I am very sorry to share with you today news of the passing of one of our own. We knew going out to Candlestick Park that we were playing with fire, Three Fingers and Cuming Mutha shook their heads and cautioned us in our folly. Bitch’s Bitch and Deadbeat took one mere glance at our start and turned away.

 

But we were young and naïve, dancing gaily in the night’s winds as they blew the scent of Cirque du So Lame’s favorite assholes past our nostrils, Blowqueen feinting and diving into the bushes, and coming back upon us again. But trail turned against us, even the wisest were drawn further and further into its foul trap, until even Douchicorn whinnied in fear.

 

Big Pink Chalk, you were truly the bravest and most faithful amongst our number, marking trail with constant ease and vigor. It was not your fault that trail went up, and up, and up once more, nor was it your doing that laid the foulest of backchecks our eyes had ever seen. You were girthy enough to make Just Doesn’t Get It tremble, you marked wide enough to draw even Titty Boo Boo’s gaze.


You came from the grasp of Hand Pump himself, and with his blessing came your skills and grace, and even I Cunt Hear you heard the whispered wisdom of your scratches. Fucker himself shed a tear as you fell, Cunty Butler trembling with anguish, and Fuck Norris shaking a fist at your loss. For far too short a time you were with us, and it will be far too long before one of your number graces us again.

 

During the times I am not blaming Banana In Public, I must blame myself, for the cliff was steep, and I was scared. I found that I needed five hands when I had but two point five (the point five being my vaginal lips), and I sacrificed your life for my own. The Perfect Woman would have done better by you, but it was not to be.

 

Laying you to rest next to the raccoon skull and the abandoned pants, I knew that your spirit would overlook the finest lottery ticket heists the city would provide, and the bayonets in Five Angry Inches’ imagination would salute your spirit. Your last work led Resting Slut Face and Tonya Hardon into the beercheck with ease. I hope in my heart that you smiled at Sticky Fingers and Circle Jerk as they sipped the finest Black Butte Porter the hash could offer. I think perhaps that’s how you would have wanted it.

 

Maybe you could hear us as Brown Eye and Cockagami led us in song, welcoming our virgins (sorry virgins), our visitor (sorry Shitty Titty Gang Bang), and our returners (not applicable). I’d like to think you were looking down on us and smiling as we anointed Just Tony as Bi-Erectional. But as Masterbaster would tell me, you can’t fucking hear anything, you’re chalk. You don’t even have ears.

 

But we will say a fond farewell to you anyway, one of the finest hashers I have known in all my years.

 

Here’s to Big Pink Chalk

He’s true blue pink

He’s a hasher

He didn’t stink (he’s chalk)

He’s a pisspot

So they say

Tried to go to heaven

 

But in Bayview He will stay.