Thai Thoughts and Anecdotes Part 308

I'M GOING OUT TONIGHT — PART TWO

Previously on Stickmanbangkok.com. in the story titled: I'm Going Out Tonight — Part One we witnessed me being prepared by Esther and her girls in her penthouse Banglampu clinic for a visit to a tranny rock 'n roll festival in
Thonburi. Shaving, intravenous thrills, temporary tattoos, fashion accessories, killer clothes, personal weapon, and red contact lenses to match my pubic and head hair red extensions were the preamble. The big black car, the small white faced
Japanese woman, and the anal insert were all standard. What happened after I got there?

Yeah, 'what happened?' is what my emails are asking. But that has all been done before: who I met, and what went down, and who were the DJ's, and whose mojo was crankin', and the glory hole action, and all the rest of
the personal-social details of a night out. Let's try this another way. What did not happen? That's right, what didn't happen the other night was more interesting than what did happen. To wit . . .

I did not get to have sex with the members of the Tranny My Fanny degenerate cover band from Manilla. Surprised? You and me brother. I was shocked. I have never ever been turned down by a tranny or a tranny band. I'm catnip to trannies.
Ever seen a cat play with a catnip stuffed toy mouse: the licking, and the biting, and the eye rolling, and the flippin' 'n floppin', and the frenzied rubbing, and rolling in ecstasy? Now you get it. Incomprehensible confused desire,
purring, and spastic body movements? Yup, trannies when they get their hands on me. Welcome to my life. I'm catnip to trannies. Don't hate me for this. God just smiled on me is all. Anyway, I don't even have to try. It's a
gift. I just strip naked and start slapping my thigh with a riding crop. The rest is drunken drugged up pigs fighting over a ten inch corn cob. So at every one of the tranny battle of the bands extravaganzas I always go back stage to meet the
bands and we get busy. Like I said, I'm catnip to trannies.

But when I went backstage to 'meet' the Tranny My Fanny band all I got was embarrassed silence. Two of them helped me get dressed, and the base guitar player used a forked snake stick to push my engorged love wand back into my pants.
If you had looked up the word 'confused' in the Thai dictionary you would have seen a picture of me. A bunch of cats not interested in catnip? Please, what's that all about? Exactly. So what's the story? Well, it is believable
and sort of unbelievable at the same time. Put on your rural poverty third world social evolution thinking caps Stickmanbangkokites. Here is what I learned:

It turns out that the Tranny My Fanny tranny band from Manilla was a ringer. They weren't transvestites, they were heterosexuals (they like sex with women). I know, and I feel your pain: nothing kills an erection faster than nonsense
like this. In a world of uncertainty and chaos and hopes dashed on the rocks of disappointment, you ought to have tranny love as a dependable emotional anchor; but hang in there, it is an interesting story.

It turns out that the Tranny My Fanny band was from the Philippines and there is a call for tranny rock bands in Thailand. Hey, it's a global world and the fellows in the band figured if they could just get to Thailand they could make
a lot more money and be better and more responsible sons, and fathers, and brothers, and husbands, and boyfriends. All they had to do was trade dignity for pretend sex, dress like and act like and sing like morally depraved degenerates, and they
could escape the Philippines.

When the wives and the girlfriends were told of this plan they were so stunned with happiness they burst into tears and lost control of their bladders. Vindication of choice of life partner? Yes and Yes and Yes. What's more thrilling
for the wife than knowing you have married a winner? The wives and girlfriends were so happy for their husbands and boyfriends they all borrowed money from their friends and neighbors so that they could make the trip to Manilla to see them off
at the airport. Faces swollen and red from tears. Small hands waved. Again, all their husbands and boyfriends had to do was trade dignity for pretend sex, dress like and act like and sing like morally depraved degenerates, and they could escape
the Philippines. Sweet Jesus on a Cebu cracker, God is great and truly the Mother Mary looks after her children.

Yes, yes, and yes: God is great and all the Catholic candles, and prayers, and incense were a good investment. Two of the women were pregnant and already the dream seed was planted. They hoped that if they gave birth to sons that someday
their sons would be able to escape the Philippines by pretending to be disgusting filth in a Thai headliner tranny band. A mother dreams only of good things for her son. Praise God and pass the rosary beads we are getting out of the fxxxing Philippines.

When the first monies started to come back to the Philippine mothers and sisters and wives and girlfriends from the sons and fathers and brothers and husbands and boyfriends who were performing in Thailand, other desperate future yearning
women in the villages would gather around to hear all about it and how it had been done. Some would take notes. Wide eyed wonder and hope plus more money than they had ever dreamed possible fueled their dreams for a brighter future. They could
buy Spiderman pajamas for the baby, and get flower boxes for the metal roofed hovel they were living in. All their sons and fathers and brothers and husbands and boyfriends had to do was pretend to be perverted gender confused monsters, know how
to tune a guitar, and sing Hotel California while hip slinging big black dildoes. Call me a sentimentalist, but when I stumble across stories this wonderful in the global community it just makes me happy for the race, the human race. My only regret
is that I do not know how to tune a guitar.

One of the new future enthusiasts just back from a revenue generating trip to Angeles City wondered aloud if Jesus had been a transvestite. Witness the primitive brain wrestling with big ideas. The notion caused a temporary cessation of girlish
laughter and rapid hand movements as they fought the opposing conditions of brain freeze and excitement. It seemed unlikely that Jesus and his band of brothers had electric guitars but still there was a band of them and they managed to travel,
and eat, and influence others. Who says Philippine rustics aren't intellectual? None of these daughters of the Catholic church could think of a better trade up husband than Jesus so putting the two ideas together was natural.

I mean, said Carmenita:

"It's not like there was no rock 'n roll in Nazareth, and Jerusalem, and the Vatican, and Mount Sinai, and that Calvary place. I mean, please . . . I may be from Zamboanga on the island of Mindanao but I'm not stupid.
I know how to say 'We Must Be Condom Safe' in five languages. Don't tell me Jesus and his guys weren't rockin' to some tunes. How else did they get the crowds and stuff?"

Every single head nodded agreement before getting back to closely examining the money orders, and the cashier's checks, and the piles of money, and the letters and photos from sons and fathers and brothers and husbands and boyfriends
faraway in Bangkok: a tropical tableau of social evolution that would have made Darwin forget his beetles and his finches and his tortoises. Many of the photos showed their now exotic men en ensemble complete with hip hugging dildos, sparkles
in their hair, eyeliner, corset waists, push up bras, fish net stockings, painted fingernails, and high-heeled shoes. The pictures were passed around and the daughters of the Catholic church dropped their heads and starred at the creme de la creme
of Philippine manhood as if they were village dogs trying to figure out the lock on a meat wagon.

So, that is my story of what did, and more importantly what did not happen at the Thonburi tranny battle of the bands the other night. It turns out that in the global world of the sexually degenerate sometimes it is hard to tell the butt
dart players from the pretenders. Hey, and it's not really a downer if you are an International person like me. It adds an extra whiff of suspense not knowing if the tranny garbage on stage is greased up and ready for target practice, or
just hardworking sons and fathers and brothers and husbands and boyfriends trying to finance the family back home to get the hell out of the Philippine sewer. And I know what you are thinking: with this new global world how can you tell the real
deals from the pretenders? Easy, just do what I do. Go backstage after a band is done performing: strip naked, point your wing wang at the ceiling, and start slapping your leg with a riding crop. Something will happen. Or not.

So, what can we learn from this? Simple. Life at the bottom of the garbage pail where the worms are fighting for survival can be pretty interesting. Try to be as highly evolved and sensitive as I am highly evolved and sensitive and you may
be treated to a look into the kaleidoscope of life where crazy odds can catch up with you. Who in a million years would have guessed that I would be turned down for tranny love? But I was turned down for the grunting slurping pleasures and it
was educational and inspiring to be able to see behind the curtain. God, I love this country.