BHHH2 Hash Trash Run #1365 Pura Dalem Bongkasa Saturday 24-Mar-18
Split My Arse (nouns)
The big relief last Saturday was that we were finally back in good old familiar river, paddy, jungle, kampong, dog, mountains, mud, dog, waterfalls and perhaps I mentioned dog territory. Yes indeedy folks, don’t touch that dial. It was no hallucination, no cartoon omelette delusion, it was the genuine article, the ridgie didge dealio. After a dry (literally) spell of runs in such exotic locations as Nusa Dua, Mengwi and Serangan we found ourselves once again in the welcoming arms of mother Bonkasa, possibly the happiest kingdom of them all. Happy campers abounded and I was possibly the most hysterically relieved camper of them all. There’s nothing wrong with a few different and unique Hash locations and as you know, if you have been paying attention, I myself personal pronoun, thoroughly enjoyed all of them. But it was great to be back where beer truck has oft’ roved and the Abominable Hash Shoe has been sighted.
Muddy Man’s attorney on this occasion, Spook, announced a short of perhaps six k and a long of an estimated 9 k in the lack of the Hash Master himself who had not yet returned from trail laying duties, and like Stormy Daniels’ knickers, we were off. Which way would it go this time? I don’t believe there’s a Hash site on Bali with so many viable alternative directions in which to run as Bonkasa – all of them good, too. We went in the opposite direction of the Pura and out along the gott (mien gott!) berm for quite a decent spell this time until finally turning off through scrub and trees out into open paddys. It was one of those runs where after the first twenty minutes or so somebody, perhaps you dear reader, or me dear writer, will start complimenting the run to general concurrence. Something along the lines of (pick an opener: “Wow”, “Damn”, “Shit”, “Y’ know”, “Well”) This is a pretty good run.” Pick a concurring remark “Yes it is”, “Uh Huh”, “Mmmmnn” “No shit” (optional “Sherlock” here). You can always rely on Hashers for stimulating high levels of exchange, though an accompanying dog is possibly a better bet in that area. Did I mention dogs?
The run got better and better and then better, longer and longer then longer until we found ourselves in narrow enclosed passages, path ways and tunnels surrounding John Hardy’s ex-property, scurrying down steep stairways to the river valley, then crossing the river on surreal looking suspension bamboo bridges and not long afterwards rounding on the asphalt road toward the Pura, wantilan and home. But how, I posed to myself, did I miss the split? How did they, we, all of us miss it? I stumbled sweatily to the beer, greeted by Muddy’s beaming visage. “You long or short?” But by this time I had wised up. “Split my arse, Muddy”. “Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha. Never believe Hare. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.” He actually sounds like that when he laughs. He does.
You can’t argue with success, though. It was an extremely good run and M. Man outstripped himself, so to speak. No doubt Co – Hare Pussy Delivery was instrumental in “pulling out” a beauty as well, and they both deserve compliments “extended” them (har, sorry, it had to be done). The circle was as much fun as it could legally be and thirsty Hashers made short work of the beer commensurate with the extra kilometers they were fooled into running. I know I did anyway. I finally staggered off holding my aching sides after appearances by The Gland Master, Organ Grinder, Filthy Frog, Jangle Balls alias Humpty Trumpty and Penis Collector alias Stormy D. (Another mention of the Bleached One was inevitable after last and this week’s tawdry tidings). I’ve felt more like having a shower watching CNN lately than I ever have after the Hash.