Readers' Submissions

Thai Thoughts And Anecdotes Part 123

  • Written by Dana
  • March 4th, 2006
  • 18 min read


PRELUDE

Cambodian Automobile Dealership–Boston
Sales Meeting–

Dana: Big elections your honor. I get big elections.

Sales Manager: Big elections Dana?

Dana: Yes your honor. The electric shock therapy gives me big elections.
Sales Manager: Elections? Does anyone here know what this guy is talking about?
Chakroth: I think he means erections sir. When he says 'elections' he means 'erections'. It's like when he says Thailand and it comes out Thairand. There are some wires down in his head and he gets his r's and l's mixed up. He's crazy as a sack of cats.

Sales Manager: Ok, Chakroth that'll be enough. Now look Dana we need to grab the reins here; first of all this is not the prison or the shelter or the psychiatric hospital–and you do not have to call me your honor. I'm not a judge or a prison warden or a shelter manager. This is an automobile dealership and you are a car salesman and I am the sales manager and this is a sales meeting and you can call me Barney. Ok?

Dana: Yes your honor.

Sales Manager: Ok, let's try and move on. We've had some complaints. Did you tell a customer yesterday that you might have to kill him?

Dana: Yes your honor.

Sales Manager: What was that about?
Dana: Well your honor he was a Vietnamese and no matter what features and benefits of the fine automobile I reviewed all he said was,

"What is real price?"
"What is real price?"
"What is real price?"
"What is real price?" . . . like a retarded metronome.

So that is when I said–I could tell him the real price but then I would have to kill him.

Sales Manager: Why did you say that?
Dana: A little levity your honor. I was trying to get him to lighten up. All the chinks and gooks and turban heads and dot heads ever say is "What is real price?" I think they need some medications your honor.

Sales Manager: Ok, well first of all I do not want you referring to our Asian customers as retarded slant-eyed metronomes.

Dana: Can I call them RSM's?

Sales Manager: No. I am sure you would not say or think anything like that if a Thai customer walked in.

Dana: Barney, baby; this is a Cambodian car lot–you aren't going to sell anything here to a Thai unless you put a Mercedes Benz hood ornament on a buffalo.

Sales Manager: Ok, we had a complaint from the Boston Russian embassy last week. Did you threaten to throw a customer in a Soviet style gulag in back of the showroom if he did not buy the car?

Dana: Yes your honor.

Sales Manager: Ok, amaze me. How did that happen?

Dana: Well your honor you know how it is with these first generation Russian Jews from Newton and Brighton and Allston–all they ever say is:

"What is discount?"
"What is discount?"
"What is discount?"
"What is discount?"

If you said the car was free they would say, "What is discount?"

So I was just trying to loosen him up a little.

Sales Manager: So you told him that if he did not take the car that you would throw him in a Soviet style gulag in back of the showroom?

Dana: It seemed like a good idea at the time your honor.

Sales Manager: Well, it was not a good idea. The elderly woman who was with him was his mother and she had lost her husband in a gulag in Siberia because he had been caught by the KGB reading Stickmanbangkok.com. Now we have complaints.

Sales Manager: Now look Dana, when we worked with the State of Massachusetts Job Training Dept. and agreed to hire you as an automobile salesman we did it with good intentions and an open mind. We agreed to start fresh and give you a chance and put aside your prison and psychiatric ward history. But we can not have many more complaints. If I get any more complaints I am going to put you in charge of selling used tuk-tuks.

Dana: What?
Sales Manager: Just a little joke jackass–how does it feel?

Now something else. This morning I had to counsel and calm a distraught customer and give him a refund on fifty boxes of floor mats. Did you sell a customer fifty sets of automobile floor mats?

Dana: Yes your honor.

Sales Manager: Ok, I know you are crazy as a sack of cats but whatever possessed him to buy fifty sets of automobile floor mats?

Dana: I think he was looking at my election your honor.
Sales Manager: Your erection? You had an erection in the showroom?
Dana: Yes your honor, the electric shock therapy gives me big elections.

Sales Manager: By the way Dana–I had to sign as your legal guardian as part of this State of Massachusetts job training program. Other than the 'big elections' problem is there anything else I need to know about the electric shock therapy you received?

Dana: Sometimes I talk about cheese.

PROLOGUE

Did you ever feel that somehow you had taken a wrong turn in life? Too many risks taken?

Too many cul-de-sacs at the end of what seemed like good ideas? The inexorable physics of the downward spiral finally depositing you at the bottom? Well, that is when you need to take a trip to Pattaya. And I do not mean North Pattaya, or 3rd road, or meetings with ex-pat clubs where they have guest speakers talking about the best places to mail order golf pants–I mean the boardwalk. The lovely landscaped promenade from Soi 8 to Soi Pattayaland 2. Yes I know the boulevard of palm trees and walkways and gardens and flowers and shrubs and ocean vistas and benches extends further north and further south but the part of the boulevard from Soi 8 to Soi Pattayaland 2 is the prime habitat for the man who needs to get away from it all. There can be found feminine creatures of beguiling innocence and unmarked beauty that will make you forget that you are getting elections in automobile showrooms. Here every election is a good thing. These women aren't humans but angels that have been sent down from heaven to make a man forget the prison indignities and the fights over psych ward medications and the demeaning homeless shelter rules about blankets. Here a man can be a man and walk around all day and not worry that he has a big election. I sometimes wonder how many other men on the boardwalk have also had electric shock therapy. I'll bet if you could you see their balls you'd see where the sparks jumped. I can't be the only one.

Anyway, I have been thinking. In the prison and in the mental hospital and in the shelter and at the automobile dealership I was punished for thinking but here in Thailand I can be myself. I'm a thinker. I get ideas. Anyway, I have been thinking and I have come up with an idea which I think will benefit everyone in Pattaya whether or not they have had live wires touch their temples and their balls. I have written it up in a proposal entitled:


AN ORGASM WILL BE CALLED A DANA

Captain Pattaya here with an idea of such brilliance and such 'smack-your-hand-on-your– forehead' obviousness that when I lay it out for you embarrassment will be your emotional state. No ploblum dude. Not many people are as smart as I am. Hey, don't worry about it. I am used to people smacking themselves on the forehead when they are around me.

But first a review. It is estimated by Thai government officials that from Soi 1 to Soi 16 and from Beach Road up to 3rd road in Pattaya that there are approximately 20,000 working girls. And we are not talking about maids. We are talking about the wonderful women that your father should have clued you in on and had you meet when you were eighteen years old. But he was married so a lot of important things did not get done. He wasn't getting any sex so screw you. People get mean.

Since there is little or no control over how people breed there are a lot of idiots in the world and invariably the fascist inclined wind up in charge of some part of your life. All of these people hate happy people and all of these people hate sex. So just as the Universe has a background radiation noise that is constant; Pattaya has a constant noise from these moralists and leaders and community activists and church people and family advocates. And that constant noise is that the wonderful women of Pattaya that will exchange sex for money should be somehow . . . well, something should be done.

I believe their secret wish is that all of these angels from heaven be sent to Antarctica to service penguins. Maybe that is why all of the penguins have been wearing tuxedos for the last 10,000 years–they have been waiting. Anyway, in the opinions of these fascists and moralists and little dick dweebs; the resulting Pattaya community between Beach Road and 3rd Road and Soi 1 to Soi 16 would be improved by the absence of these angels. One could sell Bibles door to door again without having to hear the banging and crashing and screaming and moaning and heaving and grunting and laughing and giggling of people inside doing something Biblical. Sex.

Well, I am nothing if not a modern man of conciliatory impulse and bone marrow reasonableness and diplomacy. Add my brain to this and you never know what will happen. So it follows as the night follows the day that compromise might just be the social solution that would make everyone happy. I have an idea . . . oh forget the word idea. This is an intellectual explosion of brilliance that makes a supernova look like popping a pimple. Prepare to rewrite all of the Great Men of the World books. Luckily I am humble.

Anyway, this social concept will make the seekers of sex happy and will also make the haters of sex happy. That's right–I am going to make every single person in Pattaya happy without increasing the tax base. Do I hear the birds chirping the word genius?

To wit: The community from Beach Road to 3rd Road and from Soi 1 to Soi 16 will have no obvious signs of sex commerce but the total amount of sexual opportunity will not diminish. Grab your baht bus Heinz and Sven and Manny and Todd–here it comes.

Sound of Trumpets . . .

I propose that all twenty thousand prostitutes in Pattaya be moved to the Beach Road boulevard between Sois 13/0 (opposite the AA Hotel) and Soi 13/3 (Pattayaland 1). It is a distance of about two hundred yards. So that works out to about 100 women per yard. Naturally with density such as this there would be some spillage and there would be women on the beach and maybe even standing in the water. Guys cruising with big elections should probably avoid negotiating with the water girls because we all know what cold water does to . . . well, you know what I am talking about. Anyway, there would be 20,000 girls in about 200 yards at a linear density of 100 girls per yard. If you add another 30,000 guys to this mix you are going to be having 50,000 sexually interested people in one place. 250 people per yard of boulevard. It's a good thing there is the beach and water for spillage (don't you love it when a plan comes together). Anyway, there will be interested private parts touching without calculation or forethought. Who wants to party?

Hell, all you would have to do would be to stand in one spot and you would have pale faced Chiang Mai wonders, and dark skinned Isaan minxes, and southern Thai Malays, and spooky Khymers, and incomprehensible Laotians rubbing against you. Works for me. Drop 100mg of Viagra and wander around with a tent stake sticking out. Honk if you love Asian culture. Honk if you love big elections.

The Bible people can simply avoid driving down Beach road and seeing happy human beings; and the sexually normal humans will have choice and convenience and happy vibes heretofore only imagined. Naturally I will be in charge of everything and I will accept my fee in trade (if you know what I mean). I will supervise from the 6th floor ocean facing suite in the AA Hotel and from the Starbucks Coffee 2nd floor outside terrace and from the mezzanine landing on the way up to Swenson's Ice Cream and from the steps of the Royal Garden Plaza.

There will be almost no rules of any kind. Women and guys can dress anyway they want. Ok, forget that. There will be some rules. The women will have to wear high heeled shoes. Now there are no more rules. Wait a minute, the guy thing needs some attention. No French, or mainland Chinese, or rich Koreans, or Japs, or Russians, or Eastern Europeans, or skinheads from Britain and Europe or Thais. I know what you are thinking–

"That's not a complete list Dana."

Yes, I know. There are some other religious-cultural party killers. Societies and people that do not treat others different than themselves with respect, and societies and individuals who do not treat women with dignity and respect. Don't worry. The girls will take care of that. All of the girls have been issued scissors and all of the girls have been issued monthly quotas they can't exceed. No worries mate.

Ok, that's it. Now it is party time. Hours for boardwalk liaisons will be 7:00 a.m. to 3:00 a.m. (we need four hours to clean up mystery meat sticks and eggshells from boiled eggs). No public misbehavior (it's a meeting place, not a performance venue), and no yelling and no arm waving (sorry Italians), and no displays of money, and no fighting and grabbing and groping, and no drunkenness (sorry rugby and soccer 'fans'). Although there will be 50,000 people in a two hundred yard strip of the boulevard that should not dilute the dignity of the gathering. It is all about love.

Ok, let's get away from the nitty gritty details and just imagine this guys. Every day of the year weather permitting there would be 20,000 Thai females of the happy bonking kind between Soi 13/0 and Soi 13/3. One hundred of them per yard. Any man who actually walked from Soi 13/0 opposite the AA Hotel to Soi 13/3 past the Royal Garden Plaza without falling in love would be instantaneously excommunicated because he was defective in some way. Active participants only. No neuters, gays, religious literature fools, backpackers, or farang women of any kind.

The above categories plus nationality and cultural group non-inclusions plus yelling and grabbing and groping and cigarette smoking and drinking and arm waving and fighting are some of the infractions, infringements and violations I'll be watching for from the various official vantage points like Swenson's and Starbucks and the AA Hotel and the steps of the Royal Garden Plaza.

Will I be incognito? No. I'll be extremely highly visible and addressed as Captain Pattaya. I'll be wearing the official Captain Pattaya uniform of elephant decorated beach pants, Indian cotton shirt, black foam Nike sandals, silver jewellery, cell phone, binoculars, laptop, head mounted antenna, megaphone, handcuffs, stun gun, mace, pepper spray (works on foreigners only–Thais actually like it), baton, ticket book (yes you can get ticketed for infractions–it's not anarchy), official badge on chain around my neck, rules handout forms, aviator sunglasses of the military kind, sun umbrella, pith helmut, clipboard, and big pen. I'll also have a backpack with emergency items for the girls such as cell phone batteries, condoms, tampons, and makeup mirrors. Ok, I can't run in this outfit (the head mounted antenna is a bitch) but there will be other deputized Danas working the crowd.

People think my job being in charge of this whole thing will be nothing but clear blue skies and slavish hero worship. Who are you kidding? When is the last time you were in charge of 20,000 of the world's most beautiful and most promiscuous women? In fact, not to put too fine a point on it; when was the last time you were actually in charge of one woman? It won't be easy for me but sacrifice for the team is practically my middle name. Selfless giving is my natural instinct. I've been giving to the girls of Pattaya for years and I intend to keep right on giving. Right living produces good karma and that is its own reward. Or something.

Actually, I would rather have cheese as a reward but I digress. At any rate, I'm in charge of everything which is why big ass midgets in short pleated skirts and big bulge trannies in clear plastic heels will be encouraged. It's a party. Get with the program. If you haven't had Wan the door girl from the Hollywood Strip bar and a rolling eyeball transvestite from the Obsessions bar and an anxious-to-please midget from the first floor NEP Lollipops bar in your hotel room at the same time–well, then . . . ok, I'm not a storyteller. You'll just have to imagine. Whether it is Bangkok or Pattaya you either know what a party is or you don't. With this new social program and geographical change we are going to ratchet up the P for Party in Pattaya. Get with the program.

Anyway I am not a Himalayan cave mendicant but a highly socialized animal not immune to the charms of public recognition. I predict that as this idea becomes a social success for the greater Pattaya community that I will become recognized by the Bible readers, and moralists, and fascists, and family value people, and community standards advocates (yawn), and given various kinds of awards and things. I love receiving awards and accolades and cutting ribbons and holding up plaques and trophies and posing for photographers because there is usually some kind of cheese around at these events. I love cheese. (Hint: If you put your medications in cheese you do not get that bitter taste.)

Anyway, it wouldn't surprise me if the mayor of Pattaya recognised me for my public contributions at a function where the centrepiece was a life-size bargirl carved from a giant piece of cheese. You could take a som tam spoon and scoop some mozzarella right out of her crotch. Just thinking. Cheese dips and cheese on toothpicks and slices of cheese and cubes of cheese. Cheese nipples maybe. Love cheese.

In the psychiatric treatment facility in Boston (diagnosis: 'Pattaya Possessed with Delusions of Grandeur') the nurses used to tape oven mitts to our wrists at night so that we wouldn't touch ourselves. Attempts at self-love were still possible but the fine motor skills were gone. A little like trying to put a worm on a hook wearing boxing gloves. Theoretically possible but hardly worth the effort. Oven mitts taped to your wrists and loving don't go together. It was kind of a bummer. But during the daytime there was always lots of thirty year old surplus government cheese in the recreation room. You could eat it until you got so stopped up they had to use the rectum apple corer to get you going again, or you could carve a huge chunk of it in the shape of a transvestite and wander the halls with a cheese tranny in your pants. So it was oven mitts at night–kind of a bummer; and cheese by day–simply fabulous. Kind of a ying and yang thing. Life works out. Love cheese.

Anyway, I predict public recognition from the Pattaya Municipal government and the World Council of Churches for my forward thinking social solution to the Pattaya Prostitute Problem (PPP). I also predict that an orgasm in Pattaya will become known as a Dana.

Captain Pattaya here beaming this question out to you worldwide through my head mounted antenna from the steps of the Royal Garden Plaza: Who thinks this whole thing is a great idea?

Who wants me to carve a cheese tranny for them? I'll meet you on the boardwalk between Soi 13/0 (opposite the AA Hotel) and Soi 13/3 (Pattayaland 1). Twenty thousand women will be there. And they won't be selling prawns or sunhats. Big elections? No ploblum. Don't speak Thai? No ploblum. Electric shock burns on your balls? No ploblum. You like to tie girls to the bed and lick their feet? No ploblum. You like to walk around with a cheese tranny in your pants? No ploblum.

Psychiatric ward oven mitts taped to your wrists? That's a ploblum. Oven mitts and loving don't go together. No oven mitts allowed.


Stickman's thoughts:

Another excellent read!