October 2014 | By: Scrooble The Scrotable Scribbling, Dribbling Scribe
"A Coming Out Party"
In more innocent eras the above phrase had less, umm, revelatory or cathartic connotations than its current one and would be more associated with a figure such as Vivien Leigh floating ethereally down a winding staircase in bonnet, bows, bustle and swishing petticoats in “Gone with the Wind” at the old plantation to the appreciation of dashing Southern gentlemen such as David Niven in red pants with a stripe down the side of them, military jacket and sword, adjusting his moustaches feverishly. I suppose a more contemporary scene in relation to the above phrase might possibly be similar with only a slight change of genitalia, but my point is that while times change drastically over the course of even a handful of decades things have a way of staying pretty much the same.
Thus while standing, mouth agape, knuckles on hips, overlooking an utterly magnificent, unsullied view of outstretched paddys on Barnacle Balls’ fabulous run on Saturday at Tegallalang, I was moved to remark to a fellow Hasher “Man, this could be a scene from a thousand years ago if it weren’t for those bloody ugly signal towers.” Heads nodded thoughtfully in agreement. There were many a scene such as this on this spectacular run, and not many of them were marred by eyesores of that nature. Anyway, I kind of mentally photo shopped them out if they were there.
This was a genuine, 24 carat, typical Barnacle Balls run. Here is an Irishman with a capital “Eye”. Also typically, the bastard really put us through our paces. Steps, we had ‘em. At one point 350 of them - straight up a valley wall (I just made up that figure, I was far too exhausted to count). They were everywhere, but that wasn’t all; as if he hadn’t given us enough sweeping valley and lush jungle climbs, he also added (which I only noticed by turning around 180 degrees on an impossibly scenic paddy walkway, on a whim) a purple mountain range view rearing majestically behind us in the distance. “Dude!” I articulately muttered to myself. It was at this point that a certain youthful blood relative Hasher of Yours Truly stopped and pointed out the crystal drops of dew poised on the spear top of every rice plant that were visible only by kneeling down and facing the orange orb of the setting sun – amazing shit.
I guess I could babble on and wax all wankyfied (yes, wankyfied, look it up) about this and other features of this memorable run like bamboo bridges hovering shakily over heart pounding gorge drops, but moving right along: Have you ever noticed what a majorly joyful experience for dogs on the Hash various odors are? Think about a wonderful experience you’ve had like getting through a week without hearing the names ‘‘Kardashian” or “Clooney”. Multiply this intense happiness by a gadzillion and you’re not even coming close to the ecstasy a dog experiences every time he or she discovers a new and scintillatingly novel stench, like another critter’s urine, perhaps or possibly even another doggy’s rural twinkle.
Well, that’s what it must be like, because on one of those very precariously hanging collection of bamboo lengths in mid crossing a canine, whose name will not be revealed for legal reasons, was so taken by the olfactory equivalent of an orgasm that having momentarily forgotten about it, tail thrashing like an adrenaline crazed cobra, the not inconsiderable bulk of this sure footed Fido hurtled back across the bridge having already crossed it like a hairy ICBM as I was shakily inching forth, to inhale another rapturous lungful of eau-de-rat’s piss while I clung desperately to whatever I could having almost been dislodged and sent plummeting 80 feet or so to a rocky stream. Leashes please Hashers and Harriets, pretty please with sugar on it.
To add to all this novelty was the presence of some thirty or so Finnish visiting phys.ed student teachers on last Saturday’s run. This is not something you see or hear every day of the week. A Finn is not your tall, intensely blonde, ice - blue eyed version of a Scandahooligan such as your Swede or your Norwegian. If anything they looked and sounded more like a battalion of tattooed Scots speaking Esperanza with fake Russo-Portuguese accents. What a weird lingo, sheez. Anyhow, their English was good enough to be thoroughly arrested by the presence and visage of Grand Master night Jar in the circle, who held them in thrall with his representative enactments of masturbation and defecation, being confused as he was, about the meaning of “International Coming Out Day”. Confronted with this apparition, they were utterly hypnotized and silenced. Who can blame them?
If we are ever invaded by aliens from outer space, say Tralfamadorians, who as you know are just floating arms with one eye in the palms of their hands and emit beeping sounds, I vigorously recommend sending in the Grand Master to mime such fundamental human activities as he did on Saturday and shout at them in Oxbridge tones while the linguists figure out how to communicate with them or the generals how to vaporize them. But seriously folks, Night Jar was stellar and you missed a vintage performance of every Hash office from virgin busting to bawdy ditty rendition if you were unfortunate enough not to be there.
Another “Coming Out” refrain was delivered by Jangle Balls (yes, him again) who showered us with “Dear Pwudenthe” by the Dung Beatles: “won’t you come out today hey hey heeeeeeey, Dear Pwudenthe, thay that you are gay hey hey heeeeeey. The thun ith out, the thky ith blue, you’ve got a schlong and knackerth too”. Thuch thillineth. And tho unacctheptable.
See you next week for Sapi Gila’s “outing” at Sekar Mukti.
On on,
J.B.
