The Sunday Pageant
Glossy Sunday Magazine Supplement
Copyright by Morgan McFinn
he celebrated English writer, Beatrice Thistlebottom, author of Fetishes Are My Fetish, has ensconced her elegant self at the Happy Inn along the constantly glorious sandy shores of our beloved Maenam Bay.
An exhaustive perusal of the local archives revealed that Ms. Thistlebottom is the first and only celebrity ever to visit the bay. Of course, we at the Pageant dispatched a reporter immediately for this special Sunday Pageant glossy magazine feature.
A CELEBRITY HAIR ON HOLIDAY
“Ms. Thistlebottom, allow me to say that it is truly a thrill to have a celebrity such as yourself in amongst our midst . . . betwixt and between us in the thick of our humble environs and . . . and . . . well gosh, I guess I’m just a little nervous.”
“That’s quite alright, young man. I make a lot of people nervous.”
“Well that’s comforting . . . thank you. Now please tell us about your book, Fetishes Are My Fetish. Maybe you could begin by explaining to our readers just exactly what a fetish is.”
“To explain exactly what a fetish is, sir, would deprive the subject of its true meaning.”
“Ah . . . okay. Would you mind explaining to us in general terms then, what a fetish is?”
“Generally speaking, a fetish is anything to which abnormally excessive attention is given. Most often, the objects of this abnormally excessive attention are of a sexual nature and develop during puberty.”
“For example . . .”
“Well, I, for example, have a hair fetish.”
“A hair fetish?”
“You are abnormally excessive in . . . you attend excessively to . . . I mean, you exceed the normal attention to . . .”
“I have a hair fetish.”
“When I was twelve years old I had long, beautiful, curly, blond hair. It had never been trimmed. One day my mother noticed the lads looking at me in a, shall we say, desirous fashion. She thereupon took me straight away to a barber and had all my hair shorn clean off.
“But, what happened was amazing. I sat in the chair, the sound of the shears, the big clunking scissors going chop, chop . . . my golden curls cascading all around me, and suddenly I had my first orgasm. Naturally, I didn’t know what was happening as it began. I thought maybe I was peeing in my pants, but no pee ever felt that good. Now, the ultimate thrill for me is having a man cut my hair while we’re making love.”
“That could be tricky.”
“Where there’s a will, there’s a way, and it’s so sensual. Anyway, strange things such as fetishes can happen during puberty. In my book, I talk about a man I met who fell in love with a classmate when they were both thirteen years old. The boy had only one leg.”
“What happened to his other leg?”
“He lost it, somehow.”
“Well, of course, he lost it. I didn’t think he’d sent it out to the dry cleaners or something.”
“There’s no call for flippancy, young man. I don’t know how he lost the leg.”
“You never asked him?”
“I never met the boy. I met the man who, as I believe I said, fell in love with the boy when he was thirteen.”
“When the boy was thirteen?”
“They were both thirteen, weren’t they. Are you listening to me or not?”
“The man you met, as a thirteen-year-old boy, fell in love with another thirteen-year-old-boy?”
“And the boy he fell in love with had somehow lost or misplaced . . . or whatever . . . one of his legs.”
“He lost it, you dolt.”
“Yet, how he lost it remains a mystery…?”
“It does to me, although I should imagine the boy himself must have had a fairly vivid recollection of the event.”
“Probably . . . unless, of course, the boy was born with a leg missing. That’s been known to happen.”
“Let’s just forget about how the leg went astray and allow me to get to the point of the story.”
“Of course—which is…?”
“About strange things that influence a person’s life during puberty and the consequent development of fetishes.”
“Ah, yes . . .”
“So then, this man who fell in love with a one-legged boy when they were both thirteen developed an obsession about becoming a one-legged person himself.”
“A two-legged person who wished he was a one-legged person?”
“Because the boy he loved was also loved by many other people. He was the center of attention.”
“Sort of stood out in a crowd, as it were.”
“Oh, please . . .”
“And my friend got it into his head that if he were one-legged, then he too would be more loved.”
“So, what happened?”
“Well, to make a long story short, if it isn’t already too late for that, when the two-legged boy grew up, he tried to have one of his legs removed.”
“He asked a doctor. In fact, he asked many doctors to amputate a leg.”
“Which one did he want amputated?”
“Is that somehow crucial to the story for you?”
“Well, we pride ourselves on being thorough at the Pageant, but if it isn’t . . .”
“Okay. What happened next?”
“No doctor would oblige him. He offered them lots of money but still, no doctor would cut off a perfectly healthy leg.”
“He should have come to Thailand. Here, for the right amount of money, they’d have cut off his leg, turned his penis into a vagina, and given him a great set of tits if he’d wanted.”
“Well apparently that never occurred to him. Instead, he went to an underground—a subway—station, waited for a train, put his leg on the rail, and that did the job. And no, I don’t recall which station it was in case you were wondering.”
“Oh, that’s alright. I was wondering, however, why he didn’t bleed to death.”
“The train stopped and took him to hospital.”
“Well that was lucky. Any regrets?”
“None. Says he’s perfectly happy now.”
“Very much so.”
“A tragedy with a happy ending you might say.”
“Indeed. And I did say that . . . it’s in my book.”
SPORTS NEWS: WHERE THE BUFFALO ROAM
Sunday is buffalo fighting day here on Samui, and a good thing, too. It is virtually the only point of reference for Westerners on holiday to determine what day it is. Otherwise, all days seem like Sunday.
The event also serves the purpose of providing the Thais a large-scale opportunity for gambling. Generally, Thais prefer gambling on sporting events rather than actually participating in them. As a result, there are a variety of these events that do not involve human contestants . . . a very egalitarian policy. Buffalo fighting, fish fighting, and cock fighting are the top three. All of them are, officially, prohibited—as is gambling, of course. Then again, so are many of the pleasures that make Thailand such a wonderful place to live.
Of all the sports involving our dear animal kingdom creatures, buffalo fighting is the least violent. Unlike the Spanish version, for instance, these large bovine specimens are not killed. They are simply humiliated or exasperated to the point where one of them runs away. Yesterday’s contest was no exception.
The buffaloes entered a fenced-in circle on a dirt patch of ground surrounded by a couple hundred hootin’ and hollerin’ locals waving fistfuls of red and purple baht notes.
Now, unless you spent a good deal of time during your formative years socializing with these animals, they all look pretty much alike. They’re sort of what . . . grayish, you might say . . . often caked with mud, not especially brimming over with joie de vivre . . . they have large black nostrils—usually glistening with some bodily ooze or another—and they weigh about two thousand pounds on an average day.
It has always been my impression that these large, dull-looking creatures prefer to be left alone—and that it’s probably advisable to do so. And, left alone, your typical buffalo will spend his leisure time wallowing in a big puddle of mud, chewing cud. It might be stretching the point to suggest that they are happy thus employed, because I’ve never seen a happy buffalo—but they do seem, at least, content.
Buffaloes certainly do not enjoy sport, or being made sport of, as is more likely the case.
Our pair yesterday walked around the ring for a while . . . sniffing and snorting. Maybe they were looking for some grass to graze on, but of course there wasn’t any. Everybody was yelling at them, which, I know from experience, tends to get annoying very quickly. Finally, they charged each other and butted heads a few times. Then one of them just quit and walked away mumbling to himself, “Enough of this crazy bullshit.”
He’s the smart one.
Unfortunately, if you bet on him, you lost.
The only real skill involved in betting on buffaloes is being able to determine which of the two contestants is dumber looking than the other one. Not easy . . . but always bet on the dumbest one.
And remember, the nice thing about betting is that it’s illegal—so even if you lose, you’ve still had the thrill of breaking the law and getting away with it.
WEATHER: SNOW JOB
A rather strange atmospheric aberration of some sort occurred during the wee hours of this morning. As a result, local residents woke up to find that three feet of snow had completely blanketed the ceaselessly glorious sandy shores of our beloved Maenam Bay.
Although everyone was in a state of shock, to say the least, most people responded to the crisis with admirable aplomb. Anybody who had a job, took the day off, and those of us who don't have jobs stayed in bed till noon—by which time the snow had melted.
You may have noticed that this meteorological curiosity was not reported in any of the major newspapers, and there's a very simple explanation for that. They have no imagination.