“Siam Bound”
Good news. I’m on my way! That’s right. I’m firing off this Post from a flying machine, headed for the land of the Thais. Just hope that land isn’t expecting me to be formally dressed– or even formerly dressed (i.e. nude)– that’s all. Because obviously a heady blend of jungle air, non-hygienic food and Really Cheap Drugs over there will (no doubt) get me hallucinatin’ again; which, in turn, will get my wise-crackin’ COCK running off at the mouth again, thereby drawing attention to us both to an even greater degree than what my inevitable public nudity will. So MENTAL NOTE:
“Remain Fully Clothed in Public at Almost All Times.”
That’s not my idea, by the way. It’s one of many pieces of advice I got from a reliable source. Here’s a few more “Pearls of Advice-dom” (same source):
“Do Not Be Tempted By The Sight Of Naked Ladies Showing Off The Might Of Their Vagina Muscles By Firing Ping-Pong-, Tennis-, And (For The Advanced Vagina) BOWLING Balls Across A Crowded Bar-Room.”
Hmm. Bad advice for the curious traveller. But there’s more:
“Beware Of Genital Suction. When The Suction Starts, Quickly Grab The Nearest Pole And Hold On, Taking Special Care Never To Dance Up It (The Pole, That Is. Not The Suction). For It Is A Well-Known Groinocological Fact That A Missile Muscle Can Also Be A Suction Muscle When Put In Reverse. And Furthermore, A Missile Muscle That Has Propulsion Powers To Fire A Bowling Ball Across A Crowded Bar-Room ALSO Has VACUUM Powers Of Equal And/or Greater Vag-nitude. So Beware. Do Not Get Sucked In By The Local Vaginas.”
Then the “reliable source” went on to explain to the passengers how to use the gas mask under the seat, how to blow up the life-raft, and whose thighs to stick your face between when the plane goes into free fall. And while that Air Stewardess (AKA “the reliable source”) may well be an “expert” on thighs and life-rafts ‘n’ shit, there was (and is)… I dunno… something about the guy that made me doubt his expertise when it comes to vaginas. I think he might be a bit like Uncle Mike. You know. One o’ those old-school Squares who fark in the dark.
On a distantly related subject: I don’t wan’a sound like a travel snob or anything, but it’s très, très bien how the safety speech (see above) the Air Stewardess made on this D.C-11 (where I currently sit) far transcends the limits of what you’d get on a crappy D.C-10– or worse, a (shudder) “9”. For those are the types o’ planes where the air stewardlings are nothin’ more than MIMES puppeting the words of the pilot by pointing at “his” gas mask and squatting in “his” life-raft, rather than behaving like the stand-alone performers they are aboard this more highly-evolved (by one whole number) plane.
Makes me almost glad I paid.
Yair, that’s right. I bought my ticket with actual money– and you’ll never guess where I found it: in a BRIEF-CASE. Is where. Ah, but I bet you’ll never guess whose brief-case it was.
Hm? What’s that?
The WHITE COLLAR CRIMINAL from an earlier Posting?
Well… yair, okay. It was him. So it, err… it seems you did guess, after all… Hmm… Contrary to my prediction… Well done… Anything, err… anything else you’d like to guess..? While we’re on the subject..? Punch-line at the end of the Post, maybe? No? Nothing? Okay, then… Back to my blog… Hmph.
For it was indeed the White Collar Crim. Yes, the one who murdered me “briefly” with that same brief-case– which made me glad it wasn’t a LONGEVITY case because that would’a meant he wouldn’t have murdered me “briefly”, but instead he would’a murdered me “LONGLY”. A murder which– to this day– even a tiger-blooded warrior like myself may not have quite fully recovered from. I could’a still been dead, in other words. Could’a still been on the Pain Train instead of livin’ it up in style aboard this D.C-11.
(Of course, when I say “livin’ it up in style”, I’m not formally-dressed {or even formerly-dressed} yet. I’m afraid I haven’t been livin’ it up that much, in that much style– though I did notice the White Collar Crim kept a change of dinner suit in his brief-case. It was right beside a large wad of cash. And we both know exactly which item the airline flunkeys are more easily paid-off by. Hm?) ( The CASH. Is the item. Just in case we don’t both know…)
So I quickly converted the cash into baksheesh by greasing the palms of the staff. All very hush-hush. Walked up to the Ticketing Zone, had a quick look over my shoulder, slipped a certain staff girl a bit of my wad, whereat she gave me a (quote) “airline ticket” and (with a nod and a wink) I was in. Bypassed that whole “illegal hitch-hikin’ ” thing and snuck right in the front door, where nobody (least of all a “Bill” or a, a, a “Natasha”) (who was on her day off, anyway) expected me to sneak.
So how did I score the brief-case baksheesh in the first place? is what you may well wonder. Oh, just a little Reverse Bumpology, that’s all. I was dodging and weaving my way towards the tarmac for my daily spot of hitch-hiking when suddenly I spied “him” across a crowdless taxi rank. “He” was the Corporate Criminal who bruised my leg and momentarily killed me. “How on earth did you recognise ‘him’?” is what you may now be musing.
“WELL, HOW MANY OTHER GUYS AT AIRPORTS DRESS IN SUITS AND CARRY A BRIEF-CASE, DOOD??” is my reply. Obviously it was him.
Anyway, long story short, I sidled up intending to blackmail “him” by saying words to the tune of:
“Hey, muchacho. Fling the cost of a free ticket my way and I’ll forget this whole Blackmail Ordeal I’m currently putting you through ever happened.”
But as I was walking towards him, rehearsing the above lines in my head, I stumbled on an awkwardly-placed gutter (stoopidly situated right beside a busy road), became airborne, and– in flying right at him– flung out my famous Elbow of Steel, catching him smack-dab in the face with it, thereby knocking him out. And the only eye-witness was a Pakistani cab driver with “no interest” (he said) in baksheesh (an “Indian thing– hyook-p’TUH!”), but with plenny BIG interest in the Corpo Crim’s dinner suit. Oh, and his business boots. And his watch.
So here I am. Thailand-bound. On a little “business” of my own. Just a small matter of… umm… err…
I’ll get back to yer.
Dooliganism 