October 2013 | By: The Scrutable Scribe
Bewilderbeest on the Balinese Veldt
(Or: Don't Worry, It's a Kenny Run)
Firstly a word about the Victors which took place the night before last Saturday's run: good. This word was brought to you by our sponsors, Roget's Thesaurus and The Oxfud Enquilish Diktionerry. Actually, I don't remember a lot about the night before other than the Grand Master himself at some point addressing me saying "Hello old chap, I came as a zombie, didn't have to wear a mask, ha!" The rest was a blur of food, beer and rock and roll, jolly good, for Rp 130.000, bloody good.
Thus the survivors were gathered at the car park of the local pandeta's house the next day in Mambal not terribly far from hare Rabid Mangy Dog's place, and not too many of us, it must be noted. Really, only the hard core piss artists if you looked closely and those who didn't attend the previous night's revelry. What the hell, eh? We're here for a short time and a good time, right? The way I'm going, I am anyway. All things in moderation, I always say, including moderation.
Once again the Hash Master bellowed at us the intention of a 2 HOUR LONG, tsk tsk tsk. Why oh why? Why must my gems of wisdom in this area fall upon stony ground, roll into the jalan drain of irresponsibility or get lost under the beer truck of ignorance. Also, I was overjoyed to see the return of some of our small, dark, hairy canine friends (they would be dogs). My personal favourite made a showing this week. Yes, the ratweiler was back, that tiny snappy bloody thing that looks more like something you'd wash a particularly encrusted and stubborn pot with than a dog. You could almost use it as a merkin, perhaps somebody does. In fact it looks even more like an angry merkin than a blackened yapping pad of steel wool. But we won't dwell, they didn't get in the way much and I only spent half the hash aiming surreptitious kicks at their hind quarters this time.
It must be said that the run was quite good. His Rabidness (Rabidity?) likes a good river crossing and so do I. We had two of these, both of which were more fun than drop punting a mini ratweiler through the goalposts for a major at the Subiaco football grounds as the home crowd goes wild on a pleasant Saturday arvo. Huh? What? Where am I? Oh, Bali, the Hash, right… There were fields of bright orange and purple offering flowers, gorgeously emerald paddies, stacks of billowing cumulus clouds outlined by a lowering sun over beautiful large banyan trees, and a very attractively voluptuous Aqua factory - nothing missing at all from a good Bali HHH2 run. I'm serious. For a change.
However, I don't think it would take water boarding to get most hashers to admit that they spent a goodly portion of this run standing stunned and moving their heads slowly around like one of those stupid wildebeests on an Attenborough documentary that has no idea it's about to be devoured by a lion (the wildebeest, not the documentary), thinking "What the f….? There are chalk arrows going in every possible direction" or "Where the f…. did the paper go?" or "the last time I saw paper it was…wait a minute" or variations on those themes. I was with a particularly baffled group of Bewilderbeest deep in the pandanu plantation adjacent the river all claiming to be on paper and spread out in impossibly different locations. It may well have become an international incident if some beest hadn't stumbled across a larger deposit of paper than the other nine beest, which seemed to convince everybeest that, because of its relative size, this was the genuine article. Fortunately, it did indeed turn out thus, but it was by no means a foregone conclusion at the time.
Never mind, we all made it back to the car park and had hairs of the dog. Most of us had dog hairs all over our legs anyway from two slithering black things that, having the intelligence of waffle irons but much more enthusiasm, could not make up their minds whether backwards or forwards was the best bet. Of course this decision making process is always massively assisted by owners shouting at their hirsute charges to keep going or come back alternately, depending on distance and amount of hashers between master and Fido. God, this pisses me off…did I just say that, write it? Sorry, I thought I was just thinking it.
As the circle ground into motion it seemed that once again we were to remain religiously unenlightened in the conspicuous absinthes of the Rev. Wooden Eye and Father Disco Wanker. The show went on though, as it must, with hares R.M.D. and Screaming Lord Unmentionable Ladies' Part (Clitoris) keeping us diligently well-oiled and thus making up for our lack of piety. It was a relatively small crowd (compared to the Toilet Talk Attack of our marsupial mates the week before) and much more enjoyable. All that went on in the center was at least audible and an ambience more of camaraderie prevailed. Labia and Jangle Balls "held up their ends" and "pulled off" a pretty good circle with all kinds of ridiculous and mirthful idiocy from much more soggily elaborate virgin slaying than usual to songs about cunning linguistics and a Friar Tuck lookalike contest which resulted in a runaway win for Agent Orange, although J. Balls, who was at this point blowing bubbles, gave him (A.O.) the win as best "Try a fuck" or "Fire Truck". Like our capering canine comrades, he just couldn't make up his mind.
On on to whatever is on on the map for this Saturday.
See ya there.
