May 2013 | By: The Scrutable Scribe
In This Edition : People Get Confused, A Dung Beatle Gets "Help", Curry-Related Intestinal problems are Investigated via the Unlikely Catalyst of Johnny Cash, Comes Up's Pants Go Down, Several Feline Areas are Wet, and more…
Yes folks, if you've just joined us, it was an eventful event last Saturday at the Pura Dalem thingamajig, of which I know I can find out the name if I could be bothered waiting for the internet to come back on or going out to the car to get the hash map from last week (inhale), make no mistake. Pejeng, as you know is brilliant hashing territory and a run set by the very experienced Oxczy, who seems to be a tukang in this neck of the woods, should never be missed, but I'm all out of commas.
Once again, early starters foiled (perhaps soiled) themselves by going out the wrong way and having to come back again 15 minutes or so later about which I was personally highly gratified as if I had somehow caused this event to happen. Hardy har, I exclaimed to myself, hardy hardy har har. I also allowed myself a smug ho ho. Once again, Labia put himself in a compromising position by announcing a run free of slippery bits, to the jeers and cat calls of the cynically disposed. Possibly, Labia might be well advised not to invest too much credence in the statements of hares. They lie! They lie! Their natural inclination is toward scumbaggery, and once again there were more slippery bits than you could shake a desperately grasped banana leaf at.
But never mind that – like Tesco's horse burgers in the freezer, we were off! We followed a live hare (good work on that front hares, keep it up) to a down down section, which was the first of quite a few ups and downs interspersed with beautiful padi territory. There was very little asphalt or garbage anywhere; and if you somehow ended up on the long as some of us did inadvertently, specifically me, an absolutely fantastic section of rock and river which, other than the naked local gentlemen and their strategic soap bars, was as refreshing as it was adventurous. "This is why I love Pejeng" uttered an unnamed hasher bearing a striking resemblance to Comes Up between facefulls of waterfall and river.
The trouble had started in mid-run when perambulating at a sedate pace because of a delicate Sauvignon Blanc-related condition, I looked up to notice a clutch of hashers bearing down on me at speed from a road on my right and a possible check, who (the clutch of hashers not the possible Czech) in the course of trying to sort it all out, informed me that I "was on the long, mate". Just what I needed; another couple of hashers behind me had also missed the split. How could this possibly have happened? Not difficult to explain really. I was a space case and they were both women.
Enough of this political correctness, on to circulatory matters: Labia welcomed the return of, among others, the Danish/Australian Minister for Sports and Lycra, the ever-popular and iconic Mud Flaps who had been long absent. He dispatched other less fortunate souls to the U.K. e.g. Virtual Erection, who has apparently exhausted himself selling Viagra. I know I would. Comes Up was also sent packing to Old Blighted; we look forward to their returns which we know to be inevitable. The reins were handed to an off-colour (as ever, no I mean somewhat sick, what's new? Oh, you know what I mean) Wooden Eye who valiantly punished the deserving despite his condition. All this time Comes up had been aiming a blunderbuss of a water cannon at various ladies' and gentlemen's regions. Overkill was an understatement and a vengeful plot was afoot amongst the radicalised (at this point) feminists.
They waited to pounce, and after Johnny Cash's odes to Indian cuisine channeled by Jangle Balls ("Ring of Fire" and "Stuck in the Gent's Dunny of the Bombay Restaurant"), then Comes Up's gift to The Jangled One for his fine work with the Dung Beatles of a 100.000.000% cotton "Help" shirt, they did! Slip and Suck and Bitch on Heat feinted from behind relieving the offender of his shorts while, no doubt, ring leader Mud flaps fought a rear guard action with a well aimed kack in the knickers, sorry, other way round. All hell broke loose with struggles for control of the liquid spurting item (the plastic one, thank Christ). Good Lord, there was nobody involved under the age of forty or fifty plus. It was a lively few moments, after which Wooden Eye pronounced himself scarred for life by the sight of Comes Up's horrifically proportioned dangleberries. Others were biblically struck dumb, if they weren't pissing themselves laughing. This seemed to set the tone for the remainder of the beer, which is our measure of the evening.
So, we must have left at some point, not that I remember. Thank the Dogs I was in no condition to walk, so I must have driven to somewhere with a kucing and a violin involved.
On on.
