January 2014 | By: The Scrutable Scribe
An Embarrassment of R.A.s'
It never rains it pours and it was pissing down R.A.s and Grand Masters on Saturday at Manuaba adjacent the Puri Griya Sakti. There were more Ring (ho) Masters than you could wave your privates at, not that you would nor that we would want you to, depending on your gender. Just last week there was such a drought of the bastards (R.A.s etc. not private parts) you couldn’t have found one with a Geiger counter: this week Disco Wanker finally did the appearing trick, Night Jar’s presence was felt, and recent stalwarts Jangle Balls and of course Labia, last but by no means last (?) were both evident. There was however a naggingly persistent lack of Wooden Eye, which because of Hash Protocol Observance, will be omitted from mention in this report.
Also, there was a run, if my memory serves me well, which it refuses to do mostly these days I’m afraid. In fact, we are so estranged I doubt if it would make me a cuppa let alone serve me. As I vaguely recall, Spook, Dancing Queen and an additional Balderdash, or some people that looked like them, presented us with a run that was by turns magnificently sweeping and bucolic, like Constable with palm trees. There was an astonishing valley view at one point that well and truly removed my socks, or maybe I just forgot them along with my scrunchies (again).
It was an all-round fantastic run though a tad short in the short department (Boris Becker-like) at about 55 mins, but added to the last three runs to make it four beauties in a row. It was, however, insanely muddy and as Labia puts it with a combination of his very own adjective and British understatement “A bit slippy”. There was indeed the odd moment when had I foolishly allowed my eyes to stray momentarily to one of many particularly arresting views, I may have wound up at the bottom of a steep, and probably painful-on-the-way-down, gorge, and how do you say it in English? Fucked, certainly lost and a tad uncomfy. Still, nothing like a bit of terror to concentrate the mind, as they say at English boarding schools, eh what? “I say, one of our chaps has gone missing, Headmaster”. “Jolly bad show, send out the school leopard for him, then”.
How did I get there? Never mind, we were on in before you could say Smorgas Restaurant meatball sandwiches. By the way speaking of digressions, there’s a new Hobbitt movie out about the unfortunate destruction by giant dragon of Dancing Queen’s quaint little rezzo in Sanur. It’s called “The Desolation of Smorgas” (hardy!), funny, no? Okay then. And before you could say ABBA it was getting a little nippy around the old beer truck back wheels, if you know what I mean, so we all slipped into something a little more comfortable and a lot less whoofy.
This is when the fun began, I’m pretty sure. Labia launched into leavers, returners and run of the month, which went to a giggling Bouncing Czech and who was awarded with a long sleeved polo necked was it (?) affair in an up-to-the-minute fashion move on the part of BHHH2. Cutting edge stuff (in 1965) and certainly handy for those Denpasar cold snaps. One (count him) virgin felt the sting of the Hash Master’s gigantic bush. We all stood back being pretty much all in the line of fire. Grand Master Night Jar took the reins and chided the ignorant (all of us again) for being blissfully underwears of some obscure Balinese religious observance, of which of course, there aren’t nearly enough. As usual, it was an interlude of high hilarity to which we all look forward in these increasingly stressful times.
Disco Wanker further (what can I say here?) upbraided some outrageously bad haircuts and horrific fashion faux pas (English: “foxes’ paws”) and had us comprehensively pissing ourselves. Jangle Balls held a “James Bond movie title with the word ‘fuck’ in it” competition (complete with fabulous H.D.S.H.I.T.D.V.D. prizes). There were some creative titles too. I particularly liked “Dr. Fuck No”, “The Man with the Golden Fuck” Unfortunately, “Fuckedopussy”, “Thunderfuck” and “Fuck Russia with Love” never made an appearance. J.B. (Jangle Balls not James Bond) finished the evening with a tender rendition of Burley Chassis’ famous theme song to “Fuckfinger”.
One more tangent if I may. I ran into a Chindo guy on the run (as you do) whom I hadn’t seen for a while and attempted to grasp his hand and pound him on the shoulder enthusiastically. Note to the uninitiated and my forgetful idiot self: these guys are not big on this kind of thing. They’d be uncomfortable in a typical buleh gathering where people who barely know each other hug and air kiss etc. and people who are close will have sex right by the barbecue. Indonesians who have known each other for years are still “Pak” or “Bu” to one another whereas, for example, Australians who have just met are up to “ya boofhead” by midnight.
So just a little Martha Stewart tip here, other than insider trading that is, try to exercise restraint in this area if none others. I certainly will now, and certainly don’t, in that order.
On on
