Bali Hash House Harriers 2

“My Fellow Merkins”

Ten bucks to anyone that can tell me what a merkin is. No, it’s not a national of the United States, although that is how a person or persons of that description is or are usually pronounced by a person or persons of that description. That is correct, ten United States dollars goes to the ginnelman (also merkin pronunciation) in the pubic wig. Oh what the hell, give him ten Australian, I’m feeling generous. In the 1700s when mercury was used to treat sexually transmitted diseases (gonorrhea or syphilis) one of the side effects was the loss of pubic hair, to disguise this giveaway condition, a merkin was employed. Thus today, it is not uncommon to hear the phrases “Are you wearing a merkin?” (Usually whispered in a darkened bar) or “Are you proud to be a merkin?” (Usually shouted at top note and usually a rhetorical question in a darkened bar or a Congressional Hearing).

Either way, a shitload of pubic wigs showed up on Saturday for the July Fourth run on Saturday last, ably set by Ubud Mafia members Blow Joe, Worm and Marble Balls – and not all of them were merkins. Not all of the attendees, I mean, the hares were all the genuine seppo articles. Seppo – should I also explicate this reference? Oh alright then, in the 1700s as an alternative cure for sexually transmitted diseases, merkin wearing prostitutes were buried up to their necks in the contents of septic tanks – sorry, a story that’s total crap (har). Suffice to say: yank-septic tank-seppo. Off paper completely now, as usual. See what you made me do?

The whole package was pretty swell and the guys and dolls didn’t let us down at all. Oh, and I almost forgot honorary seppo, Inflatable Bedmate. I asked what he was instrumental in and he told me he was the Hash “whatsitsname”, with which I could not agree more. The car park for a start (har again) had one of the most grandiose, nobly aged and gigantic Banyans in the Tropics, without exaggerating, much. We parked under it, walked around beneath and between thick tendrils of hanging vines on which kids swung and played and people picnicked in its ample shade both before and after the run. There was parking area aplenty for the fairly large crowd that showed up; good thinkin’, hares. Plus there was enough tree and shade for hot dog a-cookin’, tee shirt a-distributin’, beer truck a-visitin’, a-millin’, and a-drinkin’ and a-bullshittin’ under. I must say, the tee shirt featuring a patriotically colored Captain America, wait, that doesn’t sound right. His super hero suit was colored, not him. He was blue I think, anyway it was pretty good. Nobody says “colored” any more, right? I’ve been out of town (for 30 years).

The trail was quaint, yes I think that’s the word I’m looking for, if not cute. Little winding jungle paths and dells, quiet paddy-side trails with many a decent sized tree and bamboo stand, it had plenty of paper and it was easier to follow than pooping in bed and kicking it out with your foot, a lot easier really. Not a ton of garbage, it didn’t start out promisingly in that area, but this was only in the very early stages of the run. It wasn’t the longest short, coming in at a shade over an hour, but we had a scenic up and own or two, and it was way good enough for me.

The circle eventually coalesced and the din was incredible, there being a lot more Seppos in it than usual. The decibel count was enormous; cows and chickens were dropping dead as far away as Candidasa and commercial air traffic was being re-routed to avoid disruption of sensitive electronics. Even the non-Seppos gave up and conducted their own small soirees on the sidelines. It wasn’t until the Grand Master took over proceedings that any semblance of a circle being conducted was evident (as usual).

Unfortunately by this time, due to a short run, a long afternoon and a propensity to celebrate virtually anything with perhaps a beer or two, if you absolutely have to insist, I’d already lost a certain amount of concentration. Let’s be blunt, I was half pissed and only barely remember Dancing Queen taking credit for the weather and his being born a superior Swede. He could have been telling us he was an excellent vegetable for all I could hear or process. Everybody seemed to be having fun and enjoying his jokes, though.

An unfamiliar Pommy Hasher enlisted circle members to simulate the D-Day landings on Omaha Beach, which only had a tenuous relationship with July Fourth if that; but it was worth it to witness an enthusiastic impersonation by Hare Worm of a Hurricane fighter (he really was on airplane mode) and an unidentified Harriet who put in an Oscar winning sound effects performance of a French farm girl being raped. This incredibly convincing effort elicited immediate cries of “more raping sounds, more raping sounds” from male circle members, of course. Jangle Balls pondered in song about the cultural results of a recent U.S. Supreme Court ruling e.g. a new national anthem: “O it’s mandatory to be queer if you’re Yank, and your fellow Seppo must give you a wank”, but I don’t remember much about that either.

It was altogether a thoroughly enjoyable interlude, full of merkin razzmatazz and hoop la, hot dogs and cotton jersey, which after all are sure fire ingredients to bring ‘em out in their droves. Sex on The Desk, Botulism and Kuda Lumping must also be extended thanks as well as Jenny Two Melons for their generous thingamijigs, especially Jenny Two Melons whose thingamijigs are especially generous. Stay tuned for another exciting episode next week at Goa Gaja with Dic Doc and Bongo. Bring your favorite merkin.

On on,
J.B.