Thai Thoughts and Anecdotes Part 154
As a primer to the main text in this submission I am going to deal with a question that I have been getting for years in shy and adoring inquisitive emails. Think of it as what you need to know as a Dana back-story when reading my submissions and cogitating on my world. Enjoy–and it is ok to take notes.
Hey, I know what you are thinking. How does this Dana kat know so much? Whereby come the insights and bone deep knowledge so seamlessly and effortlessly and unpretentiously displayed in all of his tutorial writing? Is he the holder of multiple degrees from multiple colleges and universities? Does he support his politically correct alpha wife and super kids by teaching at a big famous school? Is he just genetically superior as evidenced by his complete lack of doubt about any social or scientific issue? Has he been appointed by the finger of God to lead us, or chastise us, or make an example of us, or make us feel small by comparing his conclusions with our behavior? Hey, is he just lots smarter than us? Are we nothing but frogs and bugs to him?
No no and a thousand times no dear gentle Stickman readers. My background has been different. Abandoned at birth by my parents because coming out of the chute I did not look like I was going to make them proud with academic excellence; I ended up being raised by dogs. The only good B student is a dead B student. A scrawny neck that could not support a regimental tie and a few fumbles at the Burmese midwife's nipple reinforced a disappointed parent's instincts. So I was raised by soi dogs from the Wat Dusitaram part of Bang Phlat to the bridges bookending Wat Suwannaram in Bangkok Noi and the Wat Prayun section of Thon Buri.
Hey, it's ok–being raised by dogs was a good thing. For one thing you don't waste time with nuance like 'white meat' vs. 'dark meat'. A chicken bone found in the street was like a candy bar to a diabetic. Grab, crush, chomp, and swallow. Later on: shit, piss, fart, and bark. Basics. And believe you me when I tell you that a dog is not man's best friend. You would not believe what some of us say about people. Would not believe it. A great day for a dog is biting fleas, finding garbage, licking balls, and dumping on people. Has worked for us for 10,000 years. People–particularly farangs–cheese on a cracker what a bunch of dorks.
Take human dating for example. A guy will ask a girl out and entertain her and spend money on her hoping to get a smile or a feel or a kiss. What's that all about? We just stick our noses in the sweet spot and get busy. Anyway, I didn't speak my first non-dog words until I was nineteen years old. Reading in a Bangkok newspaper about some rich Thai-Chinese that was making a philanthropic donation of his own money (his own money–did I mention that?) I am told that I exclaimed: "Well, I'll be fxxxed". The genie was out of the bottle then and I was no longer only a dog; so I hit the road to continue my non-big giant university education. I was going to hit the hobo train trail in the Kingdom to learn how to cook tom yum gung over a sterno can, play the Ranat Ek, and blow on a Kblui but come to find out that there is no such thing as a hobo tradition in Thailand. Unless you count 95% of the citizenry.
So I ended up living under bridges. Oh the stories I could tell. The intrigue and the romance and the social diversity encountered and the lessons learned living under bridges. But I am a modest man and do not need to pluck on my own Chakhe or beat on my own Bridge Bachelor's degree khong mon. Anyway, what followed was thirty five years of begging, and crawling in and out of dumpsters, and tipping over trash cans, and stealing coins from floating Loy Krathong festival krathongs. Hey, it's a living. And it's been a life. On the odd occasion when bone deep Farangism has reared it's ugly head I have sold my body to earn money to buy clothes and sample the farang nightlife. Hence my experiences with Thai women in the red light district areas of the Kingdom.
So as you can see my life has not been one of university teas, and arguments about the history of the Medieval footnote, and laughing uproariously over witty Latin greeting cards hand inked by my brilliant son. I don't know how to grade on a curve, or how to convince the Dean of the College to promote my latest journal article, or how to wear casual mismatched clothing that screams 'too Mensa to care'; but I do know crap when I hear it.
Really, I only have two accomplishments in my life. I can talk to dogs and I know crap when I hear it. And how do I know crap when I hear it? By growing up with dogs, that's how. Believe me when I tell you that dogs do not bark crap. No agendas, and no sales, and no name dropping in the dog world. I've met dogs with multiple Phd's and they never even mentioned it. Just immediate primal needs and simple declarative sentences. I admit the bulk of the utterances dance around themes like "I hate fleas." and "My balls are itching." and "I need something to fxxx." but still the remainder of the dog talk you hear under bridges and hear in the Kingdom would make Chaucer sit up and say Whoof. And there is none of that insane tonal stuff either. A bark is a bark and a whoof is a whoof. Simple. Dog talk.
Yup, the beauty part about being raised by dogs if you are a human being is that you get decrapified. The copper bracelets that will make cancer go away? You ain't buyin'. Hell, we haven't even got wrists. The swamp land that will make a great condo investment. Sorry, I'm a dog–no grass; I'm not a player. The presidential candidates here in the United States that have not even read the Constitution or the Bill of Rights. You can throw the stick brother but I ain't chasin'. The mail order pills that will make you thinner, younger, hairier, sexier–hey, you're talking to a dog here: we eat our own poop.
You will never hear a dog say:
"The dangling appendages on the rearward part of my anatomy are distressing me with irritating feelings."
Instead, what you'll get is:
"HEY, MY BALLS ARE ITCHING."
Simple. Dog talk. Straightforward. Honest. Without pretence or calculation. When you hear a dog bark you know one of three things: Either there is an intruder headed for the house, or his balls itch, or some other dog is nailing the poodle from the Emporium with the perfumed ass. So what I'm really saying here is that getting decrapified by dogs under the bridges of the Kingdom is now reflected in my writing. No nonsense. Just the straight poop (sorry, poor choice of words). Anyway, you get my meaning. Bark bark.
I have to tell you that hanging out in the doorways of bars and listening to the foolish verbal posturing of farangs was enough to make you just put your head down on your paws, and close your eyes, and sigh. Don't think dogs are of consequence? Let me tell you something–dogs are getting more sex than anyone and we ain't paying. Ever seen a dog carrying a wallet? I rest my case. Anyway, I learned a lot in the first nineteen years of my life living with dogs including how to lick my balls (Hint: you want to lick up and down, not back and forth–same as brushing your teeth).
Anyway, knowing how to talk to dogs has value; but knowing crap when you hear it is too precious to be priced. No part of the universe is attracted to entropy more compellingly than time. Time for humans can not be wasted. And people filling up your life with crap are wasting your time. They are stealing from you. The incomplete thinker with the loud voice, and the list of references, and the name dropping habit, and the salesman's smile is a thief. He is stealing your time. And he ain't going to throw you a bone. Dogs avoid these pretenders with the knowledge that dogs have. Knowledge that places emphasis on declarative sentences and primal needs and truthful utterances. If a dog says: "I just sucked a flee out of my foreskin."–you can bet on it.
Time and crap and dogs. Get a handle on these and you start to outdistance people. Then it is time to start writing. So I think that is why my writing reads like the stone tablets that Moses carried down the mountain. No agenda, no fancy ideas, no mixed messages, no goofy higher education references, and no personal desires. I get messages and I hand them on. Just Thai Thoughts and Anecdotes delivered from my heart to yours. Crap free. Woof. Oh, and one more thing. You know that dog thing we do where we violently shake our tails back and forth when we meet you? Hey, it ain't you. Our balls shake and clang and it makes us high.
So the next time you are in the Kingdom why not engage in a little self-improvement? Instead of checking into the Mothership on Soi 4 in Bangkok and then rushing over to the Angelwitch bar at the NEP; find a bridge and introduce yourself to the dogs. They'll take you in and lick you all over, and show you the best places to look for food and the best places to take a dump. You'll immediately feel the foolish western twaddle and nonsense of your modern heart and mind start to fall away as you become more elemental and basic and pure. No more lying and cheating and stealing. No more bragging and selling and checking your watch. No more bombast and pomposity and attitude. After a while you will feel the need to write. Congratulations. It's Dana Time. Tell me what bridge you are under and I'll bring over a laptop and a can of flea powder. Hey, and if you keep at it–some day you'll be able to lick your own balls. Whoof whoof bark . . . whoof.
Anyway, that is just a little about me. What follows is an essay entitled: OUR FUTURE. It is a statement of the present and a vision of the future and a warning. Be afraid . . . be very afraid.
In Thailand there is a saying that if it is the sexiest woman you have ever seen then it is probably not a woman: it is a katoey. Proving once again that men can do everything better than women; even be women better than women. But wait–there is more: go to the window and look out. Any window. Any window in the world. Everything you see was built by men.
But the times they are a-changin'. Get ready to have your world turned upside down. And it is going to start in the Kingdom. There is a shift in the Universe afoot. Dark forces have been loosed. The paradigm shift of man vs. woman in Thailand is now no longer a matter of speculation but an observable fact. Read the following essay for the news and be afraid–be very afraid. Woof.
It is now and has been an observable fact for some time that each succeeding generation of bargirls is more predatory and more knowledgeable and more conscious of their powers and more inclined to use their powers without regard to morals or ethics or human results than the previous generation of bargirls. These little six pound wonders are born in Essan or Chiang Rai or Bangkok or Patong with bargirl powers already hardwired into their brains in excess of the bargirl powers that their mothers were born with. The increase in powers from one generation to another generation is not exponential but it is not evolutionary either; it is a matter of too much too fast for scientific explanation. We are in a land of dark forces and the breeze's caress on your cheek is the touch of evil. Information is being passed on generationally from one generation of living things to the next generation of living things in excess of the normal acquisition of knowledge through instruction or imitation.
The result is that each new generation of bargirls to come into contact with farangs is more able in a social-sexual war where indifference to humanity and the application of sexually administered influences are everything. First to go were the weis.
"I ain't weiing you German man–now give me taxi money."
The next generation did away with the girlfriend experience.
"Wash your own socks monkey's ass."
After that we lost the smiles and the giggling. The generation following that one did away with ‘long-times' and with worries about personal appearance. Goodbye cute sexy petite girls and hello lumbering elephants. Girls being born to bargirl mothers even as I type this will be coming to Bangkok or Pattaya with all of this information already hardwired into their psyches and brains and pussies and cell phones. It is the transference of information from generation to generation in excess of the time required to learn it. There is no learning. They just know.
The result is that bargirls are on the ascendancy as a species. The notion that they are fellow homosapiens is all part of the past. Nobody believes that anymore. Are they mammals? Yes. Are they humans? Not sure. We know they are different and the evidence is that they are leapfrogging ahead of the farangs in power and knowledge. In fact the farangs seem to be losing ground faster than the enemy's successes can account for. Maybe it is all part of some grand plan. Maybe God has way way too much spare time or he's gone over to the other side and he and the Devil are playing butt darts behind a harp factory in heaven. Anyway, as usual; it is the results that count not the speculation. And the result is that with each succeeding generation the farangs pay more for less and engage the bargirls with diminished expectations. These are not the actions of winners.
So now it is time to be afraid, be very afraid . . . Whoof.
Emboldened by their powers and their successes each new generation of bargirls has the ability to be more influential and more greedy. I can see the future. It is a future of Thailand more and more being influenced by the sexual colossi that bestride the farang-bargirl world. As incoming bargirl revenue picks up size and speed like a snowball rolling down hill not all of it will be spent on whiskey and drugs and boyfriends. Money will be invested. Banding together in financial pussy cabals they will end up owning shopping centers and mobile phone companies and stuffed animal franchises and Mickey Mouse T-shirt factories and gold shops.
Increased money will lead to increased influence and soon bargirls will end up running villages and then cities. They will become university presidents and captainesses of industry. Nothing grows faster than interest but nothing sells faster than pussy so the Chinese bankers and the Indian real estate families will be replaced by women wearing black high heel stiletto boots and cell phones and purses. No pants and no tops. Bargirls Rule.
The final step into government will have bargirls in charge of Immigration and Visas and entertainment licenses and alcohol licenses and the police. The prime minister of Thailand will be a bargirl. She will make public appearances dressed in a neck to toes fishnet stocking and she will appoint a high line bargirl from Patong to be Thailand's ambassador to the United Nations. This happy result of generations of mysterious bargirl generational knowledge transference will display no outstanding virtues of any kind in United Nations sessions and will give free blow jobs to anyone.
I am currently 58. If I can live to be 100 I believe there are enough future bargirl generations so that I will someday see the country of Thailand renamed Bargirland. I hope so. It is the future. And I am ready for it. I just hope they'll be gentle.
Woof. Bark. Bark.