October 2014 | By: Scrooble The Scrotable Scribbling, Dribbling Scribe
"Retoon To Turnon"
It was back to the old Lazy “H” Herb Ranch in Tunon last week for Oktoberfest and a Rabid M.D. and Serial Offender run. Instant Déjà vu overcame me as we approached the “Healing Centre’’ with its Disney cartoon character wall paintings featuring Goofy (in case you’re wondering), an old bath tub (as opposed to a new one) in the yard and a “Daftar Obat” sign (“Herbs List” as opposed to Herb’s List, which was Schindler’s first name). Where had I seen this unlikely set of elements before? Why is Adolf Hitler speaking in a Cockney accent? Where in God’s name is the beer truck? Answers: 3 weeks ago at a previous run, it’s only R.M. Dog in Nazi drag, everybody was late as even the hardiest Hashers had to haul themselves and their Victor Awards / Oktoberfest hangovers laboriously to the run site. Me three.
Allow me to spool back 16 hours or so before that forlorn hour to a scene of wild and drunken revelry at whatever the name of the tempat was on the Bypass at which the Victors were held. Harriet’s being as buxom and Bavarian as humanly possibly dressed as Bier Kellar (?) or Garten(?) frauleins flinging themselves around in abandon on the dance floor. Night Jar down downing yet another stein for yet another award, Hashers of every exotic description gargling lager as if it were their absolute final beer before scrambling on the last chopper out of a holiday resort taken over by Zombies, like Hashers in other words. It was a great night and I’m reliably informed by a source close to Hash Cash (Dancing Queen) that 11 kegs disappeared down Hash gullets, which works out by a sophisticated process of deduction (7th grade maths) to about between 8 to1,000 beers per hasher. Good going, HHH2!
Back at the accursed day after we were “rounded up” by the Austrian Corporal, sent on our way to sweat out our excess intake and suffer for our sins. And I must say it had the desired effect. It was a well laid trail with a bearable amount of check backs in pretty reasonable Hashing territory. The short at an hour was just what the doctor ordered for a post-Victors jog and it was just warm enough to crack a decent sweat and expel poisons from the night before. Pretty well thought out, and the long was blessed with a river crossing at the end that set tongues wagging by those who did it. Good job, R.M.D., Serial Offender et al. By the time we got back we could, of course, drink beer with relatively clean consciences and proceeded to do so.
As it turned out there were a compliment of Germans present for this run, surprise, surprise, who seemed to enjoy the spectacle of a scruffy Fuhrer impersonator and actually laughed at Jangle Balls’ decidedly dubious German jokes and songs. Who sess zey haff not gott a sense off humour, yess? The following vas mien favourite: A British cop pulls over a German tourist and says “Sir, do you realize you have two poisonous snakes on your windscreen?” “Off course”, says the German. “Zose are my vindscreen vipers”. Hardy; for the benefit of those of you not fortunate enough to be there.
It was a damn good circle even though a biliously green looking Wooden Eye didn’t take part and left early (for the emergency room, possibly) after not successfully shaking off his dose of Bali Hai blues. No Grand Master either, but everybody seemed to contribute a werse or two of ‘‘Zee Mayor of Baysvater” and his pubically gifted daughter (“vun schvarz vun, vun Veiss vun unt vun viss a little scheiss on”) sung for obvious reasons in the thickest of Tuetonic tones by the non-German speaking contingent. If I were on the Hindenburg I wouldn’t exactly be telling my fellow passengers what an unforgettable circle it was as we go down in flames, but it was okay.
Hope to see you next time for Barnacle Balls’ International Coming Out Day and it’ll be interesting to see what HHH2 make of that.
On on
Jangle Balls
