Post Number Twenty Six

“Muang Thai Mongrel”

Thailand. One of the few countries in the world that Australians are allowed into with minimal bribing. So (because of this) there’ll be no questions asked about my (alleged) criminal record when the poverty-stricken Thai Customs Dood finds the (whisper) BAKSHEESH in my back pocket, I dare say. (Of course, I won’t let him keep that baksheesh. I’m going on the assumption that– for someone so poverty-stricken– just patting down the money of a cashed-up farang would be bribe enough. And who knows? If the Customs Dood plays his I.D cards right, I might even let him {whisper} SNIFF IT.)

A problem: while in Thai terms I surely do qualify as a “farang” (translation: “Wog”), in everybody else’s terms I do not qualify as “cashed-up”. So to fix that problem I buttonholed my housemates (who, yair, okay, also double as my “parents”) and asked one (or more) of them for an “interest-and-” (strong preference, this) “-repayment-free” loan. Three working days later I got their reply in the letterbox: “Declined”. When I furthered the matter just before dinnertime, one (or more) of those parents told me that if I really wanted to do a spot of travelling, then I should (quote) “work my passage”

WHOA, steady on.

That is branching out dangerously in Midnight Cowboy directions that even Alistair Vivekenanda’s business cards never advertised! And this from a pair of so-called “parents”, I might add. Shame on them! Shame on my family! (Or at least, shame on those shameful members of same. Not all family members, though. Because you can bet your bottom baksheesh that my straight-up-‘n’-down pole-dancing artiste of a sister, DEBBIE DALLAS DOOLIGAN wouldn’t have that sort’a SMUT on her mind.)

And yet 3-D (as we call her) was not the only person veined with Dooligan blood I had on my mind. The other person I had there was (you guessed it) UNCLE MIKE SPILLIGAN (who, come to think of it, is actually veined with Spilligan blood, so… ah, what the hell). Now, I fully realize how (long ago) I promised us both (you and me, Glorious Reader) that I would never visit him again once I’d caught an educational glimpse of his nipples. But as we both know, I made that promise before I became “turned on” (in every sense) to (and by) that nipple-twistin’ screw, NATASHA DE NASHA. Since then I’ve been hankering for any old excuse to visit the dungeon where he dwells– and this time I had a good one. I needed information and advice re: the topic of overseas jet-setting air travel: and who better to give me that “I” and “A” about “O.J.A.T” than a certain “I.S.S” (International Sausage Smuggler)?

Answer: A Travel Agent.

Well… yair, okay… But I didn’t actually know any travel agents in jail, so I consulted Mike instead. Would’a been better if I did find a travel agent, though, because at least they have a reputation for being cheerful– something which Uncle Mike was anything BUT. In fact, on close inspection, it looked as if he’d been cutting himself, which I never would’ve guessed he’d ever do because of his fear of spilling the Spilligan blood. But on even closer inspection, I could see that he’d only been making lines on his forearms with a red marker pen. Still… for him, even that was pretty friggin’ drastic (although you’d think it a lot less painful than shovin’ a kranski up yer arse), and so I did what any tactful nephew would’a done: completely ignored his problems and spoke about something else.

“How’s Natasha?” I wondered–  and that was the moment when his “anything-BUT-cheerfulness” became highly contagious, because he told me that Natasha De Nasha had been (gulp) fired for (quote) “Ms. Conduct” (as bureaucracy calls it). They’d given her several stern warnings (complete with Added Index Finger Wagging) since last I visited, but apparently nothing could stop her from doing what came naturally: torturing prison-folk.

That’s right. Something in The Gnasher’s brain got broken when I flashed my tatts-de-la-tits at her. It roused her inner Spanish Inquisitor up to– and beyond– the point where she was inquisitive about how loud she could get prison-folk to scream– by tweakin’ their teats! And so for these perfectly natural acts of human curiosity, the bureaucratic machine had stripped a damn good screw of her I.D badge, leaving her with a sizeable question mark hovering over just “who” she “was” anymore.

But– weirdly, for such a two-fisted ladies man– it seemed as though Uncle Mike had no interest in (what he called) a “stupid, stinky female”, and this uncharacteristic lack of interest in “chicks” (as we ironically call them in my Gender Studies course) told me I’d better talk fast before Spilly Guts got so downcast he’d start making red lines on his forearms again.

“Mike”, I said, sternly. “Put. The marker pen. Down. Put it– MIKE!! Down! Put that– Good. Now listen. Listen good. I have an enemy. My sources tell me that said enemy has fled overseas. Which means that– sadly–  I cannot reap a bloody vengeance on him right now. UNLESS, that is, I flee there, too. ‘Where?’ you might wonder. ‘The Land of the Thais’, I might answer. That is why– MIKE, PUT IT DOWN!! Come on, look, just give… gi’ me that… give it here.. give it– OW!! NOT POINT FIRST, YA FUCKIN’ CABBAGE!! I didn’t say… ohhh… Look at that… Looks like blood… My blood… phew… Yes, I DO realize the tip of the pen is ‘felt’, Mike– because, after all: I WAS THE ONE WHO FELT IT!! Just for that, you can’t have it back until I’m safely out of Jabbing Range. Now, as I began to– Mike. Stop grizzling or you won’t get it back at all. Okay? Thank you. All I need is an answer. One simple answer to one simple question: Where on earth– or more specifically, the land of Thailand– would a person locate his worst enemy?”

He told me that most people’s worst enemies gravitated (naturally enough) towards Bangkok’s notorious “Worst Enemy District” which runs along the equally notorious PORN PONG ROAD. And I was in luck because Mike knew somebody (from sausage smugglin’ times) who might (quote) “put me up for a few days”. Hmm… Wasn’t sure about this. Mike”s old smugglin’ chums were a pretty hardcore bunch. But then he told me this dood– whose name is a very Thai-sounding TOCSIN RASHAPOON– is quite the (quote) “pussy hound”. Well, if anybody needs his downstairs doggie distracted by the “hounding” of some “pussies” in Bangers, it was (and is) me! So I scrawled the name “Tocsin Rashapoon” on my wrist and– after a short yet feisty tug-o’-war– gave Mike his marker pen back. Then I left him there, slashing away at his forearm, as I took the first of many steps towards a land where I’d be up to my neck in colourful Thais.

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