Thai Thoughts and Anecdotes Part 241

A NATION'S SHAME — Part II: Final Apocalypse

"I love the smell of burning tofu in the morning. It smells like victory." — Pattaya Gary

Preface:

Billions of frogs now have mysterious tumors, undersea tectonic plates are pulling apart and oozing primordial magma, the ozone layer is expanding and admitting cancer causing radiation, birds are losing migratory navigational instincts,
sexual deviancy is seen as an alternative lifestyle choice, and condoms have moved from the pharmacy shelf to the political shelf.

The center can not hold . . . all is entropy and the downward spiral of chaos and the denouement of simple systems and primitive creatures that have lost their way. The center can not hold . . . violence is increasing and happiness is decreasing
and . . . the center can not hold. The Earth is a closed system of increasing stress with no vent . . . the center can not hold. And what is the locus point, the progenitor and trigger for this comprehensive breakdown of balanced nature? The spa
industry.

All is entropy and hope beguiles with empty promise. In the end only Satan smiles. But you have to fight. You have to fight for dignity and you have to fight for life. That's what men do. And what of the man creatures who are not willing
to fight for dignity and not willing to fight for life? Stay tuned.

Introduction:

Swedish massage, and hot stone massage, and Thai massage, and aromatherapy massage, and deep tissue massage, and Shiatsu massage, and oil massage with additional sounds and smells and potions and last day bill add-ons . . . oil massage can
feature avocado something, cocoa butter, grapeseed oil, kukui nut oil, olive oil, sesame oil, sweet almond oil, apricot kernal oil, jojoba oil, shea butter, sunflower and coconut oil. How many people think I could sell the idea of transmission
fluid massage? Thai massage can have additional essentials (?) like sandalwood something, jasmine something, green tea (?), rose and/or lavender something. and milk (?). Note: if Thais think these are 'essentials' they need to spend
more time in the dictionary. Anyway, all are descriptions and adjectives and 'additionals' to give the massage product and massage service allure. Frosting on the cake. Marketing and advertising in service to fraud and in service to
Mammon and the festering stink of corruption.

All bright colored bows and ribbons on a pig. The pig is the massage industry. But a pig with a pink bow around it's neck is still a pig. A grunting squealing mud loving pig you would not allow in your house. Well, if you would not allow
that pig in your house, then why do you allow it in your mind? And what has the pig given birth to? Spas. That's right, the disgusting offspring of these beribboned and pink bowed massage pigs is spas and the spa industry–the final apocalypse
of intelligent behavior in the human species. The compelling, incontrovertible, and depressing evidence of the reverse of human evolution. Spas and the spa industry. Another worldwide criminal enterprise of predatory and undignified behavior without
a shred of value except for the followers of Satan and the boot lickers of Mammon. Spas take massage to the final frontier of stupidity and greed. Dialogue example follows:

Husband: Dana, my wife wants to go to a spa. It's three days of 'treatments', alternative healthcare modalities (?), featured speakers with names like Princess Flowerpetal Earthwind and Dr. Positive Vibes, mudpacks, candles,
chimes, choral singing to lose weight, sunrise power walks to the banks of the Chao Phraya river, yogic contemplation of universal and personal chakras while holding Bangkok gem store crystals, and purging.

Dana: Do they call the purging Colonics instead of shitting like a goose?

Husband: Yes, have you heard of this place?

Dana: Is it $3900 for these three days?

Husband: Yes–you have heard of this place.

Dana: Does the brochure show a woman buried in Thai white clay getting a Thai herbal compress while a naked albino child covered in rose petals blows on a flute shaped like a penis?

Husband: That's the place. What should I do?

Dana: Get rid of the wife and meet me on the boardwalk. My Fa, who used to work in Thai-farang spas, will tell you stories of retardation and willful resistance to intelligent behavior that you can not imagine. Most of the stories will involve
how the spa employees laugh at the stupid rich foreign customers who pay money to buried in water buffalo dung and beaten on the head with bamboo flails. Anyway, after charming you with true life anecdotes from behind the curtain of the spa crime
scene (oh excuse me, industry) she will help your recovery from your wife's madness by introducing you to Ling and Bing and Sing and Fing and Da and Ga and La and Wa and Pencil and Yoghurt.

Massage is the gateway drug to the world of the spa junkie. The first needle in the first vein. The abdication of pride and dignity and intelligence in favor of childlike burbling and thumb sucking. The one-two punch of massage/spas is leading
to the devolvement of the human race and the poisoning of Mother Earth.

Quote from Ms. Poon Tang, Sangkhla Buri, Thailand:

"I am like so still on my like spiritual journey, but lately I have made like this too totally awesome breakthrough. I spent like six years getting spiritually fist fxxxed in Cambodian massage parlors; but then this like totally righteous
hip hop happenin' dude from Sweden turned me on to colon hydrotherapy at the Dewey, Cheatum & Howe spa in Manchester, England. We set up cameras and everything so like we can life regress the totally groovin' fudge shooting moments
and download our negative/positive vibes on film. Massage is so yesterday. I sent the Swedish guy a Christmas card that had a photo of the inside of my colon. I believe in giving back. It's like all about the universal love and my new life
as a spa customer. Massage is so yesterday."

Unless we are careful, this is our future and these are the mothers of our children. The gateway drug massage leads to more expansive ideas in the craniums of muttonheads. Examples:

1. "Maybe I'd like to be a self-medicating urineologist (drink my own urine): I mean, if you think about it, it's organic."
2. "Maybe I should check out past life regression (talk to dead people): maybe some of
my old G-Spot bar customers would send me more money."
3. "Maybe I should have little metal bells surgically attached to my penis and learn to play Hotel California by jumping around like an organ grinder's monkey on yaa baa.
Hey, and if don't have a penis maybe I should get one. I'll speak to Swami Baloney and see what he says."
4. "Maybe I should get some Himalayan salt crystal lamps for the 2nd Road short-time room I share with Foomy and
Dawn and Poosh. I don't think I am getting enough negative ions."

'Massage is so yesterday. I have advanced to a higher plane of stupidity and childish braying. Before I was just intellectually vapid and juvenile, but now I am a junkie for unproven ideas and the company of women so brain stem dead
that their breeding is devolving the I.Q. of the human race.'

Chapter One:

What is the spa world like? Be prepared to leave the world of evolved mammals behind and leave life as you know it. What can happen to you at a spa? What has the juvenile stupid entering wedge of massage visited upon this planet? Below is
a partial list of services, and products, and treatments, and alternative healthcare points-of-view. Men made most of the world but they didn't think up this crap. Men have pride. Get ready to rumble. Get ready to hurl.

Spa Services:

1. Hypnotic Past-Life Regression Therapy (talk to dead people).
2. Revolutionary Healing Visualization and Meditations (?????).
3. International Holistic Health.
4. International Master Reiki Teacher.
5. Connect with your
angels (is that gonna cost 500 baht or 1000 baht per angel?)
6. Rapid-Transcranial-Magnetic-Stimulations (an ex-Bangkok mamasan rubs your temples).
7. International Shamballa Master Teacher
8. Distinguish real intuition from irrational
emotional reactions (does this help me understand why my teeruk is throwing things?)
9. Colon Hydrotherapy (take a dump in the whirlpool).
10. Holistic Skin Care & Facials (wait 'till you see the bill Mr. Husband–you'll
be dropping a colon angel in your pants).
11. Usui-Tibetan Enhancer (when Fa was pregnant her breasts were really enhanced–I wonder if it was this Tibetan stuff?).
12. Awaken your conscience to a new pacha (ok, but I'm not paying
more than a 1000 baht for Ling's new pacha).
13. Hypnosis (every time I get hypnotized I imagine I am a boardwalk hooker–a man can dream).
14. A place where time and space seem to merge, showing us different things almost simultaneously
in a weaving of our inner and outer experience (I swear I did not make this up).
15. Create your own oasis (already done, A.A.Hotel, Soi 13/0, Pattaya, Thailand).
16. Soul Coaching
17. Energetic Cellular Healing (I think I need this–I
rubbed some cells off of my penis last night on an Essan pubic bone).
18. Astrological Counseling–Ex: 'The-void-of-course Aries Moon adds to the sense of disorientation during the day but after sunset more felicitous influences take
hold.' (I guess you could make this stuff up but you do not need to).
19. Crystal Therapist (I wonder if she knows a girl named Crystal Chandelier?).
20. Aromatherapy (hey, is that aromatherapy or did you fart?).
21. Flower Essence
Therapy.

22. Microchakra Psychology and Inner Tuning.
23. Facial, Tongue, and Pulse Diagnosis (???????–honestly, I did not make this up).
24. Sound Therapy (I always feel better after yelling at whores).
25. Neuro Linguistic Programming
(will this teach me when to use L's and when to use R's when I am in the Kingdom?).
26. Free From Breathwork (isn't this called breathing?).
27. 22-Strand Activation: Bring your divine blueprint into physical plane manifestations
(hey, try and stop me).
28. Leontine H. is a trained shamanic practitioner and counselor, Usui and Karuna Reiki Master, certified therapeutic energy healer, crystal and sound therapist, plant spirit medicine practitioner, psychic channeler,
and legally ordained minister (it beats working).
29. Palmistry and scrying.
30. And lastly: who can forget pyramid power, self-anesthesia, Feng Shui, and dowsing. This week's Crap-in-a-Hat award goes to Feng Shui. You say you are
a Thai-Chinese woman so you believe in ghosts and Feng Shui? See ya later honey.

What sort of people go to spas whether they are in Thailand or in other places in the world? Manly men who build bridges, or make bricks, or write adventure novels, or serve in the military? No, it is almost exclusively women. Women of zero
intellectual aspect whose conscious or unconscious sworn life duty is to spend you down on useless crap until you are broke and dispirited. But wait a minute: isn't that the definition of whores, and prostitutes, and free-lancers, and Hi-So
skanks, and cruisers in Thailand? One difference: in Thailand you will be smiling. Are you smiling now looking at the brochure that shows a naked albino child covered in flower blossoms and blowing on a goddamned flute shaped like a porn star's
dick? Exactly.

What kind of women inhabit these places of pestilence? Women who have names like:

1. Silver Hawk
2. Mountain Flower
3. Little Squaw Leaping Fish
4. Ms. Flower Essence
5. Harvest Moon

Note: don't even hope to find Miss Pussy Galore or Mrs. BJ.

6. Tinkling Bell
7. Miss Magic Fart
8. Meteor Shower
9. Spiritual Vagina
10. Petal Fingers
11. Mrs. Soybean Breath
12. Goatcheeze Breasts (yuck)

and these are not, as if I have to tell you, the names of brainiacs. You are liable to hear conversations like this:

Spa patron: Waiter?

Waiter: Yes madam?

Spa patron: Do you have any chilled whiskey tumblers?

Waiter: Yes.

Spa patron: Do you have a dehydrator?

Waiter: Yes.

Spa patron: Ok, I have brought some of my own organic urine and some of my own organic poop to be used as drinks and garnish on my one lettuce leaf salad. Please serve my urine in the chilled whiskey glass with a spritz of seltzer water.
Please dehydrate my poop and use it grated for salad dressing.

Waiter: As you wish. We have a special on croutons the size of an eraser on the end of a pencil. Would you like one crouton on your lettuce leaf and poop garnished salad?

Spa Patron: Yes, thank-you. Oh, and waiter?

Waiter: Yes?

Spa Patron: Could you jump up and down?

Waiter: Jump up and down madam?

Spa Patron (and probably some poor sap's wife): Yes, I was wondering if you had any of those little metal bells attached to your penis.

Frightened? You should be. And it all started with the first needle in the first vein. The first massage.

Do you know why your wife, or your daughter, or your sister, or your mother, or your Thai teeruk is drinking her own urine and eating her own poop at the All Things Natural and Beautiful spa in the mountains of Haiti, or the outskirts of
Phuket, or the birch forests of Finland, or across the Chao Phraya river from the Oriental Hotel? She is committing profitless unnatural acts because one of the spa 'teachers' told her to. His name was Swami Rotten Gums or Dr. Bob and
his penis foreskin had a crescent moon tattooed on it. Why urine and poop? Hey, it's organic; and if it is organic it must be good. You know; like plutonium, or mercury, or lead.

Waitress at a spa restaurant: More lead on you salad?
Spa Customer: Yes, thank-you.

A smart man can barely communicate with a woman. A stupid man can get them to do anything. No woman wants to be a salesman or to marry a salesman, but the bigger the lie the more they buy. Pitiful.

Ever wonder what your wife, or your girlfriend (or your wife's girlfriend), and all the other wives and girlfriends are doing at the Surin spa you refused to go to? They are playing air guitar with lesbos and having the words MASSAGE
RULES tattooed above the love canal. These numbskulls have swallowed the Koolaid and you were not at the party. Next you will have to listen to them tell you that you do not understand them. It's time to get some little Indian bells on your
penis–or get out. Get out–come to us. Join the Dana Army. It's time to thin the herd. Man time.

Chapter Two: The Dana Army

My name is Dana, I am forming an army. The final contagion will be dark roiling clouds, forked lightning, and triumphant exalting testosterone voices of men–real men. Meet me on the boardwalk and I will introduce you to Fa. And she will
introduce you to Ling, and Bing, and Sing, and Fing, and Da, and Ga, and La, and Pencil and Benz (Yoghurt got bought out by an Aussie). Learn to do what manly men are supposed to do. Smile.

Bridgebuilders, and brick layers, and the writers of adventure novels, and motorcycle mechanics, and special forces military alpha males unite. We are going to organize to terrorize. Every spa in the world will be destroyed, every faggotty
man in tights will be neutralized, and every foolish woman will be eliminated. It is time to hit the Delete button on parts of the human race and they have self-identified themselves. And what of the flute playing naked albino boy? He will be
set free. Men against stupidity and stupid women. The final battle. I am forming an army. Meet me on the boardwalk.

Meet me on the boardwalk in Pattaya. Spas and the spa industry are the final massage evolvement frontier of stupidity, and the women who go to these places are the final enemy. Yes, the final enemy in a coming worldwide battle. As the head
of Danaism I am forming an army. It's time to thin the female herd. You are overweight? You don't want to 'kiss' me there anymore? You want to spend my money to hear Daisy Frostymoon tell you that the only good hamburger is
a tofuburger? Well, myself and my army are going to do some human purging that your spa's featured speakers never mentioned. The last thing these stupid women will hear is the sound of their own screams as their 'very own personal crystals'
are shoved up their very own personal asses.

Not sure you want to join the Dana Army? Need to think it over? Want to speak to your masseuse about future calendared massage modality opportunities, discounts on scented candles, and terrycloth robe updates? No problem: ask for the NAMEVAC
special: we cut off your massage balls and suture on Chihuahua balls–that's all you can handle.

That's it men of the world–I am forming an army. And like most military campaigns the first step is reconnaissance. Cue Fa and her silver suited teddy bear.

Chapter Three: Fa Reconnaissance

Fa and her four tranny wingwomen hit the deck and come screaming in towards Pattaya Beach with the sun at their backs. It's an afternoon arrival and the end of a nine day photo reconnaissance mission. Twelve new spas located in Paraguay,
and Japan, and Costa Rica, and Germany.

Only one incident on the way home. Anxious to suck up time and get home quickly Fa was pushing too hard at 90,000 feet. Fourteen thousand miles per hour at 90,000 feet (new enriched uranium chili fuel mix) and the ship started to change shape.
The leading edges started to elongate and compress the trailing edges, the control surfaces started to balloon, and the fuselage started to pump as it fought for harmonic structural equilibrium. The klaxon alarm jacked Fa to attention. There are
still some surprises with the new planes.

The new planes in this five piece flying wedge with Fa at the front and two trailing tranny wingwomen on each side are 3/4 size stretched F117A Nighthawks with space shuttle tiles, SAM undercarriage armor for water landings, F22 Raptor style
engine thrust vectoring, and reconditioned X15 engines powered by standard cold fusion nuclear reactors and uranium enriched plutonium pressurized chili quark mist fuel. The molecular fuel responses violate quantum laws of physics. Fa's photo
reconnaissance nacelle is located behind the cockpit. To take pictures she flips the plane.

After this incident: too tired to argue, or communicate with me, or reprogram navigational ideas; Fa just follows the waypoint track home. SatNav longitude and latitude numbers spun like the doctored water meter on a Bangkok apartment building
as she hurtled from space down to the thicker soup of Earth air. She picks up the Gulf of Aden as a visual and just starts ripping across the Arabian Sea. By the time she hits the Indian subcontinent the leading edges and frontal surfaces of the
plane are starting to glow and pulsate. Subharmonic vibrating puts a flutter in the control surfaces that the computer has to dampen. Another warning to my Fa not to push the new machine too much. The cockpit starts to house a background groan
like an old man having an orgasm. Soon India is a puff of dust in her rear view mirror, and then it is the Bay of Bengal and dropping down to 13 degrees north latitude for Pattaya. In the time it takes to raise her goggles and to take off her
pressure suit gloves the scattered green diamonds below and to starboard of the Mergui archipelago on the western Burma border appear and dazzle. Ko Lan as a visual will be the last navigational aid before touchdown on concrete hard water.

The five hypersonic delta wing ballistic specks announce their Pattaya arrival pulling sonic booms, super heated water, flames, and startled fish behind them. Another successful air reconnaissance mission is coming to a close. More spas SatNav
I.D.'d — more future human Serengeti plains dramas for Dana's Army.

All my Fa and her tranny wingwomen can think of is R&R. The tranny wingwomen part of the flying wedge has set down early so that they can bang, and crash, and skip skip skip skip skip skip, and bounce, and roll with the exuberance of
girls who see that all four of their farang sponsors have rented gold tuktuks to pick them up on the beach. The armored undercarriages of the planes can take the abuse metered out by happy happy humans. They have contorted themselves in the cockpits
and zipped off their pressure suit booties; they are now flying with six inch stiletto heels. Fa meanwhile as stuffed her flight suited teddy bear under the aileron cable and hit both nostrils with smelling salt sticks. Only miles to go and no
room for errors. She knows that I can see her on the monitor and she smiles. It's a tired smile. The fastest women in the world is tired–so so tired. But she supports the mission–idiot women and idiotic spas need to be wiped out. Her effort
is a gift to men and a gift to Earth. There is no one like my Fa.

Chapter Four: Maneuvers Begin

Stupid Woman: Honey?

Husband: Yes dear?

Stupid Woman: Before you come back from getting the car's oil changed could you please stop at the Department Store for Stupid Women and get me some more clarifier at the cosmetics counter? My skin needs some more clarifying.

Husband (now Stupid Husband): Ok.

And we marry these women? We stand up in public and agree to a one way lifetime contract? Gentlemen — I've had great sex. Lots of it. But sex that great does not exist. Do not drink the Koolaid. It is sugar water going down and battery
acid coming up. Anyway, it is time. Reach down inside your pants. Got any balls? Then you qualify. You are a man. And there are two wonderful things in your future.

Number One: there are no subterranean spas. They actually advertise their criminality and give you directions. They'll be easy to find whether they are in Thailand, or California, or Rio, or Mexico City, or outside Moscow. Even without
directions (we operate on a referral basis only) they are easy to find. Just listen for three things:

1. the sound of the goddamned wind chimes.
2. the sound of overweight women chanting.
3. the sound of the spa owners counting money and laughing like hyenas on helium gas.

Number Two: there will not be any negotiating. The first trucks through the gates will be mercenary groups of men from west African nations. Raggedy clothes, red-eyed; black and blue and purple men with weapons or without weapons. Long blue
and black and purple glistening arms, 32" waists, tire tread sandals, gold teeth, black gums, and combs stuck in their hair. Is this important from a military standpoint? Not really–but it sure is fun and sets the tone for what is to follow.
No negotiating. We are not interested in female spa customers' points-of-view. We are not going to be good listeners.

Jogging fat females and anorexics with PhD's in massage/spa therapy will just start running.

Run Little Squaw Leaping Fish, run . . .
Run Ms. Poon Tang from Sangkhla Buri, run . . .
Run Miss Magic Fart, run . . .
Run Feng Shui, run . . . get those fat Feng Shui holistic thighs pumping . . .
Run Mrs. Soybean Breath,
run.

Noise? Crying? Yelling? Screaming? Not a bit of it. Those are the sounds of the still hopeful, the sounds of the still socially involved, or the self-pitying sounds of those who imagine they'll have a story to tell later; Hi-So Thai
women for example who are secretly thrilled to have a story to tell their friends at the Emporium. Well, that ain't gonna happen. No sounds. None. Just runners and chasers. Predators and prey. The opening bugle call to arms of the advancing
Dana Army. Men and women. Deadly quiet except for the sounds of rasping lungs (how's that for Freeform Breathwork?) and feet on earth. The final battle starts. No more men's' wallets will be tapped by stupid women and stupid ideas.
No more will there be a reason for the words massage or spa in the dictionary. No more worldwide predation on men, and good sense, and the evolvement of the race. No more fraud masquerading as medical benefits, or spiritual awakening, or organic
philosophy (?), or muscular awareness (??). No more overt public criminality. You think rolling cigarettes out of eucalyptus leaves and smoking them by shoving them up your nostrils is purifying and shows your superiority? Fine–but I ain't
payin' and the members of Dana's Army ain't paying. We also are not playing. The final screw has turned and the final righteous apocalypse is darkening the skies. Start running.

Run Wind Chime tits, run . . .
Run Neuro Linguistic Programmer, run . . . asshole.
Run plant spirit medicine practitioner . . . run.

And if you are a man and you are a customer of one of these spas it is already too late–just listen for the sound of chopper blades.

Ever been to Africa and seen animals running for their lives? Did you hear any squealing or crying? Not a bit of it. Goodbye ego, and goodbye social posturing. Just running for their lives. Every spa will be turned into a plains-of-Serengeti
coliseum–a final drama with men the final victors. Like a said, this opening military action has little military value but sets the tone of what is to follow and it is fun. Hey Mr. Man, when is the last time you had unbridled joy? Ok, repeat
after me:

"Hey Tofu-for-Brains: you have been going on, and on, and on with diarrhea of the mouth about how fit you feel because of twice weekly sessions of yoga and rapid-transcranial-magnetic stimulation–ok, shows us how fit you are: run thunder
thighs . . . run. See if you can outrun a red-eyed man from the steamy shores of the Niger river. Hear those chopper blades? Hear his breath behind you? Run thunder thighs, run."

Sixty minutes after the long-armed men with the big feet from Nigeria and the Congo and Cameroon have arrived my army of boardwalk soldiers, Dana fans, and followers of Danaism will start to arrive. No more water buffalo mud baths, no more
singing at sunrise, no more naked guy masseuses with little bells on their dicks, no more herbs and oils and pressure point lectures and weird ass Chinese gong music, and no more zither anything, and no more vegetarian anything, and no more massage
testimonials from ex-nuns; and we will find and free that poor little Bolivian albino flute player.

Chapter Five: Cue the Hueys

Hear that man sound? Helicopter gunships. Part 2 of the order of battle that goes:

1. African guys in trucks
2. Helicopters
3. Tanks
4. Plows
5. Salt trucks

or, as we sometimes refer to the order of battle at Dana Enterprises Military Headquarters:

1. Run Lucy Lesbo, run . . .
2. Run Ms. Colon Cleaner, run . . .
3. Run Swami Baloney, run . . .
4. Run past life regression tarot card reader, run . . .
5. Run International Shamballa Teacher, run.

Anyway, after sixty minutes the African guys will send up a flare and Fa in her Chinook helicopter mobile communication center will cue the Hueys. Ever seen six foot tall naked trannies in heels man handling door mounted machine guns? Would
you like to? Here is your clue. Two words: O.H. That's right, in the third week of next month a spa on the Thonburi side of the Chao Phraya river in Thailand is going down. Find a place to stand at sunrise just south of the Taksin bridge
and you will see 100 gunships coming up the river. One hundred flying insects of death, and two hundred door gunner trannies in heels. Pray for the Jesus nuts and grab your camera. Tranny door gunners, man sounds, spa destruction and violence.
It's great to be a man.

No rockets on these gunships, just machine guns. Heavy masonry, and rebar, and steel will be taken out by 500 Baht Walt and his Russian WWII T-34 tanks. After the helicopters go by check the bridge. One lane is a line of tanks and the other
lane has been taken over by plows and salt trucks.

"We ain't fxxxing around . . .
This spa is going down."

500 Baht Walt, El Supremo lounge lizard of the Mothership in Bangkok, will be lead tank commander. Actually, since Walt is so tall and so huge, when he is standing in the main hatch of the T-34 it looks like he is wearing the tank—sort
of a tank tutu. No matter–he has the kind of long time simmering-to-boil issues with women we need for leadership.

Only one challenge. 500 Baht Walt doesn't like to leave the Nana Hotel lobby. His idea of a personal safari is to go to the Mini-Mart across the street from the hotel. And a trip around the corner to the Ploenchit Centre requires planning
and weeks of thought after the trip is made. I don't want to say that Walt is sedentary but the words FIRE FIRE FIRE RUN FOR YOUR LIVES are not going to get him to move. So how to get him to the various worldwide locations of spas on the
hit list was at first a challenge.

We have fitted out the interior of a C-17 cargo jet to look exactly like the Nana Hotel lobby complete with his tank, Rommel goggles, and binoculars. A few shots of whiskey, load him into the C-17, and he thinks he is still in the Mothership
lobby. We stuff a few of his fellow lounge lizards in the plane also. They don't give a fxxx where they are. The giant cargo jet will land on the nearest road near the spa-of-the-moment, down goes the rear ramp, and off goes Walt. Problem
solved.

In the third week of next month Walt will be leading fifty tanks across the bridge south of the Oriental Hotel. Mission? To reduce all infrastructure to ground level. And what of the plows and the salt trucks? The plows will open up the ground
and the salt will poison it. You knew that.

Conclusion: Review

Massage is the gateway drug that leads to spaism: a social pollutant that is lowering I.Q. worldwide as spa women breed, causing the devolvement of the human race, and torturing Mother Earth. Dana's Army is leading the visionary way
with worldwide humiliation and destruction of spas, the spa industry, and spa customers. Those men not supporting Dana's Army will be the object of the NAMEVAC program and their massage balls will be replaced with Chihuahua balls. A new day
is dawning and it is a day for men. Run Tossed Salad Pussy, run. Run Surin elephant camp chanters, run. Run professional Thai reflexologists, run. Run Chiang Mai spa holistic oasis teachers, run. Hear those sounds behind you–African men and helicopter
gunships? Run.

Welcome to the future men . . . sweet apocalypse. Sweet final apocalypse.