Post Number Thirty Six

“Advice for the Young and the Feckless”

Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear in the last Post. And perhaps the reason I didn’t make myself clear can be put down to one thing: a lack of clarity. I’m referring, of course, to the UN-clear way that I claimed (a tad obscurely? perhaps?) that I– without any help whatsoever from the local Bad Samaritans– did single-handedly trigger off a GANG WAR by pointing out that the pre-stripped stripper I saw was actually puffin’ smoke out of her arse-hole instead of her nice-hole. I touched on a sore spot when I said those words, of course, because the crime (and it is a crime) known as “Fraudulent Smoke Blowing” was one of the main reasons for all the argie-bargie which led them to launch The Smokin’ Pussy Wars in the first place. But hey. If they’re gunna roll their dice from the bottom o’ the deck in the Foreigners Who Accidentally Start Gang Wars District, well then, I’m afraid they’ve got no-one to blame but themselves. I mean, blaming (and allegedly “arresting”. Because I still don’t remember it happening) ME, of all people, for causing a new battlefront in the Pussy Wars to open up and puff a few mushroom clouds of HATE into the atmosphere smacks of smackin’ the messenger– and it’s a dangerous game when you smack the sort of UN-smackable messenger who likes to smack back, Jack!

Local gangsters are not the only ones I got blaming me for shit I never done right now, though. I’m even getting (weary sigh) TROLLS on my blog at the moment. Yes, it has come to my attention that all this Porn Pong Road oriented orientalism I’ve witnessed lately may very well be a (quote) “bad example” for young folks both here (Thailand) and abroad (Everywhere Else). Now, heed my wisdom carefully, for this is no time to shirk the major issues. My more sensitive (i.e. non-troll) readers know that I have strong personal feelings for the Youth of Today. Why? Well, because I AM one, DER! Which means, in the true spirit of all identity politics, not thinking about myself would be a bit selfish, wouldn’t it? I’M DAMN RIGHT IT WOULD!! And if everybody went down the path of not-thinking-about-young-folks-like-me, then where would that leave the rest of us? Hm? In limbo, that’s where.

Limbo. The place where they make you bend over backwards in order to go forwards.

For this reason, I cannot allow foolhardy mistakes to be made by tender young things blushing with Hope. And Hormones. High school girls, after all, may one day grow up to be the Social Work Theory Students of tomorrow. That’s why I’m telling both my readers back home that you must hunt down the schoolgirls in your neighbourhood, HUNT THEM DOWN (I command thee), stalk them if needs be, follow them home, and give them this timely piece of advice:

Fun as it may be NOW, sexploitation also has its down side.

Like, as in personal injuries ‘n’ shit. Which is why I am charging you, Bold Reader, CHARGING YOU (I say) to do “that thing” that I myself would be happily– but sternly– doing if I wasn’t here in Thailand with a heavy head made a teensy bit lighter by the large number of bucket bongs I been choofin’. “That thing” is this: You must HUNT THEM DOWN (I’m warning you. Don’t make me repeat myself on this) HUNT THEM DOWN (I declare) and advise them thusly:

“There is almost nothing sophisticated about blowing smoke out your vaginas, ladies. Oh, sure, it may look real cool. But that’s only from the blowEE’s point o’ view. From the blowER’s point o’ view there is a very real danger that you will come down with a nasty case of Smoker’s Queef. However. IF (and I can only excuse this if it’s done for medical reasons) but IF (I repeat) you schoolgirls DO take up vaginal smoking behind the bicycle sheds at school, then please– please– Be Sure To Spit The Cigarettes OUT Of Your Vaginas Before You Sit On The Bicycle Seat And Ride Home. Because you may find the alternative is (shall we say) rather ouch-inducing.”

(There. That should keep those hairy-knuckled Femo-Trolls happy.)

(Did I say that aloud?)

(Into the BLOGOPHONE, dood! Wha’ d’yer think I been talking into?)

(It records the… Hang on, stop. STOP! SVENGARD!! Halt! You had the last bucket bong, man.)

(Yair, but what I’m saying is, like… I paid 5,000 Baht for the bucket, then I paid another 5 thou for the dope, so…)

(I beg your mother-lovin’ pardon?? Wha’ d’yer mean you can pick up a deal for 350? That’s virtually NOTHIN’. I don’t even think “350 Baht” can even be, like, translated into REAL money…)

(Well, no, I’m not some big la-de-da “economics guy” or anything, but on the other hand…)

(Because, in case you haven’t realized, everything is costing 5,000 Baht {minimum} ’round these parts. Take my room, for example…)

(Yair, I know it’s a dormitory, Svengard. I mean, I am sitting here, like, DER!)

(Okay, then, Mister big Norwegian Economics Graduate. You tell me what the so-called “Rate of Currency Exchange” is.)

(Bullshit…)

(Really..?)

(FUCK!!)

Signing off now.