Dear Doctor Down-Down,
I have many talents, besides running, and want to share my talents with all those I can. I’m confused (blondes can be that way, even if the carpet doesn’t match the drapes) – what exactly is a “clusterfuck?” If it is what I think it is, my talent may be in demand by all. I’m willing to share as is my habit.
Hasher at Large
Dear Got Milk,
If you’re the star I think you are, you probably want to give this one a miss. Unlike the movies, where one knockout babe satisfies several men at once while calling all the shots (so to speak, heh heh heh), there are no stars in a clusterfuck. A clusterfuck is a sexual melee more like a mosh pit than a menage a trois . . . participants may find themselves screwing, and being screwed by, members of the same sex, strangers with bad breath, inbred relatives, the family dog, the paperboy, or anyone else who happens by. It’s out of control, and trust me, unsatisfying in the extreme. That’s why the term “clusterfuck” is used to describe screwed up, leaderless, disorganized group activities that wind up achieving nothing . . . you know, like mismanagement meetings. You may be blonde, but you’re too smart to waste your time and talent on a clusterf*ck.
Why don’t you drop by the clinic and try a three-way with me and Nurse Wretched instead?
With a Wink and a Nudge,
Dear Doctor Down-Down,
Last weekend the hash met at the local mall, so I parked my Yamaha up front on the striped zone adjacent to (but not in) the handicapped spots. Came back after the trail to find a damn hundred-dollar ticket on my scoot. I’ve parked in these spots for years with never a ticket before. Has anyone else been gigged for this non-crime? Have any hashers successfully beat it in court?
Aloha HHH, Hawaii
Don’t get me started on handicapped spots. Here in Arizona, I swear, handicapped zones breed and multiply overnight. It’s come to the point where you don’t even bother heading for empty spots anywhere near the entrance to the store . . . they’ll for sure turn out to be handicapped spots.
I know, I know, seriously handicapped people need designated parking spots. But I’m convinced that 90% of the handicapped plate owners in this state have some sort of AARP secret-handshake deal going with their doctors. I base this assertion on years of observing tanned tennis-playing types in their late 50s and early 60s striding vigorously between their handicapped spot-parked Acuras and Cadillacs and the Home Depot, effortlessly carrying loads I’d have made two trips for.
Now, seriously, the striped areas next to handicapped spots are there to give certain handicapped people the room they need to operate ramps and maneuver wheelchairs in and out of cars. You knew that, right? Sure you did. If you parked there and indeed blocked a seriously-handicapped person, you did wrong. On the other hand, if you parked there next to some AARPer with a bunion and a gullible doc, then fuck him . . . you’re not in his way.
On a more personal note, I’ll confess that I hate having to use public restrooms, and that when I’m forced to use one I always head for the handicapped stall. There’s more room inside, it’s invariably cleaner, and there’s always paper on the roll. The day someone tells me I have to have a handicapped sticker on my forehead to use that stall is the day I visit my doc to get in on the deal!
Dr. Down-Down, AARP Member # 6969
Dear Doctor Down-Down,
Help! I’m currently hashing with Tulsa HHH. I thought maybe you would be able to help my hash with the biggest problem ever they are facing on the face of the earth. Their biggest concern is how to be politically correct, discreet and how to do down-downs (I mean what size vessels to use) and what to have for a down-down and how many to have. I can understand how many, since we have to drive at some point, but. . . . We have this e-mail list they have been flooding with repetitive and similar complaints. This is getting hashers like me highly disgusted. So, Dear Dr. Down-Down, could you please pleeeese tell them what hashing is all about and help them see that size and contents of the down-down vessel is not the point.
About to Throw Up in Tulsa,
Tulsa HHH, Oklahoma
What a coincidence! My own hash recently went through a spasm of political correctness, and it was not a pleasant experience. Maybe by relating what happened in my hash I can show the members of your hash the danger of following the PC trail.
It started one night when the hares announced that On-Afters would be held at Hooters. One harriette objected loudly, saying that Hooters’ exploits womyn. For those of you who haven’t been to Hooters, it’s a chain sports bar featuring young female waitpersons in tight T-shirts. Well, other harriettes took up the cry, and within three short weeks our hash had mutated beyond the point of recognition.
Down-downs were the first thing to change. We began gender-norming the amount of beer in the down-down receptacle, based on the down-person’s body mass, but as soon as we did a new faction accused us of beerism and we had to begin offering wine and wine coolers to the hop-intolerant. Pretty soon some womyn pointed out that the White Power Elite historically uses alcohol to suppress economically- and educationally-disadvantaged peoples, so water procured from non-endangered springs and streams with names that are not disrespectful to aboriginal inhabitants became the beverage of choice. Of course by then we no longer separated ourselves by artificial, restrictive labels such as “harriers” and “harriettes,” but had become gender-neutral “people of shiggy,” except that we no longer laid trails in shiggy out of deference to our goal of saving the planet. Giving up shiggy led to the abandonment of flour to mark trail, since the wasting of food was perceived as a slap in the face of people of hunger, and from there led to letting go of the concept of “trail” entirely, since following trail is implicitly ruleist. Rules, it was rightly perceived, are enablers for rigid hieratic and hetero-rapist structures such as the one we once called “mismanagement,” which we cheerfully abandoned. Although by then we could truthfully proclaim there were “no rules,” members of the hash were expected to wear garments made of natural unbleached cotton, to pronounce Hispanic words in thick Guatemalan accents, and to limit the recruiting of new members to persons of color and the handicapped. Before long we melanin-impoverished oppressor class hashers found ourselves unwelcome intruders at hash events. Eventually the cry of “speciesism” was raised, and six dogs, one goat, and two hamsters became regular members.
As you may have suspected, we sensitivity-impaired and vaginally-deprived members of the hash had long since departed and had formed a splinter hash, reintroducing ignorant sexist non-alternate lifestyle tolerant attitudes to our gatherings. Down-downs featured beer, cigars, and a block of ice, and the jokes and songs disdained diversity. Most importantly, we were running trails again, cheerfully defiling the earth with enriched flour and crumpled beer cans. And before long the survivors of the Great Experiment, full of self-esteem but thirsty and in dire need of good times, came back to the fold. We made every one of them sit on the ice, repeat “No Poofters” ten times, and quaff a man-sized down-down to a chorus of “Tits out for the boys.” Life makes sense again!
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