December 2012 | By: The Scrutable Scribe
Absolute Bloody Final Run…Until Further Notice
There were more signs this week that the end is at hand: at the hash in Papuan-by-the-Zoo for example: a red sunset, a plague of termites and a few frogs falling all over the beer truck. All this was foretold in the Old Testicle, Saint Anniston, ch. 13, The Book of Jennifer. “Yea, I say unto thee, two elephants will crosseth your path on the on out and this shall betokeneth ‘The Beginning of The End’ ”. With amazing prescience, this is exactly what happened. The paper was such a shemozzle (Semetic biblical word), I gave up, went back to the Zoo and followed the out paper in. I was not alone.
Another sign of The End of Days (beside the sunset) surely had to be the world wide broadcast of the 12/12/12 benefit concert (on the 13th) that we were regaled with this week by Mr. Murdoch Jr. We were visited with the spectacle of disgustingly wealthy celebrities telling working stiffs all over the world to dig deep for the poor wretched victims of Hurricane Sandy in New York, most of who looked like they weighed in at around 2 tons. I have something I feel the charitable urge to offer: try building your houses out of something more substantial than drywall, four by twos and shingles, especially if you live in a hurricane zone. I feel a lot better now.
But really, I mean Mick (money) Grabber (who looks like Yoda with a Mick Jagger wig these days), Keith Richbastard (I enjoyed his performance in “The Mummy 2” as the mummy 2) Eric Clams tons, (who still has the blues despite an 8 figure yearly income and a super yacht), the Who, which or who have so much fiscal respectability they have changed their name to the Whom, Paul McUtterly and Bruce Springloaded could rebuild Sweden with 1% of their net worth. You would think Macca would be in a more charitable frame of mind now that he’s finally found one with both tits and both legs. I didn’t even mention Whoopi Gold bars and Billy Crystal chandeliers (yes I did).
Ok, I know, off paper, the run was quite nice and I’m sure hare Closet Cueen (Sic) had every good intention, but apparently there had been a run in the same location on Monday and there was contradictory paper and chalk all over the shop. Somebody had also parked a bike over the split (aren’t they quaint, these rustics) and it was by sheer chance that many of us stumbled on it. There was an interesting drop down to and a wet shoe across the river early in the piece, then up the slippery slope on the other side to wide open padi. Fields of alang alang in feathery bloom were charming too. I was well and truly on my own at this point, other hashers had totally evaporated so maybe nobody else saw these. If you didn’t, I could make you a crude drawing of them but I couldn’t tell you how to get back there.
Back at church, Brother Labia called the Order to Evensong. We chanted, meditated and prayed for forgiveness lest we find ourselves somehow not in the care of St. Peter next Friday at midnight. Not really, we drank like Huns, sang bawdy shanties and told dirty jokes as usual. R.A. duties were shared by Konkorde and Jangle Balls who ushered us through these sacred rituals, though it must be said that because of the Indo and Chindo crowd very vocally conducting their own separate social event and the piss tanks (you know who you are) hugging the beer truck to their ample breasts, there was a certain not altogether, um, together flavor to the whole affair this week and it tended to fall a little flat despite sometimes desperate efforts.
Was it not the bard of Hackney Wick or Scunthorpe or wherever that said the world will end not with a bang but a whimper? Maybe it was Nostradumbass. Who cares? Brethren, let us pray.
On on
