Stickman Readers' Submissions August 21st, 2007

If … Only

As I read some of the stories from guys telling how they got screwed over, I’m left shaking my head in amazement. What is it about Thailand that makes so many men leave their brains at their port of entry? It’s almost as if their brains shrink and migrate to their penises. Ok, well maybe they didn’t shrink…. maybe they were that small to begin with. Never one to rush to judgment, however, I’ll assume that something happened to them after they washed up on these shores. Her name might have been Noi. Or maybe Nok. Or any of hundreds of others. One thing’s for sure, though, and that’s that your name is sucker.

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Everyone around you sees it coming a mile off but somehow you’ve deluded yourself into believing a fantasy. I will admit that your fantasy is a nice one. But did you ever stop to think… nah, we know that didn’t happen. Surely it’s not the money you’re paying her for her company. No. It must be your rugged good looks and your infectious charm. I’m sure it was just like this for you back home. No? Well maybe the girls at home just didn’t appreciate your amazing attributes.

Before you know it, she’s no longer just someone you’re picking up at the bar. You’re living together. And then the wedding plans are being made. You quickly notice how Thailand operates exactly the opposite of the rest of the world. Whereas every other place you’re likely to have ever been discounts used and / or damaged merchandise, Thais demand a premium for it. Don’t believe it? Just wait until the wedding negotiations start.

Demanding more than she’s worth.

I bite my tongue and just say fine.

My days are filled with mirth,

Of which there is no dearth,

If I only had a spine.

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Don’t think it will stop there, though. It’s bad enough that you have to scrimp and save in order to make your retirement funds stretch far enough to meet the demands for sin sot, but you’re still expected to pay for plenty of other things. There’s the living expenses, the shopping trips, the Fortuner, and a whole host of other expenses that never seem to end. But that’s ok. She loves you, right? At least that’s what your dick keeps telling your brain. Fortunately, since they’ve already melded, the signals don’t have to travel so far.

I pay up to stop her cryin’.

Euros, greenbacks, British pounds too.

First the buff-a-lo be dyin’,

Then the crops they be a fryin’,

If I only had a clue.

About now, you’re starting to have doubts. Why you didn’t have them earlier is something science hasn’t quite figured out yet. Don’t worry, though, it won’t last much longer. About this time, she’s bled you for nearly every baht she can possibly hope to get. Then the lovin’ slows and eventually stops. Fights are a daily occurrence. And then you’re asked to leave. Politely, at first, if you’re lucky. If you’re not so lucky, well, let’s just hope you’re lucky.

You go. What choice did you have? But you still try to get her back. You still think you love her. You still hope, against hope, that she still loves you. She makes nice and talks about reconciliation. Ah, but dear, I have many bills to pay. And so there goes your very last baht. And, now, she makes nice no more. Is it finally dawning on you? Unfortunately, in many instances, no. Financially, your world has changed. Emotionally, you’ve been through the wringer. But you think you can still make it work.

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Thought she was a treasure.

But she only played a part.

Now my future I must measure,

Gone are my days of leisure,

If she only had a heart.

You went in with your eyes wide shut. They’re open now, for all the good that does you. You tell your story. Maybe you’re looking for sympathy. Maybe you just need to vent. You wonder where it all went wrong and how this could have happened to you. It always seems to be the same old story. You never saw it at the time but, looking back, it was so obvious. And you might be that poor bastard who’s back next year retelling the same tale. Only next time it will be Da. Or Fa. Thinking with your dick gets you in over your head, but quick.

It’s sad and yet it’s funny.

That familiar old refrain.

I lost my head, my heart, my money,

For a little bit ‘o honey,

If I only had a brain.

Can you make a relationship with a bar girl work? Sure, but it’s bloody unlikely. Your odds of getting out unscathed would be better if you played Russian Roulette. With a fully loaded revolver. At least, in that, you have a chance of a misfire. With the bar girl, you’re gonna end up with Ms. Fire. Or maybe Mrs. And every time you take the plunge, that fire heats your brain up a little more. You never stood a chance.

Now that you’re out of that situation, or if you’re lucky and haven’t gotten there yet, and can think lucid thoughts, consider this: if you play with fire, you’re gonna get burned. So the next time you’re thinking about the pleasures to be had in the Land of Smiles, think of them as a book of matches. Tear one out, use it like it’s meant to be used, and toss it. I’m sure the warmth of that fire felt good but, have no fear, there’s plenty more matches left in the book.

Heed my advice, you should.

Your memories would all be great.

You do your thinkin’ with your wood,

Your mind clouded by your hood,

If you could only beat your fate.

They say forewarned is forearmed and experience is the best teacher. So learn from the lessons of those that have gone before you. If, however, you’re one of the suckers, go ahead and tell us your story. My life is so fucked up I can always use a good laugh.

Stickman's thoughts:

Submissions with this message have been a common theme over the years. What is seldom mentioned, but you do touch on here, is that it is not just the fact that success is unlikely, but that one might suffer in other ways apart from simply the effects of a busted up relationship. Some guys who have married bargirls have been killed by their wives. OK, so bargirls aren’t the only ones who kill their husbands, but the chances of it happening to a guy who married a hooker are, I bet, much higher than a guy who married a bird who wasn't a hooker.

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