Readers' Submissions

Thai Thoughts and Anecdotes Part 305

  • Written by Dana
  • December 10th, 2011
  • 11 min read


Black Pagoda Patpong Bangkok

EMAIL FROM MARC HOLT

Dear Dana

Strewth and fair dinkum no drama roo snag Old fella if you know what I mean and lob in. So it's all about g'day mate and my Thai wife's bush oyster, brekkie, and a brown-eyed mullet. Yobbos and ankle biters are more about 'she'll be apples' than in Thailand, and don't get me going on the wife, strictly kangaroos loose in the top paddock. It's all about arvo time and Back of Bourke but I don't want to big-note myself or flick it on. So I lift an amber fluid to you and hope everything is well with your chunder bilabong. Not much doing here but I try to keep busy with constant crack a fat, bonzer dog's eye, feral boomerangs, and cactus joeys. The wife's a little B&S so it is time to get dag, bluey, bodgy, dill, and drongo. It's a red dust in your ass crack place but I give it a burl. Anyway, sweet jesus on a bikkie I'll be gettin' up to Pattaya in a couple of months. Have Fa throw your hot nuts on the barbie.

Kon doogle foon daggle 'short-time'. Spen dorfen pal dingo Sydney suckburi and ra-wang kuhn hansum man Dana. Hot Nuts On The Barbie (HNOTB) is my mantra and dream for you. I'm retired in Oz but coming to semaphore flag Hookerland–not deuan nee, but sometime in koom-pha-phan; so tell the girls to powder their pussies and Noose Sound with bloody amobo and preggers. I'm a down homie for feral fisho with pockets full of #54 condoms for the Old fella. Sweet Jesus on a bikkie I'm hot for Danaism and strappin' myself to the wing. Fanta's in my pants and my heart's full of love–strewth to the max booger smear and remember–it's an Alice's Spring rock morning when no abo cock crows with dangling bitzenheimers. It's Oz time or no time. Be there across from the A.A.Hotel or be square and shove fair dinkum up your ying yang. Khoon mai tawng klua phom, I'm a bluey to your alpha and I'll be waitin' on the shore. Book-khon pai nawk ham khao–just you and just me. Anyway, tell me when your South Pattaya boardwalk teeruk Fa has your nuts on the barbie and I'll come and visit. Right now looks like February.

Kon doogle foon daggle spen dorfen pal dingo. Pass the collection plate loomy rama numie foomy–my abo brains are fondu Ozed and teeruk soony. Soony I leave the land of red dust and white striped fire dancers. Soony I cast a water-meets-the-sand shadow Dana and offer my hand to you. I know what you are thinking. It's a rat bag day when you can't pash mak baby your willy nilly. In other words, abso-bloody-lutely, a bit more choke and you would have started. I feel your pain.

Throw me a bone,
Toss me a turd;
Be my God,
Drop me the word.

Tai jeeng na sia-dai mak, so much time wasted; but I'm playin' catch-up now.

I'm strapped to the wing,
And I'm comin' on strong.
Please don't abandon me,
That would be so so wrong.

Look into the West. See that rooster tail of plutonium effluent, fried fish, and boiling water? That's me coming fast and low, dolphin skippin', and puttin' for dough. Open your arms Dana, and let me into your heart. I've got to wanky my airy fairy or it's going to be fanny time for my didjeridoo. Frondoogle my dingbits on the shores of the Murray river. I'm tired and I want to go to bed. Where's my hat?

Foomy doomy whacky doo . . . Look in my pants, that ain't no roo.

Good Onya,
Marc Holt — Australia

Ok, Stickmanbangkokites; it's always nice to get an email from former Thai expats who have retired to Oz. But I gotta tell ya, I can not understand one word of this email. Not one word. NOT — ONE — WORD. Just a complete linguistic mystery. No idea. Not a clue. I could train a Surin chicken to play the trombone before I could figure this southern hemisphere gibberish out. As near as I can figure Marc Holt is coming up from Australia to visit me, and to visit Fa, and to visit Pattaya. In February. And he likes to sleep with his hat on. The rest is a mystery. It's no wonder that it took this Aussie adventurer thirty years to find a Thai woman who would stick with him. He's crazier than an abo trapped in a liquor warehouse over the weekend.

"Foomy doomy whacky doo . . .
Look in my pants,
That ain't no roo."

What the hell does that mean? Put a couple of walnut sized rocks in an empty paint can. Now take the paint can lid and pound it down with the heel of your hand. Lift the can and shake it with the two small rocks inside. Hear that sound? Welcome to Marc Holt's brain. I tell ya, I have half a mind to go to Australia to give the citizens there a baseline on what normal is. Ya know, just walk around and talk and stuff so that people in Platypusland can see what normal looks like.

And . . . "I've got to wanky my airy fairy or it's going to be fanny time for my didjeridoo." — ?????

Again, just no idea. This is strictly bats in the bellfryville and kind of sad. I don't think I'm going to see anybody wanking their airy fairy in church but maybe it is an Australian thing. Anyway, I can remember when this guy could be trusted to walk around in Bangkok with braces and suspenders.

Note: Braces. What a joke. Everyone knows they are called suspenders. What is it with Australians making up different words for everything. Why don't they act normal and speak correct English like Americans (Oh, excuse me–Yanks).

Anyway, I can remember when–when this guy could be trusted to walk around in Bangkok with belt and suspenders. Now he is staggering around in the Australian outback with no belt and no suspenders. Everytime he throws a boomerang his pants fall down. Sad, but funny. Funny, but sad. Or, as the Aussies would say:

"Frongo, loop fooleydooley. Fooleydooley, loop frongo."

Still . . . if you read this email out loud with an attention born of not quite comprehended respect, the email has a kind of power and speed and confidence and friendliness normally the issue of an alpha. There is the fossil of a language and a powerful communicating presence here. Unfortunately, Mr. Alpha has been reduced to a staggering stabbing at fireflies in the dark. Exegit monumentum aere perennius ("He completed a monument more durable than bronze." — Horace) does not come to mind: but beauty and pain and pity and fear do come to mind. A Thai tragedy.

The less charitable might figure there are three options here:

1. This email represents totally legitimate Australian and this is how they talk/write.
2. This email represents Australian slang, or dog training commands, or something.
3. This email . . . well, if you had ever met Mr. Holt you would understand–let us just say he has issues and he has problems. This is a man who wears a hat to bed.

In other words:

Life is short,
So conclusions come soon.
Clearly Marc Holt
Is crazy as a loon.

Like a leaf on the wind,
He is now in Oz.
But visiting Pattaya,
Is his next cause.

It'll be fun
To see him again.
But to him my Fa,
I will not lend.

He'll have to be watched.
Not over trusted.
Fa's mine, all mine;
And his brain is busted.

With a big Aussie smile,
It's sheila this and sheila that;
But the smart man doesn't forget
He sleeps with a hat.
And don't even get me started on the New Zealanders.

Note: I was once kidnapped by outer space people. They took me to a faraway strange place in their flying saucer, spoke complete gibberish, and repeatedly probed me. Thought I was in New Zealand.

Anyway, that is why it is so nice to read something I have written. I am an American and we Americans speak linguistically perfect unaccented English. So when we write we set the world standard for clear concise scientifically truthful writing without self-promotion (I would kill myself first), tones, confusing sounds called accents, made-up words (bilabong, boomerang, joey, etc.), slang, hyperbole, needless narrative drama, and fictional exaggeration. Reading an essay, or a story that I have written is like reading a law of physics. I wonder if Australia even has any laws of physics. Maybe their balls don't hang down in response to gravity, but just fly around like . . . well, if anyone visits Marc Holt let me know about his balls.

Yes, exactly–Marc Holt's balls. Just another reason to admire, consider, and move to America. Gravity. Yup, we've got gravity. Our balls hang down like they are supposed to instead of flying around like a bunch of drugged up platypuses dancing on a hot griddle. Go to Bondi beach and Aussie male speedo bathing suits look like they are hiding a sack of cats trying to escape. No gravity. Balls flyin' around. You hate to see that.
I mean, what can you really expect; the whole Australian continent is upside down. Then you've got the tilt of the Earth, and the spining 'n all, plus the pull of the Moon. Aussie balls flying all over the place. No wonder they drink.

And don't try and tell me drunk platypuses with yaa baa pills stuffed up their noses aren't shakin' and bakin' from Darwin to Sydney. I've seen nature films here in Boston. We know what is happening in Upsidedownland.
I'm not saying that before Marc Holt met his charming Thai wife that he was dancing with and sleeping with platypuses. I'm not saying that. That sounds wrong. And let's not even think about tranny platypuses. And I'm not saying that when Mr. Holt was spending time with platypuses that they both wore black felt hats to bed. Again, that sounds creepy. I'm not saying that.

I"m not saying I once saw Mr. Marc Holt of Australia rush the stage at the second floor Russian owned place on Soi 14 off Walking Street in South Pattaya called Platypus Playpen with his arms and fists swinging like a demented Dutch windmill. Patti the headliner with the fish net stockings and sexy rubbery bill that could . . . anyway, she had just accepted a 500 baht tip from a New Zealander and Holt went nuts. Ok, but I'm not saying that. It's maybe just best if kept quiet. A family thing. I guess if you are a sexy platypus headliner and you go to bed with him wearing one of his hats he thinks there is some kind of social contract. He thinks it is love. Again, Australians–go figure.

Anyway, in February when he comes to Pattaya to visit with Fa, and to visit with me: if he gives my Fa a black felt hat as a gift I'm going to be on this guy like a dog on a bone. Fa's no platypus and I'm no fool.

The essayic main point is that if you are scrolling down through the Thai-farang offerings on a Thai-farang centric website like Stickmanbangkok.com you want to read my stuff first. For God's sake show some common sense and display some personal dignity and read a writer that is easy to understand, can not be misinterpreted, uses the English language perfectly, and displays no idiosyncratic tendencies of any kind. Each story or essay a pyramid on the lonely foolish sandy plains of literary mediocrity. If you flash off the road later and start reading garnets, and rubies, and jadeite and other lesser stones it is your own fault, at least you started with diamonds.

And if you get some emails from Mr. Holt from Australia do not dispair. Been there, done that. He was a thirty year expat in the Kingdom. You have to expect some brain stem damage. And if you are kidnapped by outer space people, taken to a faraway strange place, and repeatedly probed–send some pictures. Been there, enjoyed that.



Stickman's thoughts:

I hear that Mr. Holt had a good laugh at this. Great stuff!