Thai Thoughts And Anecdotes Part 201

Introduction

Greetings Stickmanbangkok.comites, FOD's (Friends Of Dana), Dana fans, and all people everywhere walking around right now with toilet paper stuck to their shoe. Against all that is right and holy
I have decided to resume making submissions to Stickmanbangkok.com. I know what you are thinking. You are thinking that this has to do with a carefully thought out combination of personal life choices, clever career moves, coke parties and supermodels.
And that this return to making Stickmanbangkok.com submissions can be summarized in five thousand carefully chosen words.

Nope. I'm just an idiot. I'm An Idiot. IDIOT. Anyway, enjoy the following look into my life in a story titled "PULL". Oh, and one more thing–sometimes in my personal life in the Kingdom I attract the wrong sort of attention
because many of the Thai ladies I am with appear to only weigh about 65-75 pounds. You know, people say stuff. Especially women from the West whose vaginas are so dry you could use them for dust museums. Anyway, this story will straighten all
that out. It's all about trajectory, and science, and distance.

Dedication

This story is dedicated to Caveman, who when he heard my ideas and when he saw the blueprints years ago said, and I quote:

"Are you fxxxing crazy?
"No really–have you lost your mind?"
"What?"

"You are going to do what?"
"What? What? What?"
"No kidding . . . you are going to what?"
"Look Dana man, I know Thailand is not the 20th century, but it is not the Middle Ages either."
"What?"

"You are going to build what?"
"I hope no one sees us sitting together."
"Because why?"
"One hundred yards–what do you mean one hundred yards?"
"Excuse me?"
"Don't
let anybody see those blueprints."
"We're just talkin' theoretical right? I mean there is no way I want my name associated with this."
"What?"

"Dana look, I'm just here for a couple of weeks: there is no way I'll be able to get you out of jail."

So, with unqualified support like that what would you have done? Exactly.

"PULL"

Dana here with a story and a message of inspiration. Let me just start by saying that I have more money than God. Normally, I do not make it a habit to parade my good fortune but in this case it is germane. Since I have so much money people
wonder why I bought a condo in the building in which I am currently happily residing in Pattaya. It doesn't seem to make any sense. Read on.

Simple. The reason I bought the place I am at when I could have bought better places is poor construction. I know it is all the rage to hunt down condo buildings that exhibit good construction, but that was not what I wanted. And I most especially,
and critically, did not want a building with a rebar reinforced concrete roof. Reinforced floors were no problem and in fact desired. But a roof of no standards, and cheap materials, and Third World engineering was what I was looking for. So when
I insisted that the realtor take me to the roof and I could see nothing but scallops I was thrilled. Scallops or dished panels on roofs are an indication of very poor construction. The roof panels can not even carry their own weight between the
roof beams. Beautiful. Honk if you love Third World corruption in building practices.

In fact, a roof with chessboard squares of dished roof panels between roof beams means only one thing. Plywood. Be still my wildly beating heart just what I was looking for. Two layers of four by eight foot sheets of exterior grade one inch
plywood sheet attached to aluminum box beams with sheet metal screws. Then the whole thing covered with roofing paper, roofing cement, and a neoprene cover. With no snow or ice expected in the next one thousand years; and a slight elevation on
one side for drainage, this type of cheap construction works–for a while.

After the papers had passed and I moved in it was tool time. A generator, and a pneumatic chisel, and a reciprocating saw, and a chainsaw. Very careful measuring including many trips to the roof to check on the locations of exploratory drill
holes, and then the final commitment. I cut the ceiling out of the living room. Nothing but air. The siege engine or Trebuchet catapult had already been assembled, tested, and then broken down into carefully labeled pieces off site.

Burmese teak frame, rosewood crossbar, yang (mahogany) trim, pine throwing arm, telephone pole cable slings, steel reinforcing plates torched out of new green transformer boxes on Beach Road boulevard, and a water buffalo hide pouch. Monk
blessed and flower bedecked it was thrilling to look at. The last thing I did was oil all the wood and spray paint the leather pouch pink. Moving it in, and assembling it in the living room, and fastening the base to the floor with lag bolts,
and testing it took five days. What is more fun than being a man and doing man stuff?

Then the artillery numbers. I found it could throw weights of up to one hundred and ten pounds one hundred yards. Elevation could be adjusted to move the landing point out or in, and it was possible to turn the whole thing 360 degrees so
that it could deliver in any direction. North, south, east, or west it did not matter. This was helpful. Too many throws in the same direction and people could trace this back to me.

So, why construct a Medieval catapult in the penthouse living room of a condo in Pattaya? Simple. Ever take home a bargirl and suddenly she wants to change the rules? Or she locks herself in the bathroom? Or she can't get the towel off?
Or she goes starfish? Or she pouts and whines and wants you to hurry? Or she wants you to wear a condom? Etc?

Hey, it does not happen all the time. Usually my charisma, and my charm, and my good looks steamroller right over these little bargirl bumps in the road. But sometimes it does happen. And that is when I crank down the main beam throwing arm
against the thousands of pounds in the counterweight, put little miss pouty into the leather slingshot pouch, aim; and "PULL". Shouting "PULL" has to be one of the greatest pleasures a rich expat can have in the Kingdom. As
they sit in the pink water buffalo slingshot pouch playing with their cellphones; I slip the claws of a carpenter's hammer under the trigger pin, flex my forearms, crouch; and then jump straight up and shout "PULL".

The counter weight drops and the long pine throwing arm heads for the hole in the ceiling: pulling the wire cable sling and the slingshot pouch holding the bargirl along the guide chute, and then erupting skyward. The bargirls burst from
the roof like flushed pheasants and start a ride of glory their friends can only dream of. Sometimes the only sound is of the ancient apparatus explosively squeaking and groaning and heaving as it's potential energy is converted to kinetic
energy. But other times I am treated to a long scream in the Pattaya night. Beautiful. I'll drink to that.

Of course, for reasons of security nice arcing shots from the roof of the building into the ocean were best. Shots ending in terrestrial landings were liable to attract too much attention: glancing rebounds, frightened tourists, smashed windshields,
car alarms going off, and dogs barking. But one gets bored. I fired bargirls out of the roof of my condo in every quadrant, half quadrant, and quarter quadrant of the compass like a school boy jacking off while standing on a paint can mixer.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK. Oh, someone must be at the door. Let's look through the peep hole and see who it is. Great, it is Pim from the Red Point bar on the Beach Road end of Soi 6. Dumb as a bucket of paint, cute, sexy, fun and only weighs
eighty six pounds. She'll fly further. You know, if there are any problems.

"PULL"