Readers' Submissions

Thai Thoughts and Anecdotes Part 159

  • Written by Dana
  • January 13th, 2007
  • 10 min read



Hello Stickmanites and Lesser Earthlings–

An important announcement here to tell you that in addition to Thai Thoughts and Anecdotes on a weekly basis a new feature called FROM THE MOTHERSHIP is going to be inaugurated. FROM THE MOTHERSHIP will spotlight Nana Hotel news and views to keep you up to date on Soi 4 happenings. As you all know, the Nana Hotel on Soi 4 in Bangkok is the greatest hotel in the world and the immediate area of the Nana Hotel is an oasis of dignity and refinement unparalleled in the world.

The Nana Hotel of Soi 4 in Bangkok, Thailand has received the prestigious BEST INTERNATIONAL MONGER SLAG PIT award for the last twenty-four years in a row and that's no accident. These wise and experienced and motivated hoteliers know that to capture and keep business year after year you need a well ordered establishment that has pussy in the hallways, and bimbos in the stairwells, and freelancers in the lobby, and smilers in the parking lot, and winkers in the bar, and hair flippers in the restaurant, and last call whores in the disco. And the Soi 4 surrounding geography of the Nana Hotel from the Rajah car park, to the gas station on the corner of Soi 4 and Sukhumvit, to the shoe repair guy on the corner of Soi 4 and Sukhumvit on the other side of Soi 4, to the Soi 4 NEP side of the street down to the Swan Inn has also consistently been one of the number one vacation spot choices for experienced and discriminating travelers.

Sure I know there are people with brochures of Machu Picchu at home, and I know there are tourists considering being ferried ashore in Antarctica to have their picture taken with penguins, and I know there are travel dreamers considering a trekking vacation to Everest Base Camp; but let me ask you this–how many big dicked, sex diseased, drug addled trannies do you think you are going to find in a penguin colony? I think I have made my point.

Anyway, these weekly FROM THE MOTHERSHIP news and views will be short snippets of information and infotainment specifically aimed at men of class and refinement and international sensitivity. And so without further ado I present FROM THE MOTHERSHIP bulletin Number One–

"I was checking into the Mothership the other night and in addition to my key, and my receipt, and my breakfast coupon, and my free drink voucher, I was given a four color high resolution poster advertising the first Foster Foskin Pro-Am Golf Invitational Tournament to be held in Pattaya in five days time. There on the placard was the arresting visage of one Foster Foskin (and his friend Bluey). Two greater examples of Aussie human roosters <or do you mean rooters?Stick> you could not imagine. Big heads and big hands and big noses and big stomachs and big feet and big smiles.

They were both wearing T-shirts, and hats with beer can tabs hanging down all around, and sockless shoe arrangements, and short shorts. Mr. Foster Foskin (tournament director) had on a T-shirt that said, STREWTH RULES; and he was pictured with his head bent back and balancing a Big Noy driver on his nose. I guess once an athlete always an athlete. In the background his friend Bluey (ball washer and sheila buffer) had a nine can stack of beers on his head and the expression of the happily demented. Additionally, this Bluey guy standing behind Mr. Foster Foskin (tournament director) had some kind of big huge stiff sticking out Australian dingo in his pants. We Americans would call it an erection.

Anyway, this poster announced that in five days time there was going to be some kind of sheila infested, beer primed, athletic event in Pattaya called the Foster Foskin Pro-Am Golf Invitational and that anyone holding this poster and showing up with a sheila could play. And the poster was simply covered with sheilas (Aussie for girls). Pasted with sheilas. There was so many pole huggers, and smokers, and towel wrappers, and pouters that you could hardly see the grass or the fairways or the greens. And forget about the bunkers. If you landed a ball in a bunker it was never going to kiss sand. You were going to have to chip out off an ass or a nipple or a flat tight brown stomach or something. I hate when that happens.

Anyway, in the foreground they were hanging all over these Foster and Bluey dudes, and laying about their feet, and peering into their golf bags, and staring up their shorts, and blowing on their beer tabs that were hanging down from their hats, and holding golf clubs in various disgusting ways. In the middle ground they were driving golf carts, and lugging golf bags, and on all fours with their rear ends to the camera lens looking for errant golf balls, and staring off into space as if they were receiving messages. And the background to the horizon looked like a lemming festival. Sheilas running and gamboling and prancing about hip to hip right on into the trees.

So obviously the Pro-Am part of this up-and-coming athletic event in Pattaya referred to the fact that the sheilas in attendance had to be either professional women or amateur women if you get my drift. I don't want to make too fine a point of this; and I should not have to write it in the sky, but what we are talking about is a golf tournament where the women are drawn from certain parts of certain cities in Thailand. Happy girls.

You know, this kind of salesman crap really fries my ass. I didn't just drop off the methadone truck and I know a pie-in-the-sky advertisement when I read one. Pro-Am means Professional-Amateur and where the singing Christ on a cracker am I going to be able to find an amateur whore in this town in only five days? There is always a catch with these sales promotion athletic contest gimmicks. I mean finding professional sheilas for this golf thing is a lead pipe cinch. It's like turning over a soi dog and looking for a flea. Think you'll find one? Easy. But where am I going to find an amateur whore in only five days time? I wouldn't give two shits but the prizes look great. First prize is . . . ok, no time for that. Let me tell you the rest.

So I go over to the G-Spot bar at the Nana Entertainment Center right across from the Nana Hotel and find a likely candidate and bring her back over to the Mothership. Why is she a likely candidate? Well, because she is tall enough, and she has good hand strength, and she can take direction. Is she going to audition for me as a Foster Foskin Pro-Am Golf Invitational partner? Hell no. I just need someone to help me dial the lobby phone. Haven't been able to successfully make a telephone call in the Kingdom in twelve years. The poster with the invitational text and the pictures of these two Aussie human experiments has a number to call for information. A voice answers.

Gibberish ensues. I would like to say hilarity ensued, or accurate information ensued, or a business like customer service oriented conversation ensued; but honestly, for the first couple of minutes I just had no idea what the gentleman on the other end of the line was saying. Apparently, no one at the Foster Foskin Pro-Am Golf Invitational central office speaks anything that could remotely be called English. Reminded me of so many times in the past when I have tried to get money back from a mamasan. No idea what they are saying but it does not sound encouraging. Still I soldiered on. Gradually, however, I figured out that I was talking to Foster Foskin himself. Dana, the Bostonian Bangkokian, the measure by which all modern men are measured; was communicating directly with a human experiment from Aussie land. I tell you it was transporting. I put my arm around the G-Spot dialer and had a tear come to my eye. I felt like the first Earthling to successfully make contact with a far away and very strange world populated by possibly fearsome but guaranteed interesting mutants.

In short, barbe my roo on an abo; you do not get much more lucky than that. And he explained that I was a little confused about what Pro-Am meant in golf. It turns out that it had nothing to do with the happy smiling women of certain happy smiling nightlife areas in certain happy smiling cities of Thailand. In fact it had nothing to do with women at all. The Pro part referred to a golfer guy who was a professional and the Am for Amateur part referred to a guy like me who; well, who couldn't play for shit. Nothing to do with girls. Come to think of it the whole girl thing is a mystery. What in the world are so many girls doing in the foreground and the middleground and the background of the golf tournament poster? Maybe I can get an explanation from Mr. F. or Mr. B. when I get to Pattaya. So anyway, I learned something and I made contact with a strange being from a place that is upside down. Kewl.

So that is about it for now in this weeks FROM THE MOTHERSHIP news bulletin Number One. The Foster Foskin Pro-Am Golf Invitational is being held in Pattaya in five days time and I will be there to report it in FROM THE MOTHERSHP news bulletin Number Two. I am kinda short so I am going to take a small toothed crosscut Japanese cabinet makers saw so that I can make the golf clubs about a foot shorter. That way the golf clubs will fit my body better and I'll have a better chance of getting a really high score hitting the golf ball. I'm serious about winning this thing because the first prize is . . . well, the first prize is not really important. It's all about sportsmanship or what in Australia they call crikeymebilabong (I think).

Plus I just gotta meet this Bluey guy. Sweet Jesus on a cracker what an Aussie creature this guy is. I also want to find out where he gets his Viagra because he could direct traffic with the dingo (we Americans call them erections) in his pants. I mean I'm no erection expert but if this Bluey guy stood in an intersection in Australia (if Australia has intersections) he could direct traffic by just turning 90 degrees every minute or so.

Reminds me of the time I stumbled into the Obsessions bar years ago and there was a newbie from Scotland up on stage with his pants down and the place was dead quiet. Church quiet and all the customers and trannies staring with respect and wonder. Turns out it was his first trip to the Kingdom and his first night in the Kingdom and he had taken 200 mg.of Viagra in 24 hours and suddenly he was popular. Some girls and I dragged him across the street to the Mothership and on the way by the maids station on the fourth floor we grabbed a galvanized bucket and about fifty of those Nana Hotel glass ashtrays.

Well sir, you know what we did in the room. We laid a towel over his dick so that the bucket handle wouldn't cut and then started betting on how many of those solid glass ash trays he could hold up. The trannies found this guy fascinating because after about ten years of hormone shots most of them could not hold up a paper cup full of cotton balls on their little doggie dicks. I don't want to say this guy was big; but if you asked this Scottish dairy farmer to count to four he would paw the rug four times with his hoof. Anyway, one thing led to another and . . . ok, got a little sidetracked there . . . anyway, if you want to know about the first Foster Foskin Pro-Am Golf Invitational being held in Pattaya next week tune in to FROM THE MOTHERSHIP bulletin Number Two.



There will be interviews, and photos, and courtroom sketches probably, and advice on how to disentangle golf carts, and golf scores, and eye candy border pics of select sheilas, and probably the beginning of ongoing lawsuit news. Then I will have to bust my sacrificing reporter ass to get back up to the Mothership to start putting together FROM THE MOTHERSHIP bulletin Number Three. Just as the strong take care of the weak, so the visionary take care of the blind. I do this because I can. So add this weekly informational and infotaintional news to your life. You'll be glad you did.

Dana


Stickman's thoughts:

We look forward to more Mothership bulletins.