copyright by Morgan McFinn
The Daily Pageant
oday, our Viewpoint Section, is delighted to present a special interview with a spokeswoman from an eminent group of visitors to our beloved bay.
SEX TOUR HITS THE BEACH
Ten middle-aged American women checked into Rose Bungalows along the forever glorious sandy shores of Maenam Bay this past Wednesday. That would have been two or three days ago depending upon when you’re reading this report—assuming somebody is reading this report.
It was rumored that the ladies were here on a sex tour, so naturally we dispatched a reporter (who, needless to say, did not need a lot of dispatching) to the scene.
Upon arrival, our reporter discovered that the women were from California—and he promptly returned to the office.
Our reporter is a Chicago boy.
“Where I come from,” he said, “we don’t consider California to be part of the United States. There’s got to be something fishy about ten Californian women here on an alleged sex tour, for sure.”
And we said, “We don’t care where they come from. If you want a paycheck get back to your assignment.”
Which he did . . . somehow failing to say anything about the fact that, as a matter of policy, The Daily Pageant never dispenses paychecks. We save money that way.
Back on the scene, his suspicions were confirmed.
“We’re here for two weeks of free sex . . . that is, two weeks free of sex,” the spokeswoman said. “In California, all the men think about is sex. We’re sick of it. We came here, a Buddhist country, a quiet, meditative nation of gentle, non-aggressive humankind, to be left alone.”
“That’s true . . . Thai men have no interest in sex. How could I have forgotten that?”
“Don’t be sarcastic with me, young man. Of course Thai men are prone to sexual instincts, but being Buddhists, they control their desires. They’re gentle and caring . . . not pushy like the American beast.”
“Where did you learn this?” our reporter pursued, but the spokeswoman dismissed the inquiry with a brush of her hand.
“Okay. So no sex. This is a ‘no sex tour.’”
“Exactly. Two weeks, no sex. As you may have noticed, one of the women on our tour is an Indian.”
“No, not a squaw, you imbecile! They’re called Native Americans now. How long have you been here?
“Not long enough, I’m sure.”
“Well, don’t hurry back.”
“So, you’ve got a Native American woman on this tour.”
“No, we have an Indian woman . . . an Indian . . . from India.”
“A dot head?”
“What planet are you from, anyway?”
“Ah . . . well, I’ve never been to the East Coast, but . . . oh never mind. The point is that this poor woman . . . well, you should talk to her yourself . . . Rani, please come over here and speak with this . . . this . . .”
“Reporter from The Daily Pageant.”
“This heathen . . .”
“Oh no . . . not my husband.”
“No, no darling, he’s not your husband . . . see? Just talk to him about your experience.”
“Well yes, you see I marry man . . . my parents arrange everything . . . man from Bangalore…. My poor papa have to give this man two TVs, three gold chains, and five cows just to marry me. He ravish me four times a day for six months. Then one night he comes home drunk, complaining supper rice is too lumpy, and pours kerosene all over me . . . tries to make me human torch. Lucky for me he was so drunk he set himself on fire.”
“Do you believe it. The only case on record of an Indian husband dying in a kitchen fire.”
“Well, that is tragic. On behalf of The Daily Pageant I would like to offer our profound sympathy.”
“Okay, so no sex, if you don’t mind. Please print that in your paper. We just want to be left alone.”
“Fully understood. Welcome to Maenam Bay, please enjoy yourselves.”
Four times a day for six months and the guy complains about too many lumps in the rice. It’s a cruel world out there, folks!
SPORTS NEWS: FIGHT NIGHT
Last night on Lamai beach (or, was it two nights ago on Chaweng beach?) was the occasion for an exhibition of Thailand’s national sport. Thai boxing—officially referred to as muay Thai—is considered by many to be the most vicious of all the martial arts. Unlike Western boxers, muay Thai fighters strike with their feet, elbows, and knees, as well as their fists.
These guys are tough . . . I mean, even before the fight begins, a tennis racket is smashed over their heads, which they then wear into the ring.
The fight went something like this…. Well, okay, there were nine fights on the program but they all went something like this….
The two fighters, one in blue shorts and the other in red shorts, prance around the ring for a few minutes like a couple of tom turkeys strutting their stuff for the local hen population. This ritual is accompanied by a god-awful din of noise emanating from an assortment of kitchen utensils moonlighting as musical instruments. The pandemonium would provoke even the most mild tempered fellow to become fighting mad.
The fighters bow to the crowd and remove the tennis equipment from their heads. A gong sounds and the fight begins.
The fighters move to the center of the ring…. Blue kicks red in the stomach, red punches blue in the face, blue places his knee into red’s ribcage, and red retaliates by introducing his elbow to blue’s left kidney (we all have two kidneys, right?)
The crowd roars and a gong sound ends the round.
Red and blue go to their respective corners and sit on stools that have been placed in portable troughs. Then, to further demonstrate just how tough these guys are, their own support team pours a bucket of water on their heads, pummels their backs, and slaps them in the face a few times….
This is how these guys relax in between rounds…. I mean, really.
The gong sounds to start the next round.… Blue strikes red in the nose with his fist, red sweep-kicks blue’s feet out from under him, and blue crashes to the canvas.
The crowd roars.
Blue gets up quickly with a smirk on his face, grabs red in a bear hug, and throws him to the mat. Red also bounces up quickly, sporting his own version of a smirk, and smashes his forearm into blue’s right eye. (I know we’ve all got two of those things.) Blue’s blood pours from a gash above the eye staining his blue shorts red. As red goes in for the kill, blue steps aside and airmails a beautifully executed roundhouse kick direct to red’s solar plexus. Red turns blue and arranges himself into a horizontal position upon the mat, writhing in discomfort—to say the least.
The crowd roars.
WEATHER: A PERFECT DAY
Today, the weather was simply too perfect to describe. It was a beautiful day in every way.
These days happen around here…. Don’t know how, don’t know why. They just do. Maybe that’s a reason people come here, or—if they’re already here—why they stay.
Well, I ain’t going anywhere—certainly not on a day like today. Wish I could rewind it and play it over and over . . . and over . . . and out.