“Big Pharma’s Harvest”
And so began my lost weekend, which– because of the time difference here in Thailand– actually began on a Wednesday. It was triggered off when that fraudster, Mister T. Rashapoon (so-called), bought me an ill-fated glass of paw paw cider, damn his glow-in-the-void socks! Because I fear there may have been more to that booze than what met my blood-veselled eye. In fact, I am a MILLION PER CENT sure the cider inside’a me had been (gasp) (and gulp) laced with pharmaceuticals!! Oh, yes, the bars of Porn Pong Road are teeming with such roll-bag-thievin’ tactics, thanks to the flooding of pills onto (or into) the local market-stalls by a corpo crime entity known everywhere as BIG PHARMA.
Yet what sort’a “pharma” could ever be “big” enough to harvest the mighty thought clouds of D.D.T and steal every last grain from his precious Memory Crop? None whatsoever! Which means I still have a few treasured memories of those two (or three) days I lost in a Big Pharma daze. There’s a good reason for this. My brain was ready for the narco drops; and better still, my head was too thick for those droplets to penetrate. It was fortified, in other words. Made rock solid by (whisper) under-the-counter BRAIN STEROIDS.
Yair, that’s right. Let’s not play the dough-eyed innocent. We’re all big boy’s ‘n’ girls now, and e-e-e-e-e-everyone’s dippin’ their snouts in the juice. And if literally everyone’s doin’ stuff to get some sort of “unfair advantage”, it’s not proper cheating, is it? Of course not. All it really does is bring us fair-minded folks up to the same starting block as the real cheats. I mean, was it ever truly “cheating” when the first Marathon Foot Racer turned up at the first Marathon Foot Race riding a bicycle??
Answer: Well, yair, it was… BUT. Then every Marathon Foot Racer turned up riding his own bicycle, and the Marathon Foot Race rapidly escalated into the type o’ thing that even arty-farty French guys can do. Not “win”, of course… But have a Jolly Good Crack At. And if we add steroids to that equation… well, that makes us all winners, don’t it? ‘Course it does!
Now, because I’m in a tell-all mood, I’ll even spread the word re: the high-powered brain ‘roid I been poppin’. It’s technical name is– I’ll pause here while you grab a pen… #dum-de-dum#… Got one? Good. GINGKO BILOBA– AKA “The Hard Stuff”. One look on the side of the bottle proves it:
“Long thought-of as the Thinking Man’s Noxious Weed, the leaves (and thistles) of the Gingko Biloba plant were first injected (via said thistles) in Ancient Prehistoric China… I don’t actually mean they were injected… IN… Ancient Prehistoric China… like in the soil or anything. I mean, a MAN in Ancient Prehistoric China injected the leaves and thistles into himself.”
And I’ll take up the story from there. When he (that is, the man who injected the thistles) (or whatever) sat contemplating for a few minutes as he waited for the buzz to kick in, he suddenly had a Storm O’ the Brain.
“Y’know,” he rumbled, ominously, “Ancient Prehistoric China is a dangerously under-populated place– but I think I just thunk up a thing to fix it: a TWELVE-CHILD POLICY.”
And so that man– the Original (and some would say The Best) of the Gingko Biloba junkies– did indeed bring the Twelve Child Policy to the dozen (or so) good folks who lived (at the time) in his tiny little village called (wait for it) BEI-the fuck-JING, if you don’t mind!
And the rest is Population Explosion History.
But it’s not Ancient Prehistoric China that I’m in right now; it’s modern post-historic Thailand– or at least a part of it known as Porn Pong Road, where a memory or two came trickling back re: some o’ the fun stuff I did. Stuff like:
SCENARIO: Me standing on the edge of a bubbling volcano, eyes wild with bloodshot bloodlust, and– well, why don’t I let ME explain?
“At last!” I cried. “Here I stand on the edge of a bubbling volcano, eyes wide with bloody-blood-shot-lust, pruning sheers in one hand, and Alistair Vivekenanda’s disembodied head in the other, and–”
Actually, Cut! CUT!! Cancel that flashback. That was more like a flash-forward. Here instead is a genuine flashback pertaining (more or less) to those bits of my lost weekend I have, y’know, “found”, per se.
FLASHBACK: I, Duncan Dooligan, being of Unsound Mind and Staggering Body, did find myself in the grip of drunken bonhomie, and thereafter did throw my arm around the neck (or face, maybe) of Mr. T. Rashapoon (if that’s his real name) saying (and I quote me):
“I just… I fuggin’ LUV youse poiple– *burrrp*… LUV YERZ!! I wan’a bounce the whole nation on my chin, then tickle yerz under the knee.”
But then there was… An Interruption.
Coming from… Down There.
Courtesy of… You-Know-Who.
After a short verbal stoush with you-know-who, I grabbed my wise-crackin’ COCK (that’s who) by the testicles we both share and HEAD-BUTTED him, thereby causing me to go flippity-flop, landing on both my “head” and my “butt”, which were close neighbours at landing time. Whilst I lay on the sticky bar-room floor (which smelt very strongly of bowling ball) my exasperated Cock snatched “our” balls out of my hand and used ’em to turkey slap some (quote) “sense” (end quote) into me.
Now, all the above may sound like injun rubber man-type antics– until you remember that one of the mystical joys of mixing booze with narco drops is that it makes you relax your limbs into all sorts of loosey-goosey postures. Then you might wake up in a weird place. Like, in my case, I’ve just woken up in some place they call (a tad optimistically, I think) the “Bangkok Hilton”.
And I must say. Lookin’ around as I dictate this, I am NOT real happy with my cohabitators!