First of all, apologies to all for the tardiness of this report. Promises made to be scribe at the beginning of the afternoon were so easily and conveniently forgotten, as so often things that we don’t really give a shit about are forgotten.
But since the esteemed JM has deemed the creation of this document as worthy of an email reminder, I shall acquiesce to provide an eructation equal to the task.
THE LOCATION:
Had I known it was to be so far from the sleazy side of Bangkok, and had I known there was no planned stop at McDonalds in the Tickler mobile, I would have humped a far larger picnic basket over to Soi 10 where the trip, for me, began. Fortunately, Late-Coming-Ball-Slapper was more in-the-know and packed enough sandwiches for us all. But this is neither here no there as far as the run is concerned, so I shall endeavour to return to the topic at hand.
The route to the run appeared, from a snoring back-seat driver’s point-of-view, to be quite straightforward and not nearly as far as originally thought, and so we arrived in typical Tickler/Marine’s first-in-last-out fashion. Clearly the hares had chosen a spot suitable for a group of reprobates to congregate as we were greeted by swarms of gargantuan house flies who were having a great deal of trouble ascertaining the difference between a hasher and a pile of shit. Perhaps they are more intelligent than we think, and there is, in fact, no difference.
More cars and trucks arrived, the bus from Pattaya arrived, we circled half-heartedly to hear the directions we knew were to follow and 2 poor saps, myself included, were forced to guzzle a down-down of water (Jesus, how do you people drink that shit straight?) from their gleaming new runners.
And the pack was off to the tremendous admiration, applause and adoration of a half-blind and crippled dog who had stopped to piss on the back tire of someone’s pickup parked out on the road.
THE RUN
The area was new. It was fresh. It was, quite literally - and I say this without reservation -the best PBH3 I have run this month. It involved a bit of everything the Thailand countryside has to offer (is it just me – or am I the only one who stumbled upon the cute little out-of-the-way massage parlour?) including plantations, open fields, dense forests, and deep and not so deep rivers - ok, they weren’t exactly rivers, but the current was still swift and several of the shorter members of our entourage would have been swept to obscurity had it not been for the heroics of their hash mates.
But alas, even with all the attending heroes, there was one hasher who could not be saved. Poor Matt took a tumble early in the run, a tumble that clearly knocked more out of him than any of us had thought possible. Even at the drink stop he showed no more signs of dementia than usual. So how was one - how was anyone - to know that his sense of direction had been knocked the way of his common sense, and that he was to very nearly become the next victim of a nature at once as beautiful as it is cruel. He did however, despite the best efforts of our hare and Pussy Virus to reign him in under their power, enter the circle under his own steam, although on the back of a motorbike. There he was greeted by such an outpouring of goodwill and heartfelt relief that it was almost enough to bring tears to a grown man’s eyes.
THE CIRCLE
The circle began late as the hopeful JM awaited the arrival of our one lost soul, but all were taken care of in the interim by the forest cuisine of V.V and the cold beer. The hares (with Ringworm standing in for Dizzy) were toasted (or is that roasted?) for a trail well set, some visitors and virgins were introduced and charges were laid. Unfortunately a couple of Canadian teachers clearly hadn’t been laid in a while and were seeking the advice and expertise of Clive – this is obviously a well that runs deep - and so their chatter was non-stop throughout the circle. And it didn’t seem to bother them how many times they were sent to the ice bucket for their private partying, they just kept on clucking like toy chickens on EverReady batteries.
The charges – well, let’s face it – if you don’t write them down at the time, or at least within a few days of the circle, they just blend in with all the circles that came before and that followed after to create a blurry history of one’s own Hashing career.
Yet I will try to fill you in on (or remind you of) a few highlights. Who can forget the JM’s introduction of the dancing girl’s version of Witching Woman, complete with red lights glowing seductively on the Pattaya bad boys seated in ice below. Or the naming of Anal Pineapple or Screaming Dildo or whatever the hell we named the Canadian teacher with a fascination for pineapples being inserted into, and then withdrawn slowly out of, his rear. The girls in the corner were, of course, brought up for having a wimp mat for their feet while …blah…blah…blah…
And then it was back to the Tickler mobile for a ride driven by alcohol – NO BEER NO GEAR – IT’S THE CHEVRON WAY! And then to the sidewalk of the Sukhumvit – Asoke corner where the beers are always cold, the alcohol always real, and the girls – well, I’m sure some of them are real – Pussy Virus told me so.
And that’s all this scribe remembers.
ON ON
Tonto
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