Stickman Readers' Submissions August 8th, 2009

Thai Thoughts and Anecdotes Part 221


I was born in 1949. Various crab nebula in the Ongorn Mutunda aligned, dark matter coughed, gravity yawned: Me. Bunonda Fonduloco Belesium Dana 7. Me.

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Birth to youth was spent on quantum mechanical games and sliding down the lips of black holes.

Youth to early adult years were spent mentoring with shapeshifters and learning to manipulate time and gravity. I graduated from G.G.U. (Gas Giant University) with a Phd. in wormholes. The title of my thesis was: Is That A Wormhole In Your
Pocket Or Are You Just Glad To See Me?

Then a successful career as a gypsy universe traveler and messenger. Traveling without hope, or blood, or ego I sent back reports on distant orbs, and distant forces, and distant evolutionary items of interest, and distant navigational waypoints
to the home office. On personal days I would ride photons, or play cosmic bumper cars in the debris tails of asteroids. Asteroid K9VM-L2 in the fourth Andromedium belt was a kick, and iceteroid vendors were selling blue selenium suppositories
and frozen plutonium popsicles. Party time.

Then my Earth assignment. Except for the nickel magma bacteria, our instruments displayed little of interest; but in times of Kongorian peace employees have to be kept busy. I said yes to the assignment. Another bender of time and space had
been reverse wormholed to Earth but nothing had been heard since. Procedure required followup. My cover on Earth would be as an expat sex monger with a penis. I didn't know what an expat was, I didn't know what a sex monger was, and
I didn't know what an Earth penis was. When I found out what an Earth penis was I neglected to send information back to the home office. Why crowd the field?

Anyway, sent to Earth because no one else wanted to go; I was supposed to gather information and send it back to the Ongorn Mutunda on all things Earthly. After much data sent I received the message: No More Information Desired. Earth had
no appeal and my dark matter ID and gas giant powers were revoked. No furthur use for luggage.

Cosmically grounded on an unimportant rock hurtling through an indifferent space towards an unrecorded future. What to do? My life and future ordained amalgams of 'unimportant' and 'unrecorded' and 'indifferent'.
Where oh where could helplessness, despair, depression. stupidity, and the odd pinprick of delight be found?

Off to Thailand. Bingo to the infinity degree oh gentle readers. Total dudeness to the max hipsters. A more dramatic example of the yawn of carbon based life forms could not be imagined then the denizens of Pattaya. I checked into the A.A.
Hotel and started going through boulevard skanks like prunes through an old lady. Learning to use my Earth penis was interesting.

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Under my sex monger cover I hung out in bars and told stories. Sometimes I would hear: "Say Dana, you ought to write that story down."

Finally, I started writing and posting Thailand thoughts and anecdotes of the commercial and other sex kind. Dark matter messenger from copulating crab nebuli in the Ongorn Mutunda meets carbon based Earthlings who read website for lonely
men, men who wear socks with sandals, and men who think soccer and rugby should be differentiated.

Hilarity did not alway ensue. One carbon based cellular pastiche introduced himself to me at Stickman's first Writer's Party as my nemesis. Yawn. I fart mythic words and phrases this mortal can not process and he imagines his delusions
are of interest? The notion of 'nemesis' must be preceded by the delusion of ego; an evolutionary tree root tripped over, examined, and abandoned in the rest of the hot and cold gaseous wonderlands of space a long time ago. At least
on Earth I have learned to say: "Where's the bar?".

The Dana Fan Club followed. So too the Dana website: All Dana All The Time (ADATT), and Dana: The Movie. Dana: The Book preceded Dana: The Movie, and the Church Of Dana (COD) preceded them both. In the Ongorn Mutunda so called time sequence
is not linear. Time proceeds in all dimensions instantly and cancels itself out. So called 'tense' writing in Earth text is hard for me. Anyway, Earthlings are always saying:

"What time is it?"

I used to respond: "It's time for you to leave the planet or commit suicide."

Where are we now in my biography? Stranded on Earth and writing in Thailand. I am of stardust but now carrying chronic hep B virus from Fa's breast fluid, Aids from festering boil trannies, assorted living groin bits from assorted living
(I don't endorse necrophilia–that's just me) smilers, and herpes of the nose from the woman at the Windmill Bar who can put her feet behind her head. None of these trivial but irritating local solar system illnesses and afflictions
can effect my crab nebula birthright of eternal life but it does make you wonder . . . .

It does make you wonder if copulating with humans of other kinds would actually be healthier. An interesting subject that beckons with the happy delight of experiment. However, experience has taught me that there is a limit to Internet acceptability
with readers who think a paradox is two piers in a harbor. A short plumb bob finds the bottom of the well of intelligence on this planet. So my happy naked sex life in the hotels near the western shore end of the Jomtien beach will go unrecorded.
Too bad.

Too bad Earthlings believe the word 'No' exhibits ego and free will. So few orifices, so little time; and I am stranded in Pattaya and Jomtien with amateurs known mostly for desperation and poor social skills. In the rest of the
Universe sex is timeless, egoless, maximally pleasurable, and without judgement. Yeah, so few orifices, so little time. Homesick for the magnetic fields of home. Kinda makes me wonder what I said in one of my reports to the home office to get
stranded here. Must have been something I said.

Here on the boardwalk with the sun on my face, or the night time winking lights of the offshore restaurants reminding me of stellar dust I can no longer return to: I must negotiate. I have no need of rods and cones to process incoming orbital
data, my circulatory system is nuclear fusion of the very cold kind, and I can not fail because I do not care; but I must negotiate with protoplasmic nobodies who think laws are good, syblings have value, parents should be revered, and babies
are desirable.

Nothing regarding humans requires processing. Nothing regarding them admits of this kind of complexity. Ever seen the way watercolors seep, and spread, and sink into watercolor paper? That is all that is required when I interact with humans.
Interacting of the litmus paper testing strip variety provides all the information that will ever be available. When I am litmus paper dipping my urine to measure testosterone levels I think of the girls brains on the boardwalk and I smile. I
must negotiate?

Anyway, 'Babies are desirable' is the pitiful personal destiny mantra of Ming and Ling and Ting and Ban and Wan and Bee and Noy and Bim and . . . the Mount Everest of all their ideas and uninteresting yearnings. Grunting out one
more roach human on an insignificant rock that could not even keep my own kind engaged (No More Information Desired) is the glistening white limestone on the pyramid of their ideas. I'd rather listen to the squeaking of lab rats. Ow Ow, Yum
Yum, and Boom Boom have to be negotiated: how much, and when, and how, and . . . yawn. Pity the poor abandoned messenger. Pity me you emotional humans.

Anyway, are there others of us on Earth like me? Only one. Chiang Mai Kelly. He was the first one sent from the Ongorn Mutunda navigator's committee to report back information on Earth's resources, uses, amusements, and intelligence.
He never received a message–No More Information Desired–because he never sent one report. Went AWOL immediately. In exploratory space travel it is now called the Princess Effect. Don't know why. Anyway, I got sent as Plan B. Thank you Chiang
Mai Kelly. Thank you for visiting upon me an eternity of ennui. Thank you Chiang Mai Kelly for stranding me on a rock where females only have three orifices. Sweet Jesus on a cracker . . . only three orifices?! And for this you succumbed to Princess
(I've heard things)?

Hey wait a minute; maybe that is the mistake I made. Maybe reporting back to the home office that women here only have three orifices of sexual pleasure was what got me stranded. On my own planet women have four hundred orifices and flat
heads for a beer can. That's it, that three orifices message was the deathknell on my career as a cosmic messenger. On my own gravity sphere (Sentoris 4.2) women have 398 vaginas. You only get to make love once but you remember it for eternity.
Kinda makes me wonder what Chiang Mai Kelly is doing with Princess.

Yes, thank you very maak freakin' maak kuhn Kelly, AWOL messenger from my own home, for triggering home office behavior (Plan B) that has marooned me on Earth for eternity. Earth: a place where parents give children names, achievement
is valued, and Aristotle was wrong about everything for 2000 years without anyone noticing. Earth: a place where Galileo, Copernicus, Newton, and Einstein thought they had ideas, information is stored on 'chips', and calculation speeds
of computers are thought to be interesting. If it wasn't all so pitiful I wouldn't be able to control my Earth bladder from the laughing. I have to spend an eternity on Earth listening to Earthlings blather about morals, things worth
dying for, efficient forms of government, and different kinds of ego. If I hadn't discovered the sounds of whales and the sounds of dolphins I think I would have gone mad. Correcting Earthling sky charts also fills my time with amusement.

Earth: a place where the difference between a Pattaya boardwalk skank's brain and a 'top scientist's' brain is not worth measuring, durian fruit tastes better once you get rid of the soft interior, and staggering to their
one moon is called 'space travel'. Earth: a place where denizens fight over food and water, obsess about sex, and express opinions. Pity this poor gypsy maroonite now stranded in a place where a whale's fart has more meaning than
a politician's speech.

Since Chiang Mai Kelly cut off all communication with his gaseous brethren he does not know that I am here. I am going to find him; and when I do find him I am going to give him the fxxxing of his life. He'll like it. He will want more.
His black hole will want to suck in my essence with extreme unction. But he won't get more. That will be his punishment for what he has done to me.

I have tracked his sickening spoor to a ten square block area east of 2nd Road in Pattaya. There he pretends to be human: waving his wing wang around, using Thai words to communicate with carbon based life forms so low on the evolutionary
ladder that they actually have blood types, and hydrating with various alcoholic potions made from fermented plant fluids. I'm not a drinker but according to Dean Barrett of Soi Cowboy reputation if you drink a Black Russian and then quickly
follow that up with a Pink Lady you now have a Boulevard Whore swirling in your stomach. Before I had my dark matter powers stripped from me by the home office for reporting that Earth women only have one vagina this would have been something
I would have been required to check out and report on.

Anyway, I am going to find VZ4K.66.4W (aka CMK, aka Chiang Mai Kelly) and when I do find him I am going to pull down his pants faster then a neutron star will strip debris matter from Saturn. He will want me to do it over and over and over
and over again. But I won't do it over and over and over and over again. That will be his punishment. The memory of the pleasure will be his punishment. I will shove his career ending face against the wall, crush his pelvic bones in my hydraulic
hands, and drill him like a Texas wildcatter on amphetamines. Then I'll thrown him down on the floor and pound him like a hammer at a nail convention. He will like it. He will beg for more. He won't get more and the memory of the pleasure
will be his punishment and his curse for Eternity.

And Princess? The protoplasmic slide smear that caused a member of the pinwheeling nebula society to go AWOL? She will learn what YOU'RE NEXT sounds like in my language.

Such is my story to date and my biography. Hunting Chiang Mai Kelly has given my life meaning. Meaning? Hey, am I becoming human? Anyway, stay tuned. The fxxxing of all time is coming up.

Mendorically yours,

Stickman's thoughts:

Dana and Chiang Mai Kelly – what a duo!

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