June 2014 | By: Scrooble The Scrotable Scribbling, Dribbling Scribe
“Petrified Penis Pulls One Off to Perfection
(Or Blow Joe and Co. Go with the Flow)"
Blow Joe was the first to modestly admit last Saturday that the run was all the handiwork of Penis, so to speak, and that he (B.J.) merely performed the role of paper bitch. Whatever happened, the Seppos hauled out a huge one and Penis’ eye, again so to speak, triumphed wildly successfully for their signal star and stripe festooned (well, metaphorically) occasion at Lungsiakan volleyball and illegal gambling den / concrete bunker on July 5, for July 4. It was an absolute ripper of a run followed by a snifter of a circle. One of the best hashes in living memory, if you can use the words “living” and “memory” in association with BHHH2. All I can say is that it turned out a lot better than Iraq, but then if I were Obama I’d probably also be telling the Abdabs what to do with their oil. This would almost certainly involve a dipstick, and there’s no lack of them in the Middle East. Anyhow, enough of all this puerile innuendo (for those of you who don’t know what the word “innuendo” means, it is an Italian suppository).
Where were we? Yes, there was a run and though it started out a bit confusedly with instructions something like “the short will start over there and come in with the long over here so start over here and over there” (go on ahead back forward), which had a clutch of hashers doing convincing impressions of headless chickens, much like this sentence, (deep breath) it worked out brilliantly, unlike this sentence. There were gaspingly beautiful views, fun filled mudslide surfing, a mini stroll up a tickling steam, I mean a stickling team I mean a trickling stream, testicle elevating-depth gorges viewed from bridges, a waterfall or two manmade or otherwise and topped off with masses of orange flame colored flowers on trees the name of which I couldn’t tell you if electrodes were attached to my nether regions. This run was packed with absolutely everything you could possibly hope for in a hash run in Bali. It even had garbage piles, to remind us where we were.
The circle was practically the mother of all circles and went on for an absurd length of the elastic stuff they call time on this island. The inimitable Wooden Eye was fortunately returned to us with tales of an unfortunate series of Lemony Snicketesque events, including his using a motorbike and some frogs in a novel version of the game of skittles (French pedestrians, not real frogs, which would be cruel), and somehow managing to involuntarily fling himself to the bottom of a Bengkel mechanic’s pit. Things of this nature have been known to kill lesser folk, but you couldn’t kill Wooden Eye with a couple of dozen neutron bombs, he’s one tough customer. He took easily back to the circle as if he had just fallen off a bike and got back up again, hey, wait a minute…he had. His naming session of the tallest Balinese man that ever existed was vintage Wooden Eye; the poor chap ended up as Long Schlong Giday, a name that will no doubt hound him for the rest of his days, as it is meant to.
Labia conducted an extremely moist virgin inducting session brandishing the saturated growth, as he does but going the extra mile this time and upending the jug’s entire contents all over some unfortunate’s bonce for some reason, not evident to anyone but the Hash Master, revealing a carefully concealed bald spot. Night Jar let us know in song how he came to lose a series of sales positions in Chicago all because of his penchant for feeling up, manhandling or basically raping female customers. It was a fairly colourful narrative, mostly blue. Jangle Balls impersonated The Statue of Liberty with a flashing plastic crown he purchased on Sanur beach for the purposes of telling dirty jokes and warbling bawdy and satirical ditties. All this was interspersed with inebriated but enthusiastic appearances and interjections by Blow Joe who at that point had put in some pretty good keg minding time. Oh well, no flies were harmed in the making of this circle.
I suppose I should mention the utterly filthy limerick recitals that evolved somehow after that, but in the interests of good taste, I won’t bother. Let’s just say it was a good thing the Arch Bishop of Canterbury wasn’t there. (I wonder why he’s the “Arch” Bishop and I wonder if it has anything to do with the shape of a bent over choir boy.)
It was off to the Fly with some of us for a glass or two of a peppery Yellowtail cab. sav. As you know from these pages, they have both types of delicious fish there, mahi and mahi. And the band played on. I believe Blow Joe surfaced there at some point, amazingly alive and well. Thank Christ for that. A Kilkenny at the Tickled Escariot, a couple of football games and it was a case of “O’ say can we see by the dawn’s early light?”
On on
