Thai Thoughts and Anecdotes Part 134
SCIENCE FICTION, THAILAND, AND YOU
With recent advances in science a trip to Pattaya now from anywhere in the world or the Solar System is no longer a process or an event but just a thought. Gone are the planes that could do Eskimo rolls off Pattaya beach and travel at nose cone pulsating speeds and scare the wits out of me and Noi and teddy bear in flight suit. Now I only have to share information with Noi through pupil contact and telepathy. No more tortured language barrier and miscues and miscommunications. If she agrees we travel as broken down bits and bytes of information eating up parsec and part-of-parsec distances in a nanosecond.
In fact the word travel is no longer accurate. Travel involves time measured relative to a human's perception of time. This transposition of humans from one place to another place happens faster than a human can perceive. It's a modern scientific magic act beyond understanding. Now finally after a tedious 4000 years we are on the cusp of interesting ideas and interesting results. Time travel and transposition of matter and other dimensions routinely accessed. Goodbye religion and hello intelligence. Now evolution has truly started.
In this new world and in this year of 2018 the so-called constant of the speed of light is just an anachronistic embarrassment and 20th century physicists are looked upon with the indulgence of little dogs jumping through hoops at the circus. It's not a bad thing. When the great thinkers of the past are looked at with pity it means that progress is being made. Aristotle was wrong about some mighty big things for a very long time but at least progress was finally made. Even incorrect boneheaded scientific ideas have use as a baseline. So goodbye 19th and 20th century physics and hello the future of now. Sharks have lasted 400 million years. We are just getting started.
Anyway, as your bits and bites of information that represent you cruise to Pattaya from Rio or Jeddah or Christ Church or Mars at greater than speed-of-light speeds your metabolic processes go into hibernation and the aging process stops. Traveling is no longer about process or event. It just does not take that long. You ‘think' your way to places. Be careful with your thoughts. This new understanding of science makes the universe an Aladdin's lamp–be very careful what you wish for. Absolute power measured against human frailty is an unequal contest. If you don't truly want to be in your parents bedroom when they are making love than don't think about it.
Anyway, in this new world and in this new travel modality at the other end your bits and bytes of information that represent you automatically reform. No longer do Noi and I have to climb out of cockpits and take off flight suits or deal with the tranny mechanics. We just automatically appear holding hands on the boardwalk in Pattaya or at a little table in Swenson's ice cream store or in the function room of the Amari hotel at a society event. This is what travel is like now. Which means that all around you like the twinkling lights on a Christmas tree, or the blinking stars reflected in a velvet black fish pond, or the silent flashing of Tata Young paparazzi people are constantly appearing and disappearing. No one takes notice. The mind's eye accepts and filters the incoming data the way our bodies automatically accept and filter the neutrinos from space, and the magnetic influences, and the photons slicing through us.
So travel to Thailand has changed for everybody. Gone is the risk of airline flight and the inconvenience of airport protocols and the demeanment of Immigration procedures and the cost.
Thailand is now a destination of the mind open to all with big and small possibilities. One of the big possibilities is that there will be less xenophobia, and less tiresome nationalism, and less petty corruption, and fewer mind boggling regulations, and less Stalinesgue clerk behavior from the Thais because they will have lost control. Papers and stamps and entry interviews are now impossible on entry and exit because there is no entry or exit. People just appear and disappear.
An example of a small change is that because of the beyond the speed of light speeds of bits and bytes of information: a man could travel to Thailand and have sex with Lek from the boardwalk and then travel back to Argentina or Iceland or Boston on his lunch hour. Feminists hate this. But then feminists hate everything so there really hasn't been any change there.
So there have been some big changes in travel. But then you already knew that. You have been traveling this way for the last two years. What I was really talking about is how these changes will affect how we treat each other. Since incoming and outgoing travel to nations will be impossible to monitor and restrict nations and governments will have to adapt and change how they treat people. Maybe everyone will have to act nicer. Maybe acting nicer to guests in your country will not occur as an act of will and conscious volition but only as a no-other-options part of social science. Ok, we'll take it. Sometimes it is not really the point to ask too many questions. Just take the gift. If your dog goes from making smelly poops to poops that smell like perfume just go with it.
Times are changing. Most of the established Newtonian and Einsteinium laws of physics have been discarded and we now rightly and accurately describe our emotional and our corporeal selves and our travel possibilities in the Solar System as results of quantum mechanics, atomic morphology, and subatomic cellular intelligence. Unless of course we are having one of those fabulous ice cream cones sold at night on Walking Street. Then it is back to the 20th century and licking and laughing like children. Sometimes Noi and I will be in line at this shop and another couple coming in from god knows where will just automatically appear in front of us in line. That's called cutting in line folks and I don't like it. I don't care if you just came from Mars or our colonies on the Moon or the even more remote Betong or Mae Sai that is called cutting in line. I don't like it and it makes Noi wild.
Nothing is perfect.
An Open Letter Afterword–
Dear Stickmanites: Sometimes I get emails from readers of the Stickmanbangkok.com site and they say things to me like this:
Fairy Freakin' Morning To You Kuhn Asshole Dana–
"Ah geez Dana, how come you can't write normal like you used to. What the hell happened to you? Did you trade in your testicles for two candy canes? I don't really dig this science fiction stuff. Ok, forget stuff–it's shit man and I hate it. Don't get me wrong. You are a rockin' cat and a totally happenin' dude and a far out wick dipper but I just don't dig this stuff. I'm a man's man–you know what I mean? I had an airhead girlfriend once who was always going on about flying rabbits and talking trees and little forest elves wearing tights. Had to get rid of her before my head exploded. Not my scene man.
Like I said, I'm a man's man. Hell, I don't even have to pay for it if you know what I mean. I've been dip tank tested and my body fat is only 2%; and you could bounce bullets off my pecs. I'm the most man I ever met and a woman's wet dream. That's just the way it is. I'm dyin' if I'm lyin' dude and like all real men I hate this faggoty pansy ass weird literary funk called science fiction. Not to put too fine a point on it I've got more ripped shredded veined muscles in my gluteus maximus than you've got in your whole soft turd writer body. My juiced up balls may have shrunk to the size of BB's but I can bench press double my weight in teeruks and shout out the names of the last twenty Republican presidents at the same time. Welcome to Manville you little baby food slurping tranny plugging noodle dick dweeb.
Manville–the only gym in the world that counts. No lycra body suit females, and no stockbrokers, and no lifting routines written down on little pieces of paper. Just the clang of plates, and the grunted 'Seig Heil Spot Me Gunter' bouncing off the bare mold covered concrete block walls. A place where the only things real men are interested in is stuff that is real and stuff that is now. But I don't guess that's something you'd know about. You probably stretch before exercising you little short pants weekend warrior. Stretching. I think I'm gonna puke. What's next world–sex changes? Carrying purses and shopping for tampons?
I hate to tell you this and rain on your little pansy parade but real men don't stretch before exercise. Real men don't do anything before exercise. That would be like farting before going to the crapper and dropping a load. Real men just get it done. Learn to just get it done little runt buddy. Real men have groin pull hematomas that look like purple placentas, biceps muscles that have ripped right off the bone, burst capillaries in the backs of their eyes, incipient kidney failure, a chance of steroid induced brain tumor, and the beginnings of early onset arthritis in all of their joints. But I don't guess you'd know anything about this. You're too busy voting liberal, and listening to educational radio, and reading books. Faggot.
That's right you little snot nose keyboard pecking asswipe I live in a place called Manville–a place where If I can't salute it or paint it or jam it I ain't interested. My dick can do jumping jacks. I'll bet you never even thought of that idea you little retail window dresser. So just keep it real man. Snap out of whatever little gay writer dream you're having and grab the reins. And I ain't kidding. The meek ain't going to inherit shit and the real men of the world are getting sick and tired of Commander Jerkwads like you who want to pay for something in a 7-11 cashier line with a personal check. Hell, real men don't even know how to fill out a check register. So get jacked and get scared pimple face. If I see you and Noi and that stupidass flightsuited teddy bear doing beach landings off Pattaya the last thing you are going to remember hearing is the whoosh of a shoulder fired rocket.
In fact, now that I think of it (and believe me when I tell you that real men like me don't waste much time thinking): I'll bet you have never even been to Thailand. It's all a fraud. Just a bunch of lies. I'll bet you're some pervert double amputee in the St. Francis homeless shelter on Tremont St. in Boston with straps to keep you upright and a stick glued to your forehead so that you can tap out these so-called submissions you send to Stick. After your free breakfast (my taxes dickwad) you send your stringers (alcoholics, methadone users, babblers, droolers, homos, parole violaters, little girl dreamers) to the various branches of the Boston Public Library to Google up 'research' on Thailand. Back to you with the info and voila next week another submission to Stick. Don't know why I didn't think of this before.
Because if you had ever been to Thailand; if you had ever been on the boardwalk in Pattaya I would have spotted you. Everyone on the boardwalk would have spotted you because you and me on the boardwalk together would look like Man and Anti-Man. Within minutes of you and me fighting for oxygen on the same boardwalk there would be giant Sikorsky helicopters overhead with truck sized generators powering huge humming apparatus that would spotlight us. The United Nations would show up with that yellow crime scene tape to surround us; and then the Bangkok Post and the Pattaya Mail and the Tokyo Tattler and the New York Times and the Bahrain Bugler and all of the other newspapers would send in reporters and camera people to chronicle Man and Anti-Man. No offence . . . . Ok, you might have been to the Kingdom. I'm just sayin'. Something to think about. Because if I find out you been lying all this time I'm going to come to that homeless shelter and rip that keyboard pecking stick off of your forehead and . . . .
So listen here dweeb: Just tell me where to score with the ladies and how much to pay and where are the cheapest beers and the best shows. And oh yeah, also I need to know where I can get a cheap banger breakfast. Real men eat crap that looks like soi dog turds and clogs their veins and they start first thing in the morning. And by real men I mean me. A walking living testosterone fueled Adonis that doesn't have to pay for it. Ya know how I mash up my bangers? I stick'em under my foreskin, lay my enormous turgid member on the table, and hit it with a hammer. A jackhammer. Try that Mr. Science Fiction Candy Cane Balls.
And oh yeah, one more thing. Where is the biggest TV for watching football? I know from some of your previous submissions that you don't like soccer but that's 'cause you're an asshole (no offence). You probably couldn't kick the ball if we tied it to one of your little girly ankles with a rope. I'm just saying. No offence. When I play in the Bahrain Cameltoe league no other players on our team take the field. I am all that is required. Remember candy cane balls; it takes leather balls to play soccer. I'm not braggin'. I'm just sayin'. So just keep it real man. Teddy bears in flight suits and you and Noi traveling in bits and bytes (?) of information instead of coach. I ain't into that shit."
A Bigger Man Than You'll Every Be
Like I said, sometimes I get emails from readers of the Stickmanbangkok.com site and they say things to me like this. Ok, it's not exactly Hitler telling his Generals not to retreat but imagine getting 50-60 of these emails per week. Ok, imagine getting 5 or 6 of these epistiles a month. Alright, I got four letters like this. That's not really the point. If you prick me do I not bleed? Usually I just whip out my little runt buddy dick and slam it down on the delete button when I get incoming mental midget literary mortars like this. But some muttonheads just earn more attention and receive a reply–To wit:
Sa Wa Dee Khrap Hansum Man With Suay Maak Glutious Maximus–
Don't like science fiction do you? If we take the above email and grind it up in a mortar and pestle, then put it in a cyclotron, and finally reduce it through heat; the essence of this email is that you don't like science fiction?
Let's test that shall we? There is no greater wisdom than to 'know thyself' so I am sure you are correct about not liking science fiction. But it won't hurt to test it will it?
Let's see: You save your money all year to go to a place where women more lovely than you deserve call you hansum man? You love science fiction. Because if you think that is real you need serious counseling. Forget about what you think you look like in the mirror real man. Not one of your bargirls has Caucasian pictures of a man like you on the ceiling over her bed. She dreams of Thai men. You are second rate to her and you will always be second rate to her. Her calling you hansum man is science fiction and you love it. It is a siren song stronger than you because you believe it.
You are holding hands with beautiful women within two seconds of meeting them and they are tipping their heads and just riveted by everything you are saying? That's science fiction baby and you love it. You dreamed about it for the last twelve months while working in that tire factory in Germany. You didn't dream about the real world. The real world is full of huge German women and smells like cabbage. The ravishing non-Germanic femme fatale in your arms can not understand one word you are saying but she finds it fascinating? Fiction jackass and you love it.
When you take a young beautiful Thai woman to your hotel room she TAKES OFF ALL OF HER CLOTHES IMMEDIATELY AND STANDS THERE NAKED. That's science fiction in your life nimrod because in no way do you deserve this in the real world of your life. If you really were an alpha male and a women's wet dream this behavior would be normal and routine to you. But it isn't. Your pupil dilation and heart rate and skin temperature give you away every time. You have never gotten used to it. It is beyond the norm for all men. You are stunned anew every time. It is a fiction that you have purchased and it is fiction that you love. You aren't paying to purchase reality–you could have had that under a bridge in Berlin or Cologne; you are paying to take part in science fiction.
The sex is so great with the women of the Kingdom of Make-Believe that you can not tell if they are faking or not? That is science fiction you jerk because that ain't real. Not only can you not tell if they are faking their emotions and their responses or not; you do not care. You have left the real world behind and are now living in a world divorced from reality where you don't know what is real and what is not real–and you don't care.
And that is why you come to Thailand. None of it is real and all of it is better than your real life. Oh I know you have bullet bouncing pecs and ass cheeks that could open a beer bottle but real alpha males don't have to bray about it like drunken donkeys. Hey, and don't misunderstand me. I'd love to be able to open beers with my ass. Why to be able to say to a woman in a bar:
"Hello, my name is Dana and I can open that beer for you with my ass cheeks."
is a dream of mine. I know I'm just a little baby food slurping dweeb but we have dreams too. But you know–real men receive respect; they don't demand it, or shout about it, or use it as some juvenile measuring stick. Your bad language and poor social skills make you ordinary. People one town over don't know your name, and on your death's anniversary no one will come by your grave. And that is why you come to Thailand. Not because you 'don't have to pay for it' or because you are a 'woman's wet dream'–but because none of the Thai experience is real and all of it is better than your real life. Fiction is better than reality and you can't get enough of it. You love science fiction. You dream about moving to Thailand. But not to be real or to live real. You dream about moving to Thailand to be part of science fiction. To live a life divorced from reality and more wonderful than most of your friends can imagine.
They should just change the name of the country from Thailand to ScienceFictionland and be done with it. Put Noi and me in charge. It's all science fiction. Get with the program. And forget about your big man stories, and your gluteus maximus, and your bench press anecdotes; none of that is currency in science fiction land. You can not bring anything to Thailand from the West, or from your life, or out of your reality ego that counts. It is start over time. From scratch. When you deplane at Don Muang with your expat dreams you have entered a time and a place beyond reality. A place of science fiction. Don't believe me? What would be your response if on hitting the tarmac at Don Muang all you could see to the horizon were tire factories and fat German women and piles of cabbages? You love science fiction. That's why you got on the plane.
Oh, and one more thing. You know how when you return from your trips and you are telling stories to your friends and office associates? Have you ever noticed that after a while their attention wanders and they kinda stop listening? Know why? Because it sounds like science fiction to them. It can't be real. They can't really make a connection between what you are saying and what you are describing and their life. It is just too much to absorb or credit. You are returning from a place and a mindset of science fiction. They are going to leave you behind in favor of reality; and you are going to leave them behind when you re-board for Siam in favor of science fiction.
Thailand. It's all science fiction. You love science fiction. All of your future dreams are composed of bits and bytes of psychic science fiction. You are living by dreaming. And you aren't dreaming of fat German wives, or promotions in the tire factory, or owning every cabbage in Munich. So the next time Noi and I buzz Pattaya beach at 18,000 miles per hour in our NASA designed plutonium powered jet shaped like a dolphin and made up of noodles and reprocessed carbon fiber flip-flops–salute us. That's me flying and my teeruk sitting on my shoulders and the nose of the teddy bear pressed against the canopy. We are living the life you dream of. A life that is not quite real and not quite fiction. Just like the trannys are the third sex–not quite male and not quite female: Noi and I are living in a
third dimension of reality, a life of science fiction. Not quite reality and not quite fiction. If you ever manage to get to Thailand as an expat look us up. We'll be at the old jet bar on the steps of the Royal Garden Plaza. We'll show you pictures and tell you stories. We'll include you. Noi will take a picture of you under the wing holding her teddy bear in his flight suit. Thailand. A place of science fiction. Come on down. You'll love it.
(dedicated to Caveman)
Dana's submissions are never dull…