"The Lord is my German Shepherd"
The Lord is a shoving leopard, sorry, a loving shepherd who maketh me down to lie in pastures green and eateth sausages and sauerkraut after the Hash last Saturday at Mambal swimming pool car park; and who looketh a lot like German Shepherd and talketh like Yoda saying unto me “sausages more must you eat, Luke”, chapter eight, verse eleventeen, pink ticket no B52, aisle six. Seriously folks, if you didn’t eat German Shepherd’s and Juicy Jugs’ Bangerwurst and Kraut Kimchi last week at the St. Christopher’s Day run you missed a heavenly treat from these two Sausage and Mustard Goddesses. Lord have mercy, it was good.
I also had a bit of a culinary epiphany (I did find a tree to do it behind though). It came to me as a flash of realization in mid – wurst. All German food, whether it be Frankfurters, Hamburgers, with the possible exception of Berliners (see J.F.K.’s “I am a doughnut” speech), Bratwurst, Buttwurst or Knackerwurst, Whateverwurst, is made expressly to go hand in hand with another activity – that’s right, go to the top of the class and get me a Bali Hai while you’re there – piss drinking, lager gargling, brewski bashing, pilsner packing, angel urination imbibing, all of the above.
The Gerrys are great piss artists; how the hell they managed to engage in two World Wars then become Europe’s richest nation, the growth engine of the E.U., is beyond me. And they don’t screw around with pansified light beers either; it’s a wonder they can get out of bed let alone compose waltzes, operatic ring trilogies about Brunhilda and produce philosophical treatises. Which reminds me of a Woody Allen quote: “I can’t listen to Wagner. Every time I do I have an overwhelming urge to invade Poland.”
Anyway, where was I? Ah yes, something to do with a run, I believe. Hares Serial offender and Rabid Mangy Dog put us cleverly through our paces for the second week in a row, indeed, with a fairly long short and an even longer long, coming in at 6 and 11 kilometers respectively if I remember rightly, and I never do at this age. In fact if the alternative were crucifixion, I wouldn’t remember rightly. However, if nothing else, this was an agricultural outing showcasing practically every form of Bali’s various traditionally grown crops from peanuts to rice and back again as we jogged, paced and strolled through the produce of the island’s ingenious and resourceful farmers. Bright red offering flowers speckled the countryside intermittently, tall cornfields and, well, less tall golden topped sweetcorn fields were sandwiched between mature brilliant green paddys and fields of discarded, smoking husks of the rice plant. Pandanu also made the odd appearance as did Bali’s newest non-cash crops, garbage and plastic.
It was a mostly appealing run that started with a dreadfully novel double check back. This took us down to an alluring section of massive rocks by a river, a scene that was too good not to include in the run, but lack of paper left us baffled, shuffling and bewildered for some tense moments while disembodied calls of “checking” and “fuck me, where is it?” issued from the surrounding bush. The latter is not strictly a regulation Hash call, but is heard often enough to be considered for inclusion. We finally unearthed the paper well off into thick growth half way down the steps to the river, cheeky bastards.
I did have a minor accident during the run, not one which was accompanied by my whole life flashing before me or anything, I just tumbled down a slight incline wrenching my arm as I fell on it, like a fumblebum fuckwhistle. Nevertheless, it is of the utmost importance to keep the ABC of Hash First Aid always in mind:
A.
Bone.
Coming through the epidermis is not good.
Also, if an ambulance is ever called, always remember to ask if you can operate the siren. And please commit to memory this uplifting biblical quote from Muses, The Book of Fractions Ch.4, Item 69 (Cashew Chicken and Snow Peas), “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of the spring water bottling plant, I will fear no evil, for I have my rod, my staff and my Hash bandana commemorating the 1.000th run of Bali Hash House Harriers TWO! to comfort me” That ought to just about cover things.
The circle was, again last week as it has been more and more often lately, as much fun as you can legally have without technically being in a Jacuzzi with a number (pick one) of naked super models. That goes for you too, ladies. Do they have male super models? I mean ones that aren’t gay? However, because of seasonal factors like many of our members pissing off to their countries of origin for the Yule (log) season we are a smidgen short of attendees. So next week bring your Granny. If she can’t accompany you for reasons of death or incarceration, we will consider others of drinking age. The more the merrier, our standards aren’t hugely high or we wouldn’t be there. As we say at the Hash: we’re here because we’re not all there.
On on to Sangeh on Saturday, see you there.
J.B.
