Stickman Readers' Submissions March 2nd, 2007

The Chronicles of Foster Foskin’s Adventures in Thailand #16

We’ve worked and slogged and slaved so bloody hard
Ter set up this golf game, ter get it on the cards
The trophy, the shielas, the carts, and the booze
The players are ready to win. None of em’s gonna lose

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Dana’s ready in all his sartorial slendor
Bluey’s even foregone his usual boozy bender
The Stickman writers are gathered, bleary eyed
Ter play a game of golf, four on a side

The sun is up, the game is on
So come on mates, bring it on

Wall to wall Foster Girls are waiting
The caddies will know if you are fakin’
The carts are loaded up with beer
No sober bastards allowed up here

Let’s tee off now and and start the game
Who is gonna put who to shame?
Will it be Dana, or Korski, Foster or Frank
It’s gonna be fun, and yer can take that to the bank!


I opened a bleary eye wonderin’ what the hell was goin’ on. A telephone was ringin’ somewhere, but I couldn’t see anythin’ at all. Had the booze finally blinded me? I tried liftin’ me head, but I
couldn’t move. Even breathin’ was a problem. It felt like I was in a bloody enclosed mine. Despite this, I gotta tell yer there was a piquant perfume waftin’ past me nostrils from somewhere.

Just then, bright light flooded in on me and I looked up ter see Nok’s smilin’ face beamin’ down at me. “You like sleeping on my pussy, Foster? Is it a comfortable pillow for you?” I guess that was a rhetoricicacal…ah
what the heck, you know what sorta question I mean. She pulled me up to her face and give me a big smooch. Then she tossed me out of bed.

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I squinted at the clock. It said 5.30. Crikey! We’d missed the bloody tournament and slept all day!!

“Oh shit, love. What happened? Did someone give us knockout drops or somethin’ last night? How come we slept all day?”

“What are you talking about Foster dear? It’s 5.30 in the morning. We have to hurry and go to the golf course. First tee-off is at 6.30.”

I groaned. So this is what it’s like wakin’ up in the middle of the night. What would make any sane man get up before sunrise ter go and hit a bloody little ball around a park? But Nok was already in the shower and what I saw
there as she bent over ter pick up the soap had me in there quicker than Flash Gordon!

She soaped me up, I touched her up, and she slapped me hand. “None of that now you naughty boy! We have to get out to the Phoenix.”

Thirty minutes later we pulls up outside the clubhouse and there’s a crowd of men, women and midgets hangin’ around. Nok and me get out of the taxi and tell the driver to go and wait for us in the car park. We’d need
him ter get home after the game.

As Nok and me moved through the crowd they started chanting “Yay, Foster! Yay, Foster!”

I didn’t know what was goin’ on, but Dana steps forward and announces that I’ll be givin’ a 20,000 Baht prize ter the winner today. Hmmm, first I knew of this, but Dana explained that all the players reckoned there
should be some money incentive, as well as the usual silver cup. So he’d announced the prize. Since our application fees more than covered the amount, I figured it was a good way to give back any left over money.

As the contestants had so rightly pointed out, there was no guarantee any of them would finish anyway, what with all the shielas linin’ the fairways. But a cash prize would give them the incentive to try. At the very least, the winner
won’t have ter pay fer any nookie time he takes in the rough.

We all moved down ter the first tee. A caterer had set up a tent with a couple of kegs, and the boys were already downin’ a few pre-game coldies. I joined ‘em and then we got down ter business.

I asked all the players ter come to the sign up desk first, and then called fer the game marshals ter step forward.

“I’m Bob4You from Hawaii, and this is Casanundra.” They said by way of introduction. We shook hands and I gave them a list of rules that Dana and me had cooked up the day before.

Tournament Rules

1. Players must sink their ball at each hole before moving on to the next hole. (Well, that was a given, but we reckoned some blokes might be so preoccupied by the off-fairway activities that they might ferget)
2. Players may play with
the caddies, but they should keep it private. The rough is highly recommended.
3. The Foster Girls, all dressed in their regulation red, yellow, and white mini-outfits, are fair game in the rough, but not on the fairways or greens. We don’t
want golf balls falling into the wrong holes. What you do with your own balls is your business.
4. No littering. Ask your shiela for the special plastic bags they have been issued and she will dump any used condoms in the next rubbish bin.
5. The winner will be the bloke hitting the least strokes by the end of the game. This does not apply to strokes played away from the fairways or greens.
6. All players will start with a handicap of 4 shielas and must play at least 3 of them
before the last hole. Failure to do so will result in disqualification.
7. No wheelies or racing your golf buggy. We are on a golf course. Comport yourself with dignity and decorum gentlemen!

That was it. We didn’t want to lay down too many rules, and we reckoned these covered just about any eventuality.

We had issued our Foster Girls uniforms to the shielas when they arrived, so we had a beaut lookin’ bunch of easily recognizable shielas to deliver beer and recreation along the way. Just in case someone brought his wife we didn’t
want any mistakes bein’ made. I hear a golf club necklace can be a bit uncomfortable.

The marshals took up their positions at the first tee and called for the first team to take their places. Just then, a godawful screeching arose from the hill shielding us from the clubhouse. We all turned to look at the apparition approaching
us. It was Dana dressed in full Scottish regalia; bright red tartan kilt, a huge sporran sporting what looked like long rabbits tails, a flouncy shirt under a black short jacket with silver buttons, a long tartan sash hangin’ over his shoulder
and behind him, with a Tam on his head. Under his arm was tucked a set of bagpipes, the source of the terrible squealing.

Surrounding Dana were 10 of the most exquisite lookin’ katoeys cavorting around him, swinging golf clubs on high and strewing rose petals from golden baskets. They were dressed in red mini-kilts to match their hero. Skimpy pink tank
tops, knee high silver boots, and pink boas completed their ensembles.

In front, half a dozen dwarves in forest green were scurrying around like demented little trolls. I didn’t know what they was doin’ at first, but as they got closer I could see they was beatin’ the grass flat so that
the Great Dane…er…I mean Dana wouldn’t hurt his delicate feet as he walked. Not that there was any chance of that! His Scottish brogues had 4-inch nails protruding from the soles. At each step, he had ter stop, extract his shoe from
the ground, and then take the next step forward.

The whole procession inched towards us. Dana finally arrived and the wailing sound stopped at last. We all breathed a sigh of relief as he took his place at the first tee with his team.

His four consisted of BKKSW, known more fondly as Rimbo. He was sort of a cross between Rambo and a bimbo who chattered too much.

Then there was Korski. There was obviously no love lost between Rimbo and Korski. They almost came to blows even before they had their balls in place. Making up the fourth, Frank Visakay reached into his golf bag and pulled out an AK-47.
“Oh! Sorry fellas. I brought one along in case we get ambushed along the way.”

“Frank,” I said, “ you are only going to get ambushed by the fabulous Foster Girls. You’ll get more use out of your trouser snake than that bloody great phallic symbol, I reckon.”

Dana led off. By now he’d doffed his flowing tartan sash, moved the sporran around to the back after taking a ball from it, and one of his trusty acolytes was holding his bagpipes. I’m not sure what the other one in front of
him was holding, but maybe he thought Dana kept another set of bagpipes up his kilt.

Unfazed by these fondling attentions, Dana sunk his tee into the turf, lined up his shot, and wiggled his bum. The air was rent with heavy breathing as the katoeys all feasted their eyes on his luscious derrier. Bob4You fixed a withering
eye on them and they shut up.

Dana swung hard, and there was a satisfying thwack. His ball sailed high into the air and dropped onto the head of one of the katoeys standing about 30 feet in front of him. The ball rolled down the dazed duffer’s body and came to
rest at his feet, where Dana would have to take his next shot.

Frank was next. He approached his tee like a man on a mission. He’d applied green and burnt orange streaks to his face, making it difficult to see him against the green backdrop. But he gave an almighty swing as if he wanted to murder
the ball, and it flew fast and true to drop close to its target.

Casanundra had to step between Rimbo and Korski and beat on their knees to get them to stop fighting. Cas couldn’t reach much higher than their knees, although if he’d let fly an uppercut I reckon there would be no little Rimbos
or Korskis in the future. But Rimbo finally broke off fighting long enough to send his ball on a long, flying arc toward the first tee. It dribbled into a sand trap, and he turned on Korski again, blaming him for his bad luck.

Korski was just about to slug him one when Bob beat Rimbo back with a baseball bat and Korski took his shot. His ball landed right next to Rimbo’s. Things were getting interesting already.

The game was on!

The next four stepped up to the tee after waiting for Dana to hit his ball far enough ahead that we wouldn’t bounce one off his noggin when we started. The Professor, Union Hill, Lookpapa and me were all rarin’ ter go. No dillydallying
around for us. We stepped up, gave our balls a solid hit, and then strode off in the wake of the first four.

Behind us, Almost Anonymous, Nonthaburi Sean, Steve the Idiot, and Sick Water Buffalo got ready for their turn. I wasn’t sure if they would make it far, though. The Foster Girls were already exhibiting some of their many charms and
I could see the players were seriously considering a few side bets with them in the rough.

Other teams were lining up to start their games and the spectators were strung all along the fairway. It didn’t matter where they were, they were sure to see fun and games going on.

We were about halfway to the second tee when disaster struck. Dana had hit his ball up ahead of us, but he’d been facing the wrong way and he’d managed to deck Lookpapa on the head, knocking him out. A bunch of Foster Girls
picked Look up and hurried him off to the first aid tent for treatment. I noticed him give me a huge wink as he was carried off. It looked like he was angling for some dedicated treatment instead of finishing the game.

We needed another player to join us, so I sent one of the Foster Girls back to the starting line ter find the Stickman. I told ‘er he’d be easy ter spot. He’d be the bloke with the biggest stick, and I wasn’t talkin’
about his golf stick. She promised to make a thorough search of all the men’s trousers and bring him to us as soon as she found him.

Just then, I was accosted by a loud hiss from the rough to my right. I couldn’t see anyone at first, but then a wizened little head peered out from behind a tree and I spotted the creep I’d met a couple of days ago. I recognized
the face, but couldn’t quite pick the nose…I mean the name. Then it came to me. I always make a mental picture of something about each person I meet to remind me of their name in future. This bloke didn’t look like he had the muscles
to move the earth. From the look on the face of the shiela standin’ beside him, it didn’t look like he’d moved her world much lately either. Not that he should have. She didn’t look much older than twelve.

“Foster, Foster, can I play now?” he sniffed heavily, just like I’d seen a few cokeheads do. Perhaps that explained his manic attitude. “You need another player or you’ll be disqualified, won’t you?”

Jeez! This bloke just wouldn’t give up, would he? But I wasn’t havin’ any more of John Galt, thank you very much. You only get one chance with Foster, and he’d blown it when he threw the bloody girly tantrum the
other day.

Reachin’ into me golf bag I pulled out me favorite rope, gave it a good swing and lassoed the bugger. He came kickin’ and screamin’ like a bloody woman who had just missed a bargain at a bag sale as I reeled him in.

“Let me go, you long streak of Aussie shit! I’ll get you for thith!” and so on he squealed. I just ignored him until he was in reach. Then I trussed him up like a heifer and pulled him over to the nearest solid tree.
A coupla minutes later he was bound firmly. He wouldn’t be botherin’ us any more today.

Just then, a couple of Foster Girls walked past as we walked away. Then I heard a high pitched squeal. I turned back to find out what was goin’ on.

The girls had pulled out a large pair of scissors and they were cutting off his clothes. Crikey! I ran back and told them there was no need to castrate the bastard! He probably didn’t have any balls anyway.

By the time I reached him, more girls had gathered around and they were all laughing their heads off and pointing at his shriveled member. Well! He’d never make it as a member in any club with that!

I walked away to continue our game, leaving him to the tender mercies of the Foster Girls. I reckoned they would take good care of the little bugger.

It was a slow game. The players kept dashin’ off into the rough with the Foster Girls. There’d be no need cut the weeds in there for a few weeks. The place would be flattened better’n if a cyclone had hit it.

As we started to play the 18th hole the Professor did it again. Up to now he’d been playing a decent game and our scores were tied.

We were just outside the clubhouse. Not long now and we’d be up in the comfortable restaurant overlooking the course quaffing a few coldies and bullshitting about our wonderful games.

The Prof lined up his shot beautifully, taking his time to stop and sight down his stick a few times at the distant flag. When he figured he was finally ready he addressed the ball and swung strongly. I dunno what happened. Maybe he had sweaty
hands or somethin’. The next thing you know, his club is soaring up in the air while his ball remains on the tee.

We watched the club turning end over end as it headed straight for the clubhouse. It hit the roof and the unthinkable happened. Who knows what starts these things? First one tile started sliding down the roof, followed by another, and another.
In just a few seconds the whole roof was sliding down to the ground. As that happened, something must of got dislodged in the structure. First one wall cracked and it slowly fell outwards, dragging interior walls with it as it headed for the ground.

As we watched in horror, the other walls followed and within two minutes the whole building was demolished! Only a few bits of the original walls remained upright, and even they didn’t look too solid.

Stunned, the Professor and me looked at each other and then we started laughing. I mean, having just witnessed how solid Thai construction methods are, what else could we do? The crowd of players, girls, and others gathering around us also
started laughing, until the whole place was awash with people pissing themselves all over the place.

Then the enormity of what had happened hit me. The bloody club committee wasn’t going to be too pleased with this!

I turned to everyone and shouted, “Run!”

There was a moment’s shocked silence, and then they started running. The katoeys were mincing as fast as their high heels would take them through the trees to the car park. The players gathered up their clubs, gave them to a caddy
and told them to run as fast as their little legs would carry them to the car park. The dwarves went screaming through the undergrowth. Foster Girls lifted their skirts high, harin’ up the fairway and across the rough where they’d
just recently been so busy.

The whole place became a moving river of people running in one direction with only one thought in mind: To get the hell out of there before the stunned management came looking for the culprits.

Out of breath, Nok, Bluey, Dana and me arrived at the taxi, woke up the driver, and piled in however we could. Legs and arms were still hangin’ out of the car as our voices yelled, “Bai! Bai lao lao!”

We were makin’ good time down the exit road when I heard a faint yell in the distance. I looked over towards the fairway and spotted John Galt still tied to his tree screaming like a demented demon.

I pointed him out to everyone and we all broke out into laughs again. We were all imagining how he would explain this one to the irate owners of the golf club. Then I had a fiendish idea. I turned to Nok and told her to call the TV crew that
had come out to film the tournament.

“Tell them to get over to the 2nd tee and film what happens when Galt is discovered,” I yelled.

That night, the whole of Pattaya erupted into laughter during the evening news when they showed the naked Galt tied to a tree with his eyes popping out of his head, screaming obscenities that even Bluey had never heard before. In true Thai
fashion, the golf course owners were holding him responsible for the whole mess, since he was the only one there. I don’t think he’ll be bothering anyone else for a long time. I hope he likes his anal sex. I reckon he’s going
to be gettin’ a lot of that where he’s goin’.


Next, Foster and Bluey decide it might be a good idea to head up into the wilds of Esarn until things quiet down a bit….

© Copyright 2007 by the author.

Struggling with the Australian slang? We call it Strine. Go here to find out what it all means:


Stickman's thoughts:

A fabulous series.

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