July 2013 | By: The Scrutable Scribe
A Rare Pair of Hares
What a fantastic run, fair and square, from this rare pair: Horny Herring and Gudang. It's always a rare treat to hear these two communicate in English; a language not the first for either the high and lilting Norwegian, who has the background of a language made up by aliens or J.R.R. Tolkien, nor the rock munching Hungarian whose native tongue was compiled by Bram Stoker, Ivana trump and Zsa Zsa Gabor.
Nevertheless, they seem to get on famously. Unfortunately, whenever they run together for some reason the ever collapsible Herring infects Gudang with his pratfalls and they go arse over tit every 5 minutes like two of the three stooges, accompanied by exaggerated wails as they disappear into the padi depths. It's a wonder they lived through setting a run at Gunung Kawi Sebatu last Saturday, but apparently they did.
It is a truly beautiful location, but a fair distance from any civilized tourist slum such as Sanur, for example, and a marathon drive. It felt like I had been15 rounds with Joe Bugner after dealing with the Tegallalang traffic from hell. Perhaps a spaghetti (maybe noodle) toll road a la Benoa suspended high over Celuk, Peliatan and Tegallalang a might do the trick, or perhaps not. Where were we? I somehow stayed off the run which was terrific and should be addressed at some point. Now would be good. So… there we were, me and Davey at the Alamo. Okay, you got me. I'm writing this on Friday to get a jump on the Trash because I'm busy on Sunday. Technically, the run, or Saturday for that matter, hasn't happened yet. So sue me – a mere detail. Professional Hash Trash writers such as me use literary devices like this all the time, which only serve to demonstrate our professionalism. Does so too, nya nya nya nya nya.
It's now Monday, ah, the magic of backward and forward hash flashes. The run was even better than I bullshitted you about above. The padi views on the short this time out were magnificent, mini padi waterfalls all over the shop – many a get-out- the-camera moment. The short was at 55 minutes was a tad truncated as forewarned by the hares, but with a lot packed into it, from asphalt (fastidiously, not much) to in-stream walks to padi berms all with a no-garbage bonus. I always enjoy the imposing temple on the left adjacent the last section of the on in, and the spotless grounds of the Obyek Wisata opposite the car park, too.
The circle was an affair to remember, what with Grand Master Night Jar volunteering for the ice and removing his plastic ear to wave to admiring onlookers. Catching the light at a certain angle, it is quite a thing to behold as far as prosthetic ears go. We would do well to remember, however, that possibly not having actually done the run and having kept the Bintang truck company for the duration of it, he may have been a teensy weensy bit in his cups. Being the shrivee for a change, did not affect his admirable performances. We trust he was not injured by flying backwards off the ice and hope he lives to brandish another ear, well, the same one.
The entertainment (more to the point, beer) flowed with a preposterous amount of virgins being deflowered with a bush being mightily wielded by Labia; Wooden Eye seems to have settled comfortably into the priesthood: this week his repertoire included a Welsh choir who couldn't sing for shit, otherwise he dispensed religious advice like a born again Aztec. A former Jakarta and Bali HHH2 Hash master, a Dutchified At the Loo, was a veritable encyclopedia of hash songs and Jangle Balls lubricated us with The Dung Beatles "Jelly in Between", "Strawberry Paste Forever" and later "I Should Have Drunk Bitter" ("instead of scotch, now I've puked all over me crotch").
It was a tad nippy around the old tegallalangs at these elevations in the evening especially with Comes Up aiming fire hose-strength jets of cold water at them, and at female nether regions too clad only in non–quick drying Lycra and cotton jersey. Our online survey tells us that most hashers would prefer he use something more fitting the horrendous crime of talking when there's a pause of interesting stuff going on in the circle, such as a feather duster, perhaps. The esteemed and somewhat steamed Blow Joe regaled us with religious advice using the "vehicle" of truck drivin' through Bakersfield and listenin' to gospel music on the colored radio station, after which we were plumb tuckered. Social drinking was called, futilely enough, as there was no piss left. We had little choice but to drink socially at an unnamed venue involving a species of talking bird.
On on
