November 2013 | By: The Scrutable Scribe
Ain't Misbehovin'
First and foreskin, it behooves me, beheaves me, behaves, behalves or something, me to declare right here and now that any mis-directions to any Bali Zoo car park that may have inadvertently occurred on any or either hash maps sent out last week was in no way the fault of our estimable inestimable, contestable, arrestable hair raiser and map maker; nor was he responsible for any confusion that may have transpired as a result, on paper, as it were, in any way at all, by any stretch of the Y-fronts, Wonder Bra, Leotards, tutu, imagination . So I'm glad we cleared that up and let that be an end to it. I won't be bringing up the subject again, and will not tolerate any correspondence on the matter.
So, were we the only idiots convinced that we were on the wrong road and arguing amongst ourselves as to whether we should give up our trajectory after having turned off the Bali Zoo road following the HHH signs? Don't answer that. No we weren't? I didn't think so. Never mind, we all got there (Pura Dalem Apuan, that is, as opposed to the Zoo car park) in the long run, final analysis, bitter conclusion, curtain, end.
Once again we found ourselves shouting at one another under the ridiculous acoustic circumstances afforded by the asbestos roofed structure, gazebo, wantilan, pergola, office, palace, istana, shed without walls, reichstag at this location. The Hash Master bellowed painfully at us that there were to follow two runs (TWO!!) consisting of a 5 km length and 1 hr. 20 min duration short, and a 9km length and 2 hr. 30 min (again? groan) duration long. Meanwhile, two (TWO!) offenders, admittedly myself plus a well-known S.C.B. whose name it behoovers me not to mention (Whitebait) snuck to the rear of the property (?) toward the underground cock fighting arena, where runs from here usually start, to gain an advantage and wound up at the back of the pack because it didn't - buggar, poop, tit, stiffy, doodle, knacker, bum. Okay, I'll stop doing that now.
I'm not going to say that the first part of this run was confusing. It wasn't, it was bewildering. Hashers were spread out over acres of rice paddies yelling contradictory calls at one another and nobody saw (not me anyway) a shred of paper for at least the duration of the third act of "Hamlet". However it soon improved and once out of the paddies things seemed to be proceeding rather less erratically. In fact it turned into a nice run once we had crossed the river, in a not exactly shallow, it must be said, section of not exactly still or lukewarm water adjacent a not exactly flat or dry area of valley. It was fun and very pretty indeed running the meandering riverside trail then crossing the ever-scenic weir, water catchment facility, dam, thing, damn thing, whatever the fuckin' thing's called.
It only remained to turn left, dart through the hotel, jog a bit further up the opposite side of the river, turn right past the Zoo, right at the tee and Bob's your ankle, carbuncle, dongle, fungal, uncle. But No! This time there was a particularly officious and not exactly truthful security person who was obviously not keen on our presence in "his" hotel, who chose to bullshit us (while stuffing his trouser pockets with hash paper) that other runners had turned left on the opposite river bank rather than tell us politely to piss off. We turned back momentarily but a hasher who, because of our strict privacy code was Worm, erupted with "this is bullshit", turned on his heel and we trotted past the uniformed and sputtering porky pie teller. We may have given him a hearing had he not blatantly blown smoke up our shorts, but probably not.
Back at the beermobile I was having an arfa lager, bitter, pilsener, Conan Doyle's Lost World, Bintang (I do wish I'd stop finishing my own sentences for me) when Labia prudently advised us to round ourselves up, not in the car park, but far from that echoing nightmare of a building in an area adjacent it and behind a bamboo fence, good move.
It started out innocently enough, but let me tell you genital reader, if you missed last Saturday's circle you missed the best one in recent history, the decade, living memory, last week. It was an unmitigated cack fest with all kinds of looney toons: Col. Bloodnok, the Penguin, Labia, Jangle Balls, spook and Organ Grinder all in top form including de-pantser general, Hot Lips. There were a dozen or so visitors from a Perth hash who, while less than hilarious, had their own ditties and dotties and enjoyed themselves immensely. Even R.M.D. had the occasional disturbing and disturbed rasp to contribute. Limericks were limned, Beatles were dunged, and an English c..t appeared in Bloodnok's garden looking uncannily like O. Grinder Esquire (the c..t, not the garden). A hitherto unknown bespectacled Septic Tank sang hysterically lutjuh, staccato, machine gun like disgusting lyrics that I nearly soiled me jodhpurs over. It just goes to show, when they're funny, they're funnier 'n shit, rare though it may be.
Anyhow, you missed out if you weren't there, nyah nyah, nyah nyaahh nyah. That was a terrible song, give us another one, just like the other one, give us another one do, please do, please do.
On on.
