Stickman Readers' Submissions June 29th, 2013

Thai Thoughts and Anecdotes Part 386

Hello Dana fans: today, two references, one actual and one fictional, from Italy based readers. I do not get many fan responses from Italians, maybe this will prime the pump. We start with Clod Puddentrot of Genoa. He says:

"Hello Dana. No servant of God has more regard for God's works than I have for your writing, but sometimes if one of your submissions has multiple story/essays I sometimes get confused about when one stops and the next one begins. I know you start each new story/essay with an all caps title but still . . . anyway, perhaps you could number them.

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Clod Puddentrot, retired., honorary colonel fourth Calcutta lancers

Ok, I am going to number today's different submission parts. I am not really enthusiastic about this but we will try it. The other Italian reference occurs in the first story. Enjoy.

Dana Note: below is my standard email response to readers who criticise my writing. All I have to do is bring up the form, plug in the name, and hit SEND. Below is an example:

1. Attn: Ms. Angela Linguini of Burnt Sienna, Italy

Fill up an old Thai crone with fish paste and prune juice. Start walking her from Na Kae on a south-west course. When she drops her load in a fecal burst look around. You have arrived and you will see a special tree covered with flowers and creepers and vines and ivy and single orchid. It is a petrified tree. Impervious to time it holds a special book. Press a button behind the orchid and a door will open swinging on jade hinges. Diamond studded stairs will lead to an underground grotto of gold and in the middle of the grotto's black obsidian polished floor is a crystal table with a special book. The ruby crusted letters are inscribed on pages of cured soi dog hide and the book's cover is made of butter soft water buffalo foreskins all stitched together. It is the book of INSANE PEOPLE. Your name is in that book.

But that is not really what I want to talk about today. What I want to talk about today is the subject of editors, followed by a respectful look at a South Pattaya legend named Frenchie. When I used to live in the West Indies every beach had a guy named Frenchie living under an overturned boat, drunk, and looking like a human wreck. He was getting more pussy than anyone. The Hubble space telescope may someday eliminate all the mysteries of the universe, except the Frenchies of the world.


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"If we do discover a complete {unified} theory {of the universe}, it should in time be understandable in broad principle by everyone, not just a few scientists. Then we shall all, philosophers, scientists, and just ordinary people, be able to take part in the discussion of the question of why it is that we and the universe exist. If we find the answer to that, it would be the ultimate triumph of human reason–for then we should know the mind of God." — Stephen William Hawking.

Really? Who believes Hawking wrote this? I don't. Not in it's

entirety. I do not believe the words:

" for then we should know the mind of God."

came out of Stephen Hawking's word processor or his mind. I believe this is an example of editor meddling. Example:

Editor: Stephen?

Stephen: Yes?

Editor: We love this book A Brief History of Time baby but for the general audience and all the lesbo book buyers if we don't stick in something about God this little astronomy book is going to lay a giant cosmic egg. It would also be really helpful if you could stick in something for the book buyers about kitty cats but we are not going to ask you to do that. We are reasonable editors.

Stephen: Well, I don't know.

Editor: Look, Steverino– you just stick to your black hole and we'll sell books.

Stephen: Well, I don't know.

Ok, what if I found out that Mr. Hawking did add this lameass tagline:

" for then we should know the mind of God."

to his speculation regarding the ultimate exercise of human reason?

I would be disappointed. Disappointed in the mind of Stephen Hawking. How disappointed? Well, if I saw Mr. Hawking in his motorized wheelchair on the boardwalk in Pattaya trying to manoevure around potholes and puddles and piles of pipe, and construction debris in order to talk to Ling or Ping or Sing or Ding or Wan or Don or Mon or Gon or Bang or Fang or Gang or Lang or Nit or Mit or Sit or Fit or Poo or Foo; I wouldn't help him. Yes, I know that sounds cruel. But letting editors muck around with speculations about the universe is a crime and Mr. Bigshot Hawking would be an accessory to a crime. Thank God (what a joke) I am around to set the standard.

Editors–give me a break. Mr. Hawking never said those words. I'm sure of it. I do not believe those words came out of his mind and were typed into his word processor. This is why we should be happy about

No editing. When I send in a submission to Stick he either accepts it or he rejects it. No editing talk nonsense about changing the tone, or eliminating a paragraph, or pumping it up three hundred words, or adding an anecdote about a female Thai having sex to become a male sex monger. All or nothing.

So if I ever see Stick in one of those motorized wheelchair things trying to manoevure around crap on the boardwalk to get to Fooby or Benz or Chicken or Mak or Fong or Lum or When or Knob or Song; I am going to help him. I'll attach a GPS unit to his head so that he always knows his location, outriggers to his seat to keep him from tipping over, and waterwings under his arms to keep him from drowning in a giant construction hole filled with water. He deserves it.


His name was Frenchie,

And I want you to know;

He loved and was loved

On very short dough.

Fish seller by day

Across from the park;

Brain dead and waiting,

Waiting for dark.

Fifty baht for a barfine,

Out on the pier;

That's all he paid,

Straight or queer.

Then up to the room,

And fish basket smell;

Stains on the sheets,

Girls not well.

The fish market farang

Thin as a rail;

Bumping and grinding,

Still chasing Thai tail.

Fifty baht and a beer

And a handful of fish.

Enough for the girls

Without a wish.

The fish market farang:

Out in all weather;

Foam on his lips,

Skin like leather.

Abandoned by his own:

Out of lies;

Circling the drain,

Taken in by the Thais.

Fifty baht for a barfine

Out on the pier:

That's all he paid,

Straight or queer.

Shambling and old,

But happy and fun:

Still smiling and touching,

His race not run.

It's stars up

And sun down:

Another dead day,

For an old French clown.

Time to head for the pier:

Barefoot and slow;

Which girls will say yes?

Which girls will go?

Hosed down and clean,

Feeling like new;

He'll be doing better,

Better than you.

So save your tourist sympathy.

Keep your cameras to your self.

His tail's still wagging,

He's not on the shelf.

Out on the pier:

Each night his spirit new;

He'll be doing better,

Better than you.

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