the Hotel Kazakhstan. Later, a tough lineup of only ten hashers would move over the foothills and under the cable car. But not before Eata My Pussy finished marshalling and whipping Hashers into shape inside that circle.

I watched her with peeled eyes and continued to think about her as we moved in a column along the canal.

Suddenly, a comparison formed. The canal was overflowing in its own concrete banks. And Eata My Pussy was consuming more and more power. She had consolidated and assumed positions of Hare and Hare Raiser, and also acting Grand Master. Still unsatisfied, she grabbed the titles of both Hash Cash and Hash Trash. I cried out as she anointed herself Religious Adviser, too.

Conspiracy! We needed a Trotsky to contain this Stalin. We needed protection against her lusty power grab. But first, we needed a Beer.

A splinter group formed as Super Sneaky Stalker spotted a caf鮠The usual suspects arranged themselves around a table. One Man and (the soon to be named) Pit Row were the first to drink with the mutinous Stalker. Then, three nameless and unspeakable hashers persuaded the reluctant PedFac.

Eata My Pussy and Stinkfoot did form a search party, but could not separate us from our Beer. But is the Power of Beer not stronger than the Seduction of Power?
Perestroika.

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Super Sneaky Stalker is currently serving as Hash Hops, and forced to supply her own punishment.