Stickman Readers' Submissions November 4th, 2006

Thai Thoughts and Anecdotes Part 153


Wearing my shoulder balloons and my magnet belt and my aluminum foil antennae I get messages. Sometimes I can see the future. I've got a message coming in now. It is a scene at the up-and-coming Writer's Get-Together

He Clinic Bangkok

To Wit: The tenth floor ballroom is filled with tables of eating and talking and laughing and gesticulating writers. Over four thousand writers have shown up for the festivities. Since this exceeds the actual number of submissions it is clear
that some imposters have gotten in but no matter. It is party time. Most of the conversation has centered around the question:

"Where is Dana?"
"Where is Dana man?"

"Hey dude, where is Dana?"
"Where is Dana?"

CBD bangkok

"Hey Stick, where the fxxx is Dana?"

Disappointment and anger and perplexment flavor the chatter. submission contributors have emptied bank accounts, and flown long distances, and left families and jobs; to see and meet and talk to Dana. And there is no Dana.
During the durian sauce and crushed chilies main entree Stick received two death threats scrawled on paper napkins and someone put fish paste on his seat. There is some tension.

Stick stands up and taps on his glass to get everyone's attention. The room goes quiet and he starts to make some remarks. He has some important things to say, and some funny anecdotes, and some rugby scores to report that he knows will
save the evening debacle of No Dana. He starts . . .

Suddenly the big dining room double doors blow open and black pajama clad Thai ninjas carry in a red carpet. They lay the free end down at Stick's feet and unroll the carpet the length of the ballroom and right out the door. Then fifty
katoeys in short blue plastic dresses and clear plastic high heels sashay into the room. They are carrying trumpets. They line up on each side of the carpet from the door to Stick, twenty five to a side, and start blowing on the trumpets. As they
lift the trumpets to their collagen filled lips the fronts of their dresses lift up and their man meat thighs ripple. They are blowing harder than a girl who has to make a rent payment and the room is stunned. Writers stare in wonder and Stick
sits down.

wonderland clinic

Then the first part of the king sized gold Egyptian bed can be seen. A huge gold gilt bed studded with gems and jewels and bits of colored glass is being carried through the great double doors of the tenth floor ballroom. Black ninja figures
are carrying the bed. It is great and heavy and ponderous and covered with silk sheets and silk pillows and the flower petals of ten thousand Soi 4 tourist necklaces. There reclining on the bed in writer splendor is Dana. Naked
from the waist up, his head bearing a crown of orchids, and two Pretty Lady bar dancers dropping grapes in his mouth; he waves serenely as he is carried into the ballroom and around the dining tables of the writers.

The fifty tranny trumpet players are now wailing and dancing and the formerly perplexed and angry and disappointed writers are bursting from their chairs with applause and cheers and tears. As the bed is carried around the room they reflexively
reach into their wallets and throw money up on the bed. Some of them mouth the words 'I love you'. Dana continues to wave and to smile.

As the bed is carried around the dining tables Dana throws out photos of himself riding a horse in Hua Hin, and autographed copies of his submissions. Pandemonium. Pandemonium breaks out as the writers dive for the gifts and souvenirs like
Patpong dancers chasing ping pong balls. All decorum and dignity is lost and Stick looks on as party dream turns into a party nightmare.

Now the temper of the room has changed. It is survival of the fittest as writers fight each other for gifts from Dana and talismans of a living god. Chiang Mai Kelly and Gary Williams are punching each other in the face for no apparent reason,
and at their feet David Rhodes and Caveman are tearing at a photo like maddened dogs. Leaping for gifts some writers have forgotten that their legs were hooked over the rungs of the folding metal chairs and they have leapt and dragged these chairs
across the ballroom floor like lurching three legged monsters. A table has been turned over. Some writers in walkers and carrying oxygen bottles are being escorted out of the room but the remainder are now fully involved in a fight for photo and
autographed submission glory that would make Ghengis Khan proud. There is a saying amongst seasoned street fighters that–'All fights eventually end up on the ground.'–and that is being witnessed today by the fifty horn blowing trannys,
and Dana, and Stick, and the two girls on Dana's bed.

All the writers in attendance are now on the floor clawing and biting and scratching and punching like rabid beasts. The lucky ones who have managed to get their hands on a picture of Dana riding a horse in Hua Hin, or have managed to get
their hands on one of his autographed submissions stuff them in their pants and make a break for the door. But other writers spot them and grab them by the ankles and pull them down. Reduced to blood speckled confetti by the clawing hands of maddened
farangs, bits of photo and autographed submissions now float in the air like the detritus of a lost civilization. There is now a disturbance in the Farang Force that can be felt all over the Kingdom. The center can not hold and if no one comes
to establish order the sun will rise on an apocalyptic scene of blood and food and drink and paper confetti all mixed in with the comatose bodies of four thousand worshipers of Dana.

The black clad ninja figures carrying the bed with Dana on it have been covered with spittle and froth and blood from the farang fans of the great writer but have never broken their stride. They know their master and they know their duty;
but the ninjas outside the big double doors have lost their nerve and called the police. You can hear the voices and whistles in the hallway as hundreds of police burst out of the elevator doors and others pound up the stairs. Empire accented
Volunteer Police (farang scum) are helping to coordinate with the Thai police and the Kingdom's military; and the space outside the doors is filling up with stretchers, and medical supplies, and heavy weapons, and lawyers, and literary agents,
and editors (more farang scum).

Meanwhile down on the street waiting wives and girlfriends have started crying. Tanks are being moved into position and soi dogs are barking. Essan soup makers, and chicken-on-a-stick vendors, and noodle sellers, and mamasans are moving in.
Thus are the small parts of history made. Klieg lights are being set up to serve as beacons for the military helicopters, and Thai TV trucks are sending squirrel-like Burmese up electric poles to hook up cables and wires. No one on the street
knows what it is all about and no one in the Kingdom could possibly imagine the skirmish of madness that Dana worship has kicked off in the tenth floor ballroom but all sense unease on the planet. There is a destructive disturbance in the Farang
Force. Obi-Wan Kenobi's "May The Force Be With You" is now irony rather than philosophy.

No one inside knows this. And they wouldn't care. The descent into madness and primal urges is king and the trannys knowing a good thing when they see it have stripped naked and joined the seething mass on the floor grabbing for private
parts and wallets. Claymore and Simon Templar and Sick Water Buffalo and Ben Dover and Thai Ties and Casanundra are making the unappealing phlegm throat sounds of sex crazed zoo monkeys and tearing at their clothes. Casmeri and Union Hill are
standing on a table and screaming. Just screaming.

For most their shameful behaviors will be private. Not so some others. Lookpapa and Marc Holt working in concert have grasped both sides of a table and thrown it right through one of the floor to ceiling ballroom windows. Now standing side
by side in the jagged glass opening they are wearing togas made from white tablecloths and lamp shades on their heads. Slapping their chests and hooting like brain addled lowland gorillas they attract parachute flairs from Thai military police.
Interior private shames have now gone public. Thai paramilitary snipers take up positions on adjacent roof tops, and newspaper photographer stringers fire off hundreds of flashbulbs. Welcome to the Writer's Get-Together
Apocalypse. A social debacle that will lead to the shame of all, the deportation of many, and prison sentences for a few. Only Dana will get away.

A Thai TV news truck starts broadcasting but the transmission is garbled by police airwave traffic–

"Sa Wa Dii Ka–a disturbance in the Farang Force ka–Dana–a nation ka waits in confusion ka–crazy ka ka farang–Stickman mystery ka–military ka presence ka–not a coup ka ka ka–farangs not ka good ka ka for Thailand ka–Dana gold
ka bed ka ka tank you . . ka."

On the final straight-away around the tables the cacophonous din of screeching and yelling and bellowing and crying made it sound like monkeys and parrots and cats were being strangled in a tropical rain forest. And the violence and flying
blood and froth and spittle was so great that Dana reached down under the pillows at the headboard and pressed a hidden button. Immediately klaxons sounded on the roof of the Marriott Hotel in South Pattaya and Noi was cell phone summoned. DANA
WAS IN TROUBLE. The military freight helicopter would be in the air in minutes and homing in on the party debacle. Dana would get away but the beating hearts left behind would have to tally the cost of worship.

When the klaxon sounded and Noi's phone started beeping she and her teddy bear were dressed in their silver flight suits and serving drinks at the Jet Bar on the steps in front of the Royal Garden Plaza mall. All she had to do was grab
teddy, vault the bar, and start running. Tranny security support posted on the perimeter of the Marriott Hotel grounds spotted her coming in the Beach road entrance and went into flying wedge defensive support. Tourists in the way were hip checked,
and belted aside, and sucker punched as Noi's short little Essan legs pumped like pistons. At the lobby elevator well dressed Aussies were jerked out of the elevator and thrown down the stairs like well dressed throw pillows.

The klaxon sound triggered well understood actions in the Dana ground support crew. As soon as Noi stepped out of the Marriott Hotel roof top elevator a giant tranny mechanic grabbed her and bolted for the landing pad. She had Noi under one
arm and her teddy bear under the other arm. Noi was slammed into the cockpit and the pre-flight check list bypass toggle switch was palmed. No time. Klaxon to take off–twelve minutes. Klaxon triggered scrambles were routine to serve their god
Dana and ground support moved with efficiency and speed and a desire to please that would make 1960's era SAC bomber base activity look like a kindergarten. Soon the people in the street at party central would see a pink military freight
helicopter lowering itself over the roof of the building. Loyal ninjas would have taken Dana and the giant gold Egyptian bed up onto the roof of the building to await rescue.

Meanwhile there was a social phenomenon happening on Soi Cowboy that would later become known as the March of Pussy. Sensing a disturbance in the Farang Force and an opportunity to pluck foreigners cleaner than a junkyard chicken; girls had
started to leave the bars and march towards Soi 33. They were not sure why they were marching and of course they had no idea what was happening inside the tenth floor ballroom at the Writer's Get-Together party but they
felt the attraction and they responded with the frightening robotic purpose of the well drilled military unit. Mamasans called out the marching cadence to hundreds of women in long long legs and high high boots. Top pussy earners carried the bar
flags which were usually the bars sign or the bar's motto–Example:

Short Time or Long Time
We Aim to Please–
We'll Do It Standing,
Or On Our Knees.

The girls mustered and massed on the soi bathed by neon and lit by stars. It was a pretty sight with the fluttering flags, and the thousand watt smiles, and the bronzed bodies. Then the shrill whistles, and the mamasan bellows, and they were
off marching and singing–

"We've got the pussies–
Yes we do.
We're gonna bonk you
Till you're blue.

Left right, left right, left right . . .

We're from the Cowboy–
Yes we are.
Every one of us
A real whore star.

Left right, left right, left right . . .

We've got the titties–
Yes we do.
We're gonna milk you
Till you moo.

We're from the Cowboy–
Yes we be.
You're gonna sit us
On your knee.

Left right, left right, left right, left right, left right . . .

My name is Sin–
Her name is Sot.
We're gonna get–
What you got.

German man–
Irish man–
And khun Jap too–

We're gonna milk you
Till you moo.


Mad Max–
And our friend

We're gonna pluck you
Till your clean.

Left right, left right, left right . . .

We're gonna love you–
Yes we are.
Every one of us
A real whore star.

March with us
And keep the pace.
Cowboy girls will
Sit on your face.

Left right, left right, . . . . . . left right . . .

If I die in Sukhothai–
Bury me with rich white guy.

If I die in old Lampang–
Bury me with old farang.

If I die in little Mai Chaem–
Bury me with ATM.

Left right, left right, left right . . .

I don't know
But I've been told–
Eskimo man is
Mighty cold.

A shot of whiskey
And a cig–
Big black man
Is way too big.

Mai Ben Rai
And chok dee too–
Drunks and cheap charlies;
What a zoo.

Fee Fee–
Fi Fi–
Fo Fo–

Smelly little Arabs
Want my bum.

What I want
Is Dana and me.
He gets my love–
And for free.

Dana, Dana, Dana . . .
One Two Three Four
We are women–
Hear us roar.

Dana, Dana, Dana . . .
One Two Three Four, One Two Three Four . . .
We are women–
Hear us roar.

What I want
Is Dana and me.
He gets my love–
And for free.

Left right, left right, left right . . . left right, left right, left right, left right . . .

You hansum man–
I suay maak too.
Kiss me now
Or I be blue.

Day-na, Day-na, Day-na.
One Two, One Two . . .
Day-na, Day-na–
One Two Three Four.
We'll do it with two–
Or four on the floor.

Left right, left right, left right . . .

Dana Dana–
He's my man.
If he can't do it–
No-body can.

Left right, left right, left right . . .

Short time–long time:
I don't care.
Pay me baht
And I'll get bare.

You hansum man–
Number one GI.
I luf you–
And that no lie.

Left right, left right, left right . . .

We've got the pussies–
Yes we do.
We're gonna bonk you
Till you're blue.

We're from the Cowboy–
Yes we are.
Every one of us
A real whore star.

As the March of Pussy went up the soi with swaying hips, and shuffling Go-Go boots, and fluttering flags, and barking mamasans; over one hundred trannys went ahead to clear traffic. Trannys have a deserved reputation in the Kingdom for turning
out in times of national stress and making contributions of organizational skill; so when Thais see trannys in force they obey. They know something important is going on. By the time the girls had turned right onto Sukhumvit 23 and then turned
left onto Sukhumvit Road the lane was cleared all the way to Soi 33. Cars and buses and motorcycles were pulled over and watching respectfully as some of the nation's finest women came marching by.

By the time the girls of Soi Cowboy made the left turn onto Soi 33 they had built up such a head of robotic marching steam it was only frantic whistle blowing by fat sweaty mamasans that got them to stop. Caterpillering around the 7 Eleven
and then rolling past Christie's Club and Degas and Papa's and Bacchus they were a sight to behold. Some had taken off their Go-Go boots and hung them around their necks. Others had opened their sweaty shirts and their breasts hung free.
Customers and owners and serving girls came out of the Oam Tong restaurant and Pan Pan and Wall Street to watch. What they did not know was that this was just the precursor of tens of thousands of marching girls to come. Cell phone calls had been
made by marching girls from Soi Cowboy and girls were being notified in Essan and Pattaya and at the NEP.

The Great Convergence of 2006 had begun.

Girls in rice paddy fields felt the disturbance in the Farang Force and threw off their green rice paddy gum boots and started the long trek to Bangkok. Massing at regional bus stations and remote highway intersections they eventually poured
into the city like locusts. There were so many of them that the march down Soi 33 was ten abreast. By then the trannys had cleared all the cars from the soi. The Nana Entertainment Plaza on Soi 4 and the Angels Disco in the Nana Hotel emptied
out into the street and the girls started the march up Sukhumvit Road.

By then the trannys had shut down both lanes and the girls came marching up the highway twenty abreast on each side of the median strip. Lessons had been learned by the Soi Cowboy marchers and these girls came marching barefoot or in flip-flops,
and naked from the waist up–nipples proud against the night air. There were no bar flags or whistling mamasans. There were no thousand watt smiles or laughter. These girls were a different breed. Loyal to no one, and loyal to no bar, and loyal
to no man; they shuffled up the road like SS advancing into Russia. Their hooded eyes and their grim death's head set mouths said:

Smile if you want,
And think about play.
But the night will be ours–
And also the day.

We've done this before–
We'll do it again.
You're nothing but prey.
You're nothing but men.

We've got what you want.
We've got what you need.
We'll make you pay
Until you bleed.

So stick it in–
And tell us you care.
We'll smile and grin–
And strip down bare.

Short time or long time–
It's all the same.
You're going home broke–
This is our game.

Smile if you want–
And think about play.
The night will be ours–
And also the day.

We've done this before–
We'll do it again.
You're nothing but prey–
You're nothing but men.

Sloe eyed and absolutely none of the hip swagger. Predators on the move. And these girls weren't singing. Fxxx singing. — "Just bend the farang over the Aztec altar stone backwards so I can cut out his heart with an obsidian knife."
— sexual killing machines bent on farang destruction. Frightening. Little girl flower sellers screamed and dogs hid. Instead of using the Skytrain they used the Sukhumvit Road marching occasion to plan strategy and separate into efficient fighting

Bell Travel canceled all Bangkok hotel pickups and dropoffs. Instead they sent their buses and minivans to the Dolphin roundabout in Pattaya where whores were gathering by the tens of thousands to be bused to Bangkok. There was a disturbance
in the Farang Force and they had picked up the scent like baby elephants with trunks up smelling bananas. Walking Street was a ghost town and clueless expats looked around in befuddlement.

The steam-and-cream girls, and the Japanese entertainers, and the karaoke hostesses further out from Soi 33 plus the Rachadapisek Road crowd also hit the road. They dumped the white pasty Japanese lard buckets like dropping dumplings in the
trash and came together like fire ants on the move. Just like the soi 4 girls from the Nana Entertainment Plaza and the Angels disco in the Nana Hotel they spurned public transportation and formed into long marching lines of sex and purpose. By
the time they reached the disturbance in the Farang Force at the Writer's Get-Together they would be able to attack hip to hip and snap twigs in their pussies.

Thai TV helicopters beamed the night time marches to their prime time anchors but no one could make out what was going on. And of course no one had a clue about the descent into primordial madness that was going on inside the ballroom where
tables had been overturned, food was now on the walls and ceiling, and four thousand writers were stabbing at each other with forks and knives and spoons.

Finally . . . finally the bed covered with Dana and the silk sheets and silk pillows and the two Pretty Lady dancers and the grapes and the baht and the flower petals is carried back through the doors and out of the room. The fifty tranny
buglers march out of the room carrying only their trumpets and their dicks, and the black clad ninja figures reappear to roll the red carpet back out the door. Then the lights go out and the police burst in. Megaphones bark and shots are fired
. . . the night becomes a long drawn out scream.

On the trip back to Pattaya–Noi and Dana exchanged smiles. It had been a good night. Dana influence would grow. And in two days there was another party in Frankfurt at the bookseller's and author's convention. Dana was the big
draw and after a suitable time of unease and waiting he would make a surprise and dramatic entrance. Booksellers and published authors and writers and literary agents would see a gem and stone encrusted Egyptian bed that only Wagner could have
imagined. Germans, beer, and Dana worship. Tomorrow morning at sunrise the tranny trumpet players, and the ninjas, and the bed, and the two honeys from the Pretty Lady bar, and the red carpet, and a trunk full of

autographed submissions and autographed photos of Dana riding a horse in Hua Hin would be air freighted to Frankfurt. German writers, and German beer, and tranny whore buglers, and Dana worship.

Who would have guessed that author's parties, and writing conferences, and bookseller's conventions would pave the way to world domination? But that is another story.

Stickman's thoughts:

Very well-crafted story telling. Anyone who wants a lesson on how to write, take note.

nana plaza