September 2014 | By: Scrooble The Scrotable Scribbling, Dribbling Scribe
"What a Load of old Rubbish"
Unless you’ve been living in a cave on a planet in, perhaps, Alpha Centauri for the last 15 years or unless you are Stevie Wonder or the late Ray Charles you would have noticed that the garbage problem in Bali has worsened over the years. As a 90’s Hasher and even over the last few noughties, it hasn’t escaped my waning, senile old fart powers of observation that things are definitely trending downhill on this front here on the Island of the Gods. We may have witnessed the ultimate manifestation of Bali’s garbage problem on the Pejeng run from Puri Dalem Tingalingamibob last Saturday.
In an otherwise strikingly, dramatically deep, stony and lush gorge in a jungle section of the trail was the single largest glacier-proportioned avalanche of garbage and other disgusting and objectionable poop (with the possible exception of question time at Parliament House in Canberra) I, and probably every hasher on the run that day had ever witnessed.
A couple of hundred Rabid Mangy Dogs with Circle K plastic bags wouldn’t have made the slightest impression on it if we’d have returned to the same site every Saturday for the next 25 years. As much as I admire the Mangy One’s unimpeachable and enthusiastic sentiments where the old sampah is concerned, this handily represents the point at which we philosophically part company. We (BHHH TWO! Two! Two! Two!) are not even in the same universe as being anywhere near capable of making even the most puny, lip-service attempt at cleaning up Bali, and follow me closely here: it’s not, nor should it be, up to us to do so. I personally (myself) do not wish to be brow beaten with a plastic bag every Saturday on my view-seeking, piss-drinking day off. It hurts my brow. All in favour say “Ouch!”
Other than that, how was the drive Mrs. Kennedy? Well, the run was very good indeed I must say. Yet another area of Pejeng explored, and to excellent effect. Old hand Oxczy and other even older hands certainly showed us how come their hands are so old and also did a terrific job showing us around features such as an immaculate temple surrounded with gold painted elephants and elaborately coloured barong and bull figures, some very quaint dells and river crossings, in-river walks and water falls. There was, however, quite a bit of the “G’’ word, which we may have already mentioned, have we? It was a rather short short though, and two of our number opted to do it backwards as well as forwards, got cleverly lost on the long somehow and ended up doing half of that too. No names, critically, but The Rev. R. Archibald Spooner and Ronnie Barker might have called them “Manish Duffin” and “Flud Maps”.
Speaking of these two comprehensively dead gents (not M.D. and F.L. as they are neither), I was so inspired by Jangle Balls’ crazed recitation of “Rindercella and the Sugly Isters” on Saturday’s Magic Circle Club, that I thought I might have a crack at it myself. This one’s called:
“Little Hed Riding Rood” (because she’s a bit Rood)
Little Hed Riding Rood wanted to bake a tasket of food to greed her fanny in the woods. It was a lunt of a wong cay, but off she went tistling a whappy hune. Now the Wig Bad Bolf had always fished to wuck Hed Riding Rood because she had such a bute cutt and such tice little nits. He decided to break into granny’s house and cock her up in the lupboard. By the time Hed Riding Rood arrived to greed her fanny, Bad Bolf was lying in dred in a bess praying with his plick.
‘My, what ig bears you have, granny” said Riding Rood. “Duh, I’m a grucking fanny” said Bad Bolf. “What a nig bose you have”. “TTido” said Bad Bolf, “fome the cuck over here and let me teel those fits”. Just then a choodwopper wurst in through the bindow and fopped the chuck out of the Bad Bolf. “Gotcha, ya cairy hunt” said the choodwopper. “Thow can I ever hank you, sir?” whimpered Hed Riding Rood. “How about a jow blob?” enquired the choodwopper? “Well”, said Hed Riding Rood, “My cranny’s in the gupboard and her talse feeth are still in this jar”. “Tan tucking fastic” said the choodwopper fundoing his ly. “Cranny, I’m gomin’ ’’.
E thnd.
There were many virgins to deflower last week and Labia was as busy as a one legged man at an arse kicking party. Holy water was flying all over the shop and you had to be on your toes not to get caught in the cross fire. The Gland Master could once again think of “Farck Oorl” to recommend Saturday to the history books, but once again eventually saw the light. Colonel Bloodnok, Mudflaps and Agent Orange had the crowd pissing themselves with a reenactment of a Muslim flogging using parts of Labia’s hymen busting bush. The Agent was on the receiving end and Mud Flaps had the whip hand but it was hard to figure out which of the three in centre circle was enjoying it most.
Once again we dank the druck try, regained our hevicles and ucked foff. See you next week at Tunon for Foktober Est.
On on
Jangle Balls
