BHHH2 Hash Trash Run #1367 Mambal Swimming Pool 7-Apr-18

BHHH2 Hash Trash Run #1367 Mambal Swimming Pool 7-Apr-18

 


More Pool You

 

When we say Mambal Swimming Pool, we on Bali Hash Two don’t mean literally the Mambal Swimming Pool. I don’t know why we do this, but I’ve got a sneaking suspicion it’s because nobody has a clue what the nature of the place next door to the M.S.P. where we park and from where we take off actually is, exactly. I’ve tried to figure it out for many a long year but I’m damned if I can make head or tail of it. At one point I even went on line and typed in “The Place Next Door To The Mambal Swimming Pool”. I’m glad I did this because with just a few short clicks I was able to locate many photographs of naked women which I researched for several days, no wait, I didn’t really. I’m kidding har har, I’m such a kidder.

 

It looks like a cross between a really down and out second hand car and bajaj dealership and junkyard for absolutely useless rotting junk. I had a poke around and unearthed of all things a chicken head behind a rusty wreck of a motorbike. It looked a bit like Donald Trump only with a more natural hairstyle. There’s all kinds of crap laying around there. Now I know what you’re thinking, you’re thinking Is there a punk band called Useless Rotting Junk or The Donald Trump Chicken Heads, right? I knew it! The answer is: I looked this up on line too and found several photographs of…never mind.

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To be bwutally fwank, I wasn’t really looking all that forward that much to this run having done it a zogwillion times before, but I was extremely pleasantly surprised and enjoyed the living bejesus out of it. We took some novel new diversions, especially toward end of the run where we were sent on a lengthy and peacefully quiet canal-side path under a cool canopy of trees. Paddys were vivid greens and golds with mature rice and the weather cooperated brilliantly, threatening thunderheads coming in from the north rendering a potentially serious bout with tropical heat a non-event, which was fortunate because I forgot my hat (again, or maybe still).

 

And  in a completely unexpected and unusual twist of secrecy and fate, guess who set the run? That’s right, how did you know? It was of course Sarah Huckabee Sanders. Just kidding. Who the huck has a name like “Fuckabee” anyway? No, it was Stormy Daniels’ lawyer, kidding again, it was Muddeth M. Man who not only laid the trail but ran on it as well. The man IS the Hash, the whole Hash, and nothing but the Hash these days, and may good be upon him.

 

The circle was an unholy, unruly and uncontrollable affair this week despite the fact (or maybe because of the fact) that our numbers were depleted by many regulars taking off to Ahmed on an independent Hash called the “Recovery Run” (it remains unclear from what). There’s nothing wrong with this and we hope they enjoyed themselves and recovered from whatever mysterious malaise had threatened them, but it left BHHH2 post-run rituals and shenanigans last week attended largely by uncomprehending and non-observing virgins and visitors who would not fut the shuck up and made little attempt to cooperate despite Herculean down-downing efforts on the parts of the Hash Master and Religious Advisor (end of sentence, thank Christ). The Grand Master’s, ironically, sobering presence was sorely missed.

 

So… what happens next? Where’s the next Hash? Who are the Hares? These eternal questions and others such as “Do these pants make me look fat?” (note: if you’re male and your wife or girlfriend asks you this, flee the country) will all be answered but not necessarily by me nor in these pages, but keep reading anyway.

On on,

 

J.B.

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