February 2013 | By: The Scrutable Scribe
Dancing Meatballs
At this week’s run at Sabah, which we think was actually Blahbatu but are open to suggestion; hare Dancing Qveen was a bit like a blind wanker inasmuch as you actually had to hand it to him. (Drum roll, cymbal crash, thanks folks, try the veal, I’m here all week). It was very decent run indeed and this was later found to be unanimous. A live hare start disappointed (Ha!) the “early girlies” of both genders, kept the pack together at the outset and we found to our (certainly my) surprise that we were in quite acceptably attractive, wide open, lightly populated, beautifully green flatland country with no garbage to speak of. The asphalt running was kept to a minimum and the medium ups and downs got out of the way early in the piece. A pleasantly tinkling or gurgling waterway was never too far off, which is a sentence you won’t find in the Hash Trash or English language again any time soon, I sincerely hope.
There was of course lumpur involved, and the odd casualty. Slip and Suck sustained some blood drawing leg injuries, but is fortunately of the female persuasion and had lifesaving unctions and potions of chemist shop proportions at hand. Also the gouges and scratches matched her toenails which was a lovely touch, possibly deliberate. If it had been a guy, he would be now be suffering severe hallucinations in the tropical diseases clinic at Mt. Elizabeth. My own hash pants were severely brindled, maybe beyond pembantu cleaning abilities, but this is okay as I’ll probably be wearing something else to my upcoming knighthood ceremony at Buckingham Palace. I tend to shy away from poop and ceremony.
So, as a certain circle identity might say, where were we? Mustering the crowd for such an event this week was only semi-successful because of a convenient half constructed raised roadway on which the beer truck was parked and on which a lot of lazy bastards planted their posteriors, dumped their derrieres or put their pantat. This resulted in a kind of two and three tiered affect where several more cavalier souls who increasingly please themselves whether or not they will deign to involve themselves in such paltry matters as the circle, array themselves in a standing posture as close to the beer truck as possible, in case the Bintang evaporates or the keg develops a leak. Apologies, I once again mount my favourite steed Tangent, but this and the Chindo tendency to conduct their own intrusively voluble social occasion closely adjacent the main event is inexorably finding its way up my nasal passages.
Circle highlights were Virtual Erection’s Exploding Phalluses (good name for a rock band, specifically AC/DC). V.E.’s hash name is becoming more and more appropriate as his bag of (rubber) pricks deepens. Victims this week were an unbearably effervescent French, of some description, mademoiselle and two young English blokes (premature ejaculators, it transpires) who are riding Aussie “postie bikes” overland back to the U.K. Mrs. Dancing Qveen was finally baptized “Dancing Tits”, with a certain degree of inevitability. Yangle Balls’ Yocular Yourney took us to bars from England to Texas to the Northern Territory and wound up in a German convent.
But wait, I forgot Dancing Qveen’s famous Svedish balls of meat! They were as delicious (purple coleslaw, yum!) as his ensemble of multi colored undershorts and tee shirt with “Real Women Drink Beer” emblazoned on the chest was puzzling and interesting. This was attire to be reckoned with. I earnestly desire a set of these at least as much as I want a C.D. of “Dancing Qveen’s Greatest Hits” including endless gay jokes and tracks such as “Yumpin’ Yack Flash”, “In The Yungle, The Mighty Yungle” and the country flavoured “Wringle, Wrangle, Ying a Yong Yangle”.
Seriously folks, great run, thanks to Mr. and Mrs. Qveen - Tits and see you again at Sabah, again, next week for Old Snake and the year of the Goat.
On on
