Readers' Submissions

Thai Thoughts And Anecdotes Part 136

  • Written by Dana
  • June 3rd, 2006
  • 30 min read


PUBLIC FORUM OPEN LETTER INTRODUCTION

Greetings Stickmanites and lesser Earthlings: It's poem and prose time once again. Prologue and paean. Enjoy. And remember: every word is 100% true. That's right rockers and mongers and expats and Dana fans. Every word is 100% true. In the past there have been some disbelieving and sometimes unkind remarks forwarded to me about how some of my non-fiction was really fiction or at best faction. I've tried to be charitable about this. After all, how can beta males understand or comprehend alpha males? However, it would be disingenuous of me to state that the smallest stone does not irritate the elephant's foot.

However, I am nothing if not accommodating so as a literary sop to the naysayers and those who still have one foot on the floor a new initiative in the form of a Dana-specific Stickmanbangkok.com submission policy is being flomlugated (new word). All articles and stories and ruminations and rants and essays and autobiographical reminiscences will now be checked and rechecked and then checked again for veracity and fact by unimpeachable Thai sources. And I think we all know how rigorous that kind of thing can be.

Anyway–copies have been made of documents, and notarized signatures have been examined by handwriting experts, and committees have been formed, and rules and protocols have been written down in official looking books, and super mysterious cross referencing has been done that frankly I barely understand. So relax. No need to get your liver in a quiver. Every word from now until the pen drops from my aged fumbling farang fingers will be absolutely true. And no better inauguration of this new policy could be had than the following submission entitled: IT'S CATAPULT TIME. Every word is 100% true. So the Thai sun is rising on a new moment in history and you are all going to be a part of it. Check the Buddhist calendar date, and check your Patpong rip-off watches, and make entries in your 15 baht Foodland journals. ITS CATAPULT TIME would make an excellent commutative tattoo. And remember: Every word is 100% true.

CRANKING PROLOGUE

Winching and drinking
In the hot night air.
The pillow cased body
Just lying there.

There has been an incident–
Funny how life wends.
Some time for targeting;
Then the machine sends.

A creak and a squeal,
A whoosh and a crack–
The offender is gone.
No more flack.

Back down the stairs.
And in the door.
Drinks all around–
Tonight adds to the lore.

So don't mess around
In the Dana Bar.
Or you'll be shot from the roof–
You'll be shot far.

Pillowcased and gassed–
Regretful and limp.
Too late to take back
What made you a simp.

Its the Dana Bar–
No shout and no bark.
But don't mess up
Or you'll be doing an arch.

Only one catapult
And not many rules;
The Dana Bar–
No place for fools.

IT'S CATAPULT TIME–By the DanaTime Players (Dedicated to the Royal Cranksters of Bung Kan)

Stage Preface–Crank Theatre

(Yellow Spotlight–Two Figures Center Stage–Bar Scene)

Idiot: For real dude–totally cranked. And no knarly whatever about it either bro–just bitchin' totally happenin' far out stuff man . . . crazy man.

Me: Hey jackass–I've got an idea for you. I'm fifty seven years old. Why don't you speak English?

Idiot: Chill baby chill–ain't no big thing. Just go with the flow man.

Me: Hey Kuhn Flowster; let's start over. See that framed document on the wall behind me? I own this bar. Now get out. And when you get back to your little room with the broken fan and the politically correct roaches get on your cell phone and tell all of your totally cranked completely awesome knarly stoked friends–you know; the fools who never even heard of WWII or the moon landing, not to come here.

Yellow spot fades–curtain closes . . . two hundred rheumy-eyed expats burst from their seats like lanced boils and burst into applause.

Finit


CHAPTER ONE: CRANK PET PEEVES

Ok, I've got three pet peeves. Not bad for someone who has managed to avoid getting hit by cars crossing streets for fifty seven years and has had to put up with more bullshit than any random group of ten people. The first is the weather. It is just too damn hot in this country. Someone needs to get rid of the weather. The second is the people. They're everywhere in this country and they can be a real pain. And the third is the food. Too many stupid chillies. Someone needs to get rid of the Thai food. That's right; if we could just get rid of the weather, and the people, and the food; this place would be great.

Wait a minute . . . those weren't my three pet peeves for this open forum letter at all . . . Jesus, I guess the literary jalopy just flashed off the road there for a second. Forget that. Just forget that stuff. Don't know what I was thinking. My real Three Pet Peeves (try and get your teeruk to say that) are below:

Pet Peeve Number One: The 'hats-on-backwards' people. What's with that? What's next? Pants on backwards and telling me that is fashion that I am too unhip to understand? Hey, I've got an idea. When you get hit by a car and I show up driving the ambulance we'll put the oxygen mask on backwards. Hey dude–knarly and cool. Just chill baby and go with the flow. Can't feel the flow? Totally cranked and crazy dude. As you jerk your last jerk with your legs I'll reach up and turn your hat around. Asshole.

Pet Peeve Number Two: The stupid misanthropic human mistakes that keep their wallets in their front pockets. And the wallets are always these stupid big thick things. These anal misanthropes still have their favorite baseball cards from when they were ten years old in these things, five year old movie ticket stubs, fifteen year old Robinson's department store receipts, calculator instruction booklet, Burmese paper money, picture of old girlfriend who is now fat and fatter, tattered pics of someone else's grandkids, copy of military induction notice, etc. Big bulge wallets in the front pocket. You might as well just hang a sign around your neck that says:

Mommy Has Breasts But I Never Look
or
Skytrain Pervert
or
Girls Make Me Giggle

Pet Peeve Number Three: Gay retail store window dressers. Hang around the mall and eventually you are going to see one of these thin hipped dweebs moving the ladder around in the display window. Pursing their lips at the mannequin and mincing up and down the ladder to change a light bulb and squatting down like a girl to put some piece of display crap on the floor.

Ok, . . . now that I am at the keyboard I am thinking that I probably have more than three pet peeves but that is enough for now. Kinda sets the tone.

Wait a minute: Just thought of another–people who call me dude. Do not do that. I am not now nor have I ever been a dude and I intend to be ever vigilant between now and my deathbed scene making sure that I never become a dude. Calling me a dude does not make me look on you kindly. You may imagine that by calling me dude that you are behaving in a welcoming way. Welcoming me into your totally hip hop happenin' life and lifestyle and gang. Let me clue you in gangman dudester. Calling me dude triggers a brain wave dream that has me shattering your sternum with a slow moving heavy caliber bullet at close range. Do not call me dude.

Ok, and then there is snakes . . . but we gotta move on.


CHAPTER TWO: I HAVE OPENED A BAR

Anyway, I have opened a bar in Thailand and it is a fun place for everyone; well almost everyone. Look, the thing is that the older you get the crankier you get. You are just fed up to here (imagine me holding my hand up to the top of my head) with people trying to hustle you, and sell you things, and lying to you, and worst of all; all of the little human dramas that clutter up your life and mind and heart and time. And like the lay Buddhist who can with enough application and experience and exposure attain a higher form of being; it is possible for the pet peeved man to go way way beyond just being irritated or pissed and enter into the santified beingness of Crank. To become Crankified.

You don't know what cranky means or how you can get cranky between birth and praying not to die? Or between the cock crowing and getting to the end of your driveway to wait for the company car? Oh, be still my heart; there is a child amongst us. Someone must have left the window open and a little delicate butterfly flew in. Ok, I'll tell you. I'll tell you what it is to live a crank life and be cranky and to end up crankified.

Cranky is when on the way to the crapper in the morning you slam into the door jam (where did that come from?), sit down on the rim of the toilet (Christ I forgot to put the toilet seat down), put salt instead of sugar on your cereal (why don't they color code this crapola), and manage to have the long sleeve of your bathrobe slip over the faucet. You turn on the cold water to get the coffee pot going and cold water pours into your sleeve. You jerk back your arm and now the cold water pours down your sleeve. Why are you wearing a long sleeved bathrobe in Thailand you ask? Simple. The wife likes the air-con up so high that ice forms on the inside of the windows, I have had to lay in a supply of blowtorches in case the pipes freeze, and the other day when I opened the hall closet door there were three penguins standing there looking up at me.

OK–to continue: The phone rings but you can't find it because you put it in the sock drawer (forgot I did that), and you can only get half of the morning's turd out so you are walking around bowlegged because there is still something in there sort of, and your wife says a booger is hanging out of your nose and this triggers some kind of stupidass superstition thing on her part, and your three and a half year old daughter teases you because you can't use the child computer (Daddy, you can't even make the puppets dance), and there is a pubic hair with the tensile strength of a piece of copper wire jabbing itself into your groin, and no matter how many times you sit down and unstrap your sandal you can't find the goddamned stone that is making each step an exercise in bewilderment and rage and pain. And you are only to the end of the driveway.

Ten hours stretch ahead in Goofyville surrounded by the Nutso people and little brown jackasses want to know why you are not smiling like a mental patient who has just found another bucket of shit to rub all over himself. And this is a not so bad day. It gets worse. Much much worse. And then it gets even worse than that. So by the time you are about fifty years old you start to get permanently pissed. Cranky. You stop holding doors for women, stop holding in farts, stop shaving, stop laughing at jokes that aren't funny, stop listening to others' stories, stop explaining or defending yourself, and maybe even stop paying taxes.

CHAPTER THREE: OWNED BY ME AND RUN BY ME

So this bar in Thailand is owned by me and run by me. And it is me and my bar and my rules or the highway. It's cranky time baby and I am the chief crank. Me me me and all about me and me or the highway. So don't come in trying to sell your hand painted pictures, or your tired ass flowers, or your underage daughter, or pesticide laced fruits, or your stolen-off-the-back-of-the-truck food and beverage specials, or your brother's DJ services, or an 80's disco ball you found in an abandoned PX in Angeles City. And I don't want to hear about how I should be buying techno crap music, or stocking the bar with trannies, or putting in a tattoo parlor–barber shop–massage room–bouncing bull machine–strobe lights–revolving stage–fancy drink menu–country music and country music decorations–soccer and rugby team shirts hanging from the ceiling–moosehead with women's underthings hanging off the antlers–glass case of python skulls for sale–rent space in front of the bar for mystery meat and fruit vendors–sell stolen car radios–or convert Laotion money to Thai money. Just save it Mr. Good Idea breath. This bar is owned by me and run by me; and it is me and my bar and my rules or the highway. It's cranky time baby and I am the chief crank. Hit the road.

You want to play with me? Figure out a way for me to score a truckload of cheap Burmese T-shirts in all sizes that say: CRANKY AND PROUD. I also need some Chief Crank and Crankster coffee cups as well as some women's bikini underpants that say: CRANKS WELCOME in the crotch. I am also looking for a pinstriper who can paint CRANK POWER on the door to my truck and I would like to pick up about a thousand bumper stickers that say CRANKY TO THE MAX and CRANKS DO IT WITH A FROWN.

In fact, to return to the previous theme; if you are selling anything other than the above denotated 'Cranky' items do not come in. This bar is for guys who are no longer young and pretty damned cranky. One aging blotchy skinned farang sea turtle who had the misfortune to breed with an Isaan wonder named his four children Cranky and To and The and Max. Cranky To The Max. Anyway, this bar and me are in Crankyville and we ain't buyin' shit and mostly we ain't listening to anybody and for sure most of the time we just don't care. Care? Yeah, care. You name the subject Mr. Bigcity Tourist Psychologist and mostly we just don't care. We do not want to make a donation to the Greater Thailand Toys For Turette's Syndrome Farang Tots (GTTFTSFT) charity and we ain't sponsoring (giving money) for you to run in some marathon on Krabi to save whales in Belize. Screw the whales. In fact: get me a couple of thousand pounds of whale meat and I'll sell it to the lower Sukumvit vendors in BKK as mystery meat. Screw the whales and screw you. Crank this dirtball.

Dana Bar Patron Mantra (DBPM):

"We've reached a nice Middle Way (college Buddhist talk for intellectual laying around on the couch) with Thailand. Thailand does not give a shit and neither do we. Now I'll have a beer. And no I do not want a menu, or beer nuts, or peanuts, or a slice of candied Mango, or a copy of the Chiang Mai Gazette, or a drinking companion named Noi. I do not want to watch whatever crap is on the TV, and no I do not want to talk to the bartender, and no I do not want to know anything about any of the regulars:

Examples:

1. Joe from the Hapy Daz Smiling Monkee Butt condos died last week? Tell someone who cares.

2. The one-eyed, one-legged, one-armed waitress known as Lucky has disappeared? And your point is?

3. Someone's niece-uncle-grandfather-sister-father-cousin-grandson is doing something or going somewhere or coming from somewhere or married or gave birth or got arrested or got a light bulb stuck up his/her/it's poop chute? I don't give a rat's ass. Let me be more clear on this. If sitting here in this bar I had a taxidermied postage sized rat's ass in my hand I would not trade it for that information. I'm not young and I've still got that stone in my sandal and I've still got that wire pubic hair making me crazy and I still have not squeezed out the other half of this morning's turd festival. I'm cranky. Make puppets dance on my daughter's computer? I'll make'em dance. I'll teach them the AK-47 polka. Over here in the States we have a popular children's TV character named Barney that is a big purple dinosaur. Barney had to stop making appearances at malls and supermarkets because people would attack him. I'm not the only one.

Just leave me alone with my beer and don't block the air conditioning. I don't want to hear your story and I don't want to be your friend. I'm no longer young and I'm cranky."


CHAPTER FOUR: GET OUT–GET OUT–GET OUT–GET OUT

Anyway, this bar of mine is a quiet refuge in northeastern Thailand up near the border. Just outside of Bung Kan.

Local farang Bung Kan tranny joke: "You want bung me? Kan."

Anyway, it's a clean safe friendly low key place that caters to guys who are now in a quiet time of their lives. That means expats of a certain kind and vintage–no Thais or French or Asians or Eastern Europeans or numnuts from Usuckistan and especially no tattooed freaks who think soccer is worth dying for. The music is Thai and Cambodian and Laotian and Vietnamese and Hong Kong Chinese female pop. If you do not want to hear Asian music in Asia then get out. GET OUT. Hit the road Commander Jackass. And take your big shouldered sun blackened Israeli backpacker bitch girlfriend with you. It's my bar and that's the music I like. Go to Hell. Assholes.

And do not ask me any politically correct super culturally sensitive really interested questions about the music. I don't know anything about the music and I don't care and I don't want to know and I don't want to know if you know anything about the music. I just play what I like. Last time I checked that was what music was for. So don't ask me any 'Gee, I'm really interested' questions about the music.

Example:

Jerkwad Customer From Universityville in Farangland: Gosh Bartender, that music is very interesting. I myself have a PhD. degree in Eskimo percussion instruments of the 10th century. They used hollow cranes' legs for drum sticks and tapped out the beat on really big snowballs. It was very quiet percussion music. Is the music you are playing for these fine expat gentlemen a derivative of something that originated in China; or is it an example of a totally original indigenous musical form that is now being exported to other parts of the Kingdom?

Me: Get Out.

And while I am on the subject of what can get you ejected in the Dana Bar.

1. You think the air-con is anything (too cold, not cold enough, too noisy, blowing too much air, etc–blah blah blah)? Get out.
2. You want a napkin? Get out. Wipe your hands on your shirt. Act like a man.
3. You want to tell me some story about you? Get out.
4. You want to talk about sports? GET OUT AND STAY OUT.
5. You want to tell me anything about the toilet? Get out.
6. You want another glass because your glass has a hair on the lip? GET OUT.
7. You want to say something nice to me so that I will say something nice to you? GET OUT AND STAY OUT AND NEVER COME BACK. THIS BAR IS FOR MEN.
8. You want to introduce me to your friend? Get out and fast–I am going for the gas capsule and the pillowcase.
9. You have learned how to say a naughty word in Thai and you want to share it with me. GET OUT OF MY BAR AND NEVER COME BACK.
10. You want to know anything about the local Thai community because you are 'not a sex tourist'. GET OUUUUUUUUUUT.

Oh, and I almost forgot the Big Kahunna of Dana Bar ejection triggers: You were the star player on your high school football/rugby/cricket team and you won the big game and you want to tell somebody in the bar about it.–Getout Getout Getout Getout Getoutofmybaryoujuvenilebrayingjackass.

CHAPTER FIVE: THE AUSTRALIANS–A RULE CONUNDRUM

But it's not all hard and fast rules and unsympathetic behavior and cranky impulse though. I'm nothing if not an easy going, live-and-let-live, go-with-the-flow social animal. They don't call me party animal Dana for nothing. In fact: with regard to one possible Dana Bar ejection rule I just haven't made up my mind yet.

The Australians. All that Yank crap and that Mate crap can get a little wearing. Americans do not really like to be called Yanks and I'm not your mate unless we are playing butt darts in the billabong (whatever). But it's hard not to like guys that can put down a Fooble of Fosters (think Gaggle of Geese) and then piss over a Ford econoline van. And I once saw a Yank-and-Mate guy from Amata (where men are lonely and dingos know when to tuck under their tails) hold up a bucket full of stolen Nana hotel ashtrays on his dick. Hard not to respect that. But still it could go either way. Stay tuned.

CHAPTER SIX: THE RULES

There aren't many rules in the Dana Bar because there don't have to be many rules. The aged wizened beaten up cranky survivors of life that manage by word-of-mouth, or destinous navigation, or spooky Van Allen belt weegeeing to find the door will possess knowledge that does not require data or instruction. Rules inviolate will be understood by all. Rules of such magnitude and stone chiseled plinth monumentality that they will accept enforcement by all as one. The rules will rule but it will be like family. Pillowcases with knockout gas capsules will be hanging on a hook and available to all. What are these rules?

1. Anyone who mentions the Eagles or the song Hotel California has just signed their own Catapult Warrant (more on that later).

2. Anyone who mentions the word 'Nam' (as in Vietnam) in conversation. Again you won't have enough time to get to the door. Everyone will be on you like a soi dog on a dung beetle. The capsule of knockout gas will be broken and the pillowcase will be pulled over your head. Say goodbye to the Dana Bar and hello to the catapult.

3. Any mention made or pictures shown in any context of any kind of grandchildren. If you want to blather on about grandchildren go down to Bangkok and get a sex change at Bumrungrad Hospital. We ain't interested and we ain't listening. We're men and we're cranky and we ain't gettin' involved in any more relationships. One mention made of grandchildren and you will be warned. Two mentions made of grandchildren or if god forbid the pictures come out of the wallet then you are headed for the roof and the catapult. No use fighting. You might as well break the knockout gas capsule yourself and put the pillowcase over your head. Febley Brankster from Poole did that eight months ago. He set a nice example.

CHAPTER SEVEN: THE CATAPULT

What is the catapult you say? Simple. Lately various recreationists and historically minded men have gotten involved worldwide in building replicas of Medieval siege engines. These are great machines with potential energy that converts crudely but efficiently to kinetic energy and when triggered can throw large stones. (Sweet Jesus, is there anything more interesting than men and the lives and activities of men?)

The apex of this siege engine development was the trebuchet. Pull the trigger on one of these babies and watch the Middle Ages era counter-weighted lever throw a castle busting three hundred pound stone for two hundred and fifty yards. Ok, anyway–I have built one of these catapults on the roof of the bar. That's right. You heard right. On the roof of my dinky little bar is a great huge siege engine. Kinda looks like a praying mantis on top of a june bug. That's why the interior of the bar looks like a Muslim mosque with all of the posts and pillars and arches and beams. The catapult of great huge green timbers and stone counter weight and accessory fastenings and timbers weighs tons and the shock loading to the roof when the thing explodes is frightening. Before I fastened lag bolts into the roof and ran turnbuckled cables to deadmen posts buried in the ground the whole bar used to jump and shake and lurch. Patrons loved it. Just the right combination of alcohol and childish pursuit and fear can make a man's body sing. God, it's great to be a man.

So . . . mess around with crap like grandchild pictures, or requests for the song Hotel California, or stories of 'Nam, and you are going to be gassed and pillowcased and dragged up to the roof and put in the catapult pouch. Now it is party time for a bunch of quiet no longer young cranky guys. My guys. Dana guys. My patrons. The Royal Cranksters of Bung Kan (RCBK). Guys who understand the value of follow through, and anger, and prejudices, and taking pleasure in other's misfortune. Cranking (no pun intended) the winch takes a while. Most of my guys now have big bellies and noodle arms but they work as a team. There is usually some talk about targeting. Then the jerk lanyard release and Mr. Hotel California leaves the roof in a groan and a whoosh on a personal night time mission.

So if you are up near the border somewhere near Bung Kan and you see a flying body or you hear the rumble and whoosh of a catapult you are close. Close to the Dana Bar. Stop on in. All are welcome. Well, almost all. If you happen to have your big thick stupid wallet in your front pants pocket, or you use the word dude, or your hat is on backwards, or your profession is limp wrist retail store window dresser; don't even try to back out. It's catapult time for you baby.

So the sun is truly up and the lower rim has left the horizon on the future Stickmanites and I don't mind being the point man, and the visionary, and the philosopher on this thing. Have you done the extrapolation yet? Have you gotten a mental glimpse of the future? No? Then imagine this. Imagine a humongous giant preying mantis like catapult on the roof of every bar building in Pattaya. Five hundred catapults solving problems every night. Like popping corn in a hot oil skillet bodies arching into the night sky and catapult rooftop parties lending to the general hilarity. Problems with customers, or police, or boyfriends, or teeruks, or beggers, or lying landlords, or late employees, or thieving mamasans, or cheating vendors, or loud Germans, or obnoxious French, or stone faced Chinese, or pushy Russians? It's catapult time. A new addition to the exotic and charming and wonderful culture of Siam and millions of catapult toys for tourist and Thai child sold everywhere.

Nothing washes away the writ of Time and Time tells all. My legacy now is clear. I leave behind no children, or grieving wives, or cure for cancer, or great expat novel, or wars averted; but soon the catapults of the Kingdom will become known as Danas. Screw up and you are gassed and pillowcased and taken to the roof to be put in the Dana. From Patpong to Pattaya to the NEP to Hat Yai to Udon Thani to Khun Kaen to Korat to Ubon Ratchathani to Chaing Mai to Phuket to Krabi and beyond there will be Danas on the roofs of every freestanding bar or bar building in Thailand. Large and small and every now and then simply mind boggling huge catapults festooned with flowers and offerings and paint. New Danas will receive monk blessings and special catapult evenings will be featured in Hi-So magazine articles with the obligatory bouffant haired Chinese woman cutting a ribbon before shouting "PULL". A new day dawning on a new Kingdom ladies and gentleman and my contribution helping to ease societal tensions every night. Makes me proud.

Finit

Sincerely Yours,
Kuhn 100% Dana

P.S. ICT Addenda: Catapult Rental

Yes yes yes yes I know what you are all thinking. Like the loving mother to the suckling child I am connected to all of you by a silver cord of farang expat crank mongerism and super intelligent testosterone fueled man stuff awareness. You are all wondering if the Dana Bar roof top catapult is available for parties and rentals and special situations.

Yes it is. I repeat: Yes it is. Kinda sends a chill through you don't it. Makes the bulb of your pant's friend start to burn and tear at the little opening. For a fee of course; but the list below is a partial list of Dana Bar catapult activities in the month of April:

1. MacMannis Glendoogle HMS (ret.) had his friends fire off his teeruk's cellphones, and tennis racket, and sandals, and flip flops, and purse, and backpack, and toiletries, and assorted female sundries in separate shots and he stood about two hundred yards down range with a double barreled shotgun and blasted the crap out of the sky. At least that was the plan. Hard to tell at night how successful he was. The first pull usually blows out his monocle and the second boom often occurs as he leans over to look for it.

2. David Tufenkjian, and Bohumil Cenkl, and Muhammed Muhammed, and Robert Tomasello all showed up with satchels and valises and file folders of paperwork regarding visas and legal papers and such to get their teeruks out of Thailand and into Armenia, and Prague, and Saudia Arabia, and Italy for reasons of matrimony (ok, they are foreigners but at least they are not French). Apparently the blush was off the bloom in these couplings of love because they requested that I provide a bucket of gasoline. A special day was chosen because there was no moon. The individual bundles of paperwork were soaked in gasoline, weighted down with big net bags of durian fruit, lit with a match, and then fired into the dark night sky. Kinda pretty.

I had asked my wife Doom and our three daughters Gloom, Boom, and Loom to attend this catapulting event because I thought they would appreciate the fiery bundles arching through the night sky. However just before it was time to go up onto the roof one of them broke a Dana Bar rule so I told them all to GET OUT.

3. Blonkers Crutchfield from Dorset asked that photographers be provided for his catapult rental. His bargirl devilchild teeruk had requested that they get a puppy. The little furry monster's first act was to urinate on Blonker's keyboard. I think we can all agree that you don't mess with a man and his keyboard. Take a dump in my shoe? I don't care. Leave a puddle on the pillow? I laugh it off. Shred the mail as it comes through the mail slot? Cute. Bark at the fish in the aquarium until they turn white belly up from fright? Puppy excess. But pee on my keyboard and a line has been crossed. BC from Eaton agreed and didn't negotiate too hard. I made a fortune on this catapult time rental. Basically Blonkers went bonkers.

Anyway, the keyboard was tied around the puppies neck and then both were fired off like a canine keyboard rocket. Two seconds later there were two shotgun blasts and tiny flashes of fire about a hundred and fifty yards down range. Apparently MacMannis Glendoogle HMS (ret.) was still mucking about with his rosewood stock silver inlaid Belgian shotgun. Kinda sad. I hate to see a keyboard blasted out of the sky.

4. Foonster Lumley was asked by his teeruk to buy her a Honda Dream cycle. A week later she said the cycle had been stolen and could he buy her another? He bought her another cycle. Later, when her brother (?) came to visit he was driving the first 'stolen' Honda Dream cycle.

Now it was Foonster Time: He showed up on the roof with the first Honda Dream, an inflatable doll, some of his teeruks clothes, a photo of her face, some light rope, and T-shirts for all of the Royal Cranksters of Bung Kan that said, "Don't Mess With The Foonster". The inflatable doll was dressed in his girlfriends clothes, the picture of her face was stuck on the doll's face, and the doll was tied to the cycle by the wrists and the feet and the waist. A few splashes of gasoline on the doll and cycle, a thrown match, and a teary eyed Foonster croaked "Pull". One of the prettiest things I have ever seen. The flaming teeruk and cycle shot off in a fiery streak at the start and then tumbled into an asteroid like pinwheel of fire and revenge on the downside of the arch. No greater pleasure than revenge. Made you believe in God. Most beautiful thing I have ever seen. Foonster had a tear in his eye and we were all slack jawed at the wonder and the beauty of the universe. Then floating up to the roof from downrange we heard BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM like the calving of a distant glacier and saw the pinpricks of muzzle flash. Apparently MacMannis Glendoogle HMS (ret.) and some grouse hunter expats from Scotland were encamped downrange. Hard to get angry it was all so beautiful.

So there it is fellas–the original Dana Bar Catapult here in Bung Kan is available for special situations and private parties. Just remember there is a 300 lb. limit. Think of that as one fat German or three teeruks (no discount for bundling). Only your imagination will limit it's uses and it's pleasures. If you are looking for whooshing fiery revenge, or the beauties of bargirl crap blasted out of the sky, or shooting off thousands of pounds of flame trailed durian and mango and bananas and cantaloupe and farlung and malakor and mang-khut and rambutans and pomelos (shotgun rentals available), or blasting into catapult oblivion the front door and the bath fixtures and the sink and the couch and the air conditioner unit of the Isaan house the bitch and bitch parents are NOT going to move into (thank-you Jesus for waking me up); just contact me. Cash only and it is probably a good idea to keep your mouth shut or I might yell GET OUT. 2% percent discount for new ideas. So if you have any ideas of import, and originality, and fall down drunk laughing your ass off hysteria send them into me care of this website.

Finitus Secondorium: "PULL"

Stickman's thoughts:

What an epic.