August 2014 | By: Scrooble The Scrotable Scribbling, Dribbling Scribe
“What kind Of Pool Am I"
The massive public swimming pool in the back blocks of Blakiuh is kind of a mildly incongruous sight if ever I saw one, and we were perched over it for much of the time we were at this site, on one level or another another. It blends in with the paddy, jungle and generally bush surroundings in much the same way as an exploding cigar at a state funeral does, or maybe a thrown rubber chicken at a Quaker wedding. It was indeed difficult to take your eyes off this huge swathe of bright turquoise water in the middle of nowheresblakiuhsville, Bali. Now, I’m not exactly sure what constitutes an Olympic sized pool, but if this one wasn’t, then it must have been at least Hercules sized. It was, in the words of Alan Greenspan on the U.S. deficit at the end of the Bush administration, “fuckin’ big”, get the picture?
Anyhow, we had another contender for run of the month this last Saturday: It was really quiet a gorgeous section of backwater Bali, and very well sought out, well done Sapi Gila. The short at 55 minutes was a tad truncated but very fetching, a bit of up and down was promised, and we got about as much as the back of George Michael’s head in a public convenience. Everybody without exception enjoyed it, much the same as in the vile analogy just employed. Hardly any garbage and only very short sections of quaint kampong (with the emphasis on “pong”) life, featuring maniacal anjing 2, screaming ayam2 and cute anak2 asking for money2, while ayah2 polishes his new Avanza2.
Last week’s circle wouldn’t stop for anybody or anything no matter how bad or old some of the jokes were. We had kind of a spontaneous ladies’ night starring a feisty oriental lass hailing from Petaling Hash with a very convincing Malaysian Chinese accent. She must have practiced in front of the mirror for hours to get it so hilariously right. Sex On (Over? Under?) The Desk told a cracker of a joke that she had told before, and which almost got her iced for her exertions on that occasion. This time it got a wildly enthusiastic response, it’s all in the delivery, maybe the beer, maybe the delivery of the beer.
Anyhow, we all made unsteadily off, buggared, half pissed, chortling and giggling like hyenas so it can’t have been too bad, whatever it was. See you next week for Yeye’s “Uncle’s Birthday Run”, bring a trumpet and a chair. Hey, what are you doing with that strumpet on that chair? I said a TRUMPET AND a chair.
On on.
