Stickman Readers' Submissions March 3rd, 2007

Thai Thoughts and Anecdotes Part 166


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An old farang went riding out one dark and windy night–
Unprepared for future, unprepared for fright.
When all at once a mighty herd of red-eyed whores he saw–
Flip-flopping through the ragged skies and up a cloudy draw.

Yippee-ai-ay, yippee-ai-o–
Ghost whores in the sky . . .
Yippee-yi-ay, Yippee-ay-o–
Ghost whores in the sky.

Their crotches wuz still on fire and their tits were made of steel–
Their tattoos wuz black and shiny and their hot breaths you could feel . . .
A bolt of fear went through him as they flip-flopped through the sky–
For he saw
the whores comin' hard and he heard their mournful cry.

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"Hey hansum man . . .
Where you go tonight?
Barfine me now . . .
I treat you plenty right."

Yippee-yi-ay, Yippee-yi-o–
Ghost whores in the sky.
Yippee-yi-ay, Yippee-yi-o–
Flip-floppers that make you cry.

Then he saw the others . . .
Following fast and straight–
Legions of big-eyed farangs . . .
Chasing the bargirl bait.

Faces gaunt, and shirts all soaked with sweat–
They're ridin' hard to catch those whores but they ain't caught them yet.
They got to ride forever in that Kingdom in the sky–
On tuk-tuks snortin' fire; as
they ride on, hear their cry . . .

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Yippee-yi-ay, yippee-yi-o . . .
Ghost mongers in the sky–
Yippee-yi-ay, Yippee-yi-o . . .
Ghost mongers in the sky.

"Wait for me flip-floppers of the sky.
You say you love me–
You no lie.
Wait for me my Num, and Noi, and Bet, and Bee"

As the mongers rode on by him, he heard one call his name–
"If you want to save your soul from hell a ridin' on our range . . .
Then change your ways today or with us you will ride–
Tryin' to catch the Kingdom's
whores across these endless skies."

Farangs and Flip-Floppers–
Nightly on display . . .
Hard ridin' men and red eyed whores–
Dark sky drama that follows the day.

Yip yip yippee-yi-ay, yip yip yippee-ay-o . . .
Ghost players in the sky.
Yip-yi-o, Yippee-yi-ay . . .
Hopes and dreams that will never die.

Every farang a big blond god–
Every teeruk's stomach soft as wheat . . .
Imagine what Wagner could have written–
If he had visited Walking Street.

As the ghostly apparitions–
Faded in the night.
Hansum man lost his fear–
And soon forgot his plight.

Gone were the ghost farangs ridin' in the sky–
Gone the ghost whores and their future he should fear . . .
Gone and forgotten–part of the bye-and-bye.
"Honey, I'll have another beer."

** with apologies to the cowboy song
Ghost Riders in the Sky by Stan Jones (1949)–
Vaughn Monroe version.


I'm working on a novel now called ESKIMO ROLLS AND SILVER SUITED TEDDY BEARS that will initiate a new style of writing and complete contempt for most readers that has never been witnessed before. The novel will be three hundred cut diamond
pages of literary brilliance that chronicles the adventures of myself and my girlfriend Noy as we fly about in space age planes and have Pattaya age sexual experiences. Once the novel has been written I will cut it in half like a casino dealer
cuts a deck of cards in half with one hundred and fifty pages in each deck. Then I will shuffle the two decks of one hundred and fifty pages each together into one new three hundred page book. Of course the narrative, and the plot, and the introduction
and connivance and interplay of characters, and the clever foreshadowing, and the scene setting, and the internal character and plot dependent jokes will then make no sense at all. For example: page 2 might be followed by page 156 and page 97
might be followed by page 251.

I predict that it will make no difference. I will receive the same number of adoring emails and the same number of hateful emails. My rejection letters from famous publishing agents (read: women with smeared lipstick and kneepads) will read
identically, and my present girlfriend will make the same remarks about my present writing as my last girlfriend made about the writing I was doing then.

Of course the real novel and the real cut diamonds of literary brilliance will still be between the book covers but only available to those that really want to read: those readers with the desire for literary excellence and the patience to
invest themselves in the process and hunt out each sequential succeeding page. (Question: How much sand would you sift to find a diamond that would change your life?)

Sound onerous? Sound obtuse? Sound like a plethora of work and a dearth of pleasure? Well, you are correct. Correct-a-mundo Mr. One Page Book Report. For you it is onerous. It will be onerous and obtuse and bewildering and you will be spending
your money and cracking the binding on something you barely understand. But you are not my reader.

You see Danaism is a private club and ESKIMO ROLLS AND SILVER SUITED TEDDY BEARS will be a private pleasure. The galley proofs have been completed and individual page copper plates are being etched and acid treated now. Once the three hundred
plates have been completed all the workers will be killed. ESKIMO ROLLS AND SILVER SUITED TEDDY BEARS will be a work of art and we can't have working class trash talking about it on their lunch hour.

Willy-the-Shake sold his little plays to the common people in the pit; but he needed the cash and many of his ideas had been stolen from Italian stories anyway so the horse was already out of the barn. ESKIMO ROLLS AND SILVER SUITED TEDDY
BEARS is in a whole 'nother category. Eye surgeons will have to stand by readers in case their eyes burst from their head, and incidents of stroke and heart attack and apoplexy and facial tics will go way up as normal human beings look into
my world and are treated to the gin-and-tonic and the vodka-tonic pleasures of wordsmithing so gossamer fine, and so bludgeon strong, and so English gay spy clever that no comparisons will be possible. A new definition of literature is coming.
The book is entitled: ESKIMO ROLLS AND SILVER SUITED TEDDY BEARS. Stay tuned.

Oh, and book signings at the Nana Entertainment Plaza or the Texas Lone Star bar in Washington Square? Get serious. This is about art. The NEP is an Indian landlord's cesspit and the Texas Lone Star bar in Washington Square is so yesterday's
news that even the roaches and rats have left. But more to the point: shaking your little hand and asking you what you want me to write in the author's inscription (To Pookie–Happy reading: Dana) is not a part of the program. So just keep
an eye out for announcements regarding publication and distribution dates and have your money saved up. This tome will make writing and publication history and you can be a part of that visionary groundswell of future contempt and egocentric obtuseness
in writing and printing. By purchasing this book you will be proclaiming the sanctity of ego, and the sanctity of me, and cutting a fart in the faces of most human beings. Excited? You should be.


Stickman's thoughts:

I have NO IDEA what to say…

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