No matter how well you think you got it wired, life in the kingdom continues to amaze. Like a pitching machine with a loose bolt, you always gotta be ready for the curve ball if you want to avoid being beaned!
I had an invite to go up to my least favorite village upcountry to meet up with a dolly that was supposedly dying to meet me.
My batting average was dismal in this place and after the “Trip from Hell” I had determined to give it up and drop it from the itinerary.
But then I get a phone call and, not unlike one of Pavlov’s poxie poochies, the mention of a newly pokable patch of pubes portends a pulsing pubic protuberance and a simultaneous loss of blood supply to the primary cranial compartment…..
Without further thought I’m making a booking on a boogie wagon pointed in a North-Easterly direction.
While the train still remains my sentimental favorite transport, I continue to be pleasantly surprised by the strides NCA is making with the bus system.
I boarded my latest chariot and was yet again startled to find a further upgrade. This thing had been newly fitted with seat units worthy of and resembling a business class aircraft cabin.
Modular units incorporating reclining seats – the scooter type that don’t lean back, but instead slide down and sorta under the one in front of it. No massage regrettably, but lo and behold a personal entertainment screen in the seat back ahead!!
Pretty amazing for a bus really. Touch screen lets me tune in on a tutorial, movies, even a game console - although these days fuck if I can figure those things out anyways.
A refugee from the fifties, pinball arcades were the distraction of choice during my formative years.
Pong was as far as I got into the electro-video revolution before retro-ing back to books.
They even offered an option to show the driver’s view via CCTV – an option which was to prove an issue later on.
This isn’t a new concept, they used to do it on aircraft during take-off and landing.
That sort of died out after it was revealed that this system was in use during the disastrous DC-10 engine loss at Chicago’s O’hare airport that resulted in a couple a minute airborne roller coaster ride which ended in a nosedive impact fatal to all aboard.
A little too up close and personal for most to conceive of…watching your own demise unfold via the wonder of modern electronics…ugh…wonder if there was audio of the shrill “AW-FUCKS!!” coming from the cockpit…!!??
I settle in and after I get everything adjusted I was as snug as if wrapped in a black velvet Day-Glo Elvis painting....(and just how snug would that be?)
I explore the movie option and am speechless to find several titles in ENGLISH with Thai subtitles!!
A couple of inane comedies, a nap and box lunch later we were nearing my drop off point.
Previously I had a diagram showing my destination drop – just a simple intersection with the route numbers penciled in including the symbol for a traffic signal which got me to the correct spot every time.
In the interim I had upgraded to a road atlas and had circled the said intersection. The Stewie studied it for a couple of moments and repeated the name of a near by burg leading me to assume she had it dialed in.
Did I mention the stewie was as knock down drag out stunning as you’ll ever see inna bus!!??
I’m talkin’ a high cheek boned, and light skinned stunner with a most likely real nose!!
Doe eyes with that slight upturn on the outside resulting in a look that most girls try to create with a pencil and a mouth full of aligned ivories that made a smile effortless and a frown a real issue.
I could just see that upper lip stretched over the pearly whites to make a seal on the pink piccolo and those peepers peeping over my belly looking positively FELINE (In a Siamese way of course)!!!!
A pouty lower lip which just begged for a string of saliva between her and the little guy and a wide-ish jaw leading to a prominent chin promising a perfect platform to rest the twins on almost completed the picture….
But, as the late night TV ads go, “DON’T ORDER YET - THERE’S MORE!!!.
That’s right ladies and gentlemen - below the chin was worth a grin as well!!
Breasts that precluded a full button-up of the tailored jacket and a butt that blended with her thighs in a way that brought the term “Haunches” to mind…..and begged the phrase “Mount Here”… completed the portrait…..
The time is about right for my destination to be approaching and sure enough the Stewie comes to give me my farewell drink, snack and wet-nap signaling my imminent early dump-off.
I switch to the forward spy cam channel and realize the resolution is too low to read road signs or see far enough ahead to figure out things within reaction time.
Suddenly my cocoon starts to seem more like a prison!
I try to look out the side window and realize there AIN’T one. It’s a divider support with wall of curtains attached to each side precluding even a peek outside!! (Not to mention my being on the wrong side of the bus anyways!!)
I try to throttle down a panic attack as I see familiar landmarks coming up and suddenly we’re slowing down and I see a familiar intersection and traffic light!
As I try to extricate myself from my poxy pod I flash back on a discovery channel moment and understand why Willy the Worm (Caterpillar?) hangs upside down whilst weaving the cocoon around his fat ass – cuz when he needs to exit ain’t nothing better than gravity to get his big butt outta there!!
Being right side up and on the wrong side of the stick – so to speak – I’m struggling to squirm my way upright and outta my little slot of heaven.
Trust me, at my weight and girth the words struggle and squirm in the same sentence just cannot evoke a positive image – the term “not a pretty picture” comes to my mind…or in the Yorkshire accent of “Cranky Pete” it would come out as “FOOKIN’ REVOLTIN’!!”
I finally extricate myself with a move that could best be described as a pirouette at a 45 degree angle. This results in something somewhere between a top toppling and the struggles of a freshly landed tuna, but gets me to the aisle and on my feet - facing the wrong direction and outta balance – both to the detriment of the girl seated next to me who is presently standing in the aisle to let me out.
We untangle limbs and I grabbed my gear to head for the front of the bus and a quick exit.
The pleasure pods are in fact a bit wide for the bus resulting in an extremely narrow aisle which dictates sideways transit and if you haven’t noticed my profile lately, it has been expanding at about the same rate as the U S deficit!
I do a slalom slide crab step up the aisle and barge thru the door to the drivers compartment (whacking the stewie in the back of the head) and blunder down the steps gesticulating in a somewhat urgent manner my intention of bailing out just as the driver starts the bus rolling thru the intersection.
The stewie and driver assure me that my alarm is unjustified as the drop off point is down the road - while I hang from an overhead handle and try to see what is quickly receding behind us!
The Stewie has me sit down on the steps next to and slightly below her “jump seat”. She placates me by asking the obligatory Isan female to male / break the ice type questions.
Why do you come here?
To see a friend.
Lady or man.
Girlfriend? (Accompanied with a tapping two forefingers together – I assume to include bonking in the equation)
No – an employee that is home having a kid…..
And so on.
About a half hour of unfamiliar territory later (This was made a bit less alarming by the fact the entire landscape was one big pond due to flooding and the stewie questioning me about my matrimonial status. She mostly maintained a forward focus, so Willy and I could dwell on that great profile…lower lip.. “Saliva string”… the little guy is thinking…and when he starts thinking there ain’t much blood left for the big head….I ain’t close to passing out, but facilities are definitely diminished…) and after fording a couple of washed out areas of road, the driver stops at an intersection and the Stewie invites me to jump out.
It is pretty obvious that it’s a fuck up. We are in the boonies and there isn’t a soul in sight, let alone a petrol station or anything else for that matter!!
I protest and the driver proceeds another half kilometer to a police Kiosk, which is also totally empty.
The bus stops and the stewie reassures me while sortta pushing me out the door ahead of her.
A geezer motors up on a bike to use the facilities and I dial up the dolly at the destination to straighten things out and convince the guy to transport my ass.
While this is going on the stewie has unloaded my bag and is giving me a farewell “I’m sure you’ll work out something” look as she re-boards and the bus powers off.
The Geezer wants to bail, but the promise of enough money for a night’s hooch and a short time room to share with his Mia-noi changes his mind.
I am thinking the chick has told him to take me back to the drop off point, but instead he peels off the main drag and heads to the hinterland and I guess to the village.
Evidently, the guy had an appointment as he is making excuses on the phone with one hand while driving way too fast on narrow roads that are fulla blind corners, livestock, cur dogs and buffalo turds.
At every bridge we stop to ask about the road ahead and as a result have to make enough u-turns and detours that the guy is soon lost and stopping to ask directions.
A good hour later we roll into a burg and get the bad news that our destination is still a good thirty kilometers away!
That’s the best of it as my guy gives me back half my money and takes a U-turn for home - no doubt mentally repeating a mantra something like “I will NEVER help a farang.. I WILL NEVER help a farang..”
At this point I’ve been handed off to a Big alpha- assed buxom and bellicose Beulla who barks directions to the bystanders and gets me a bike with a sort of sidecar cargo bed designed to carry parcels, passengers or livestock. (In my case two outta three if you discount the dog that jumped on as we pulled out!!)
I got to throw my bag in the cart, but the driver in a prudent moment suggested I park my big ass on the seat to stay within load limits of the chariot’s chassis and balance the bulk.
So, next thing I know we’re putting along at about two steps short of a brisk pace. Guy pulls over and points to a single septuagenarian geezer in a faded orange cycle jockey vest.
My destination is explained and a price agreed upon. I mount up and off we go!!
Well, sort of. This guy is the exact opposite to my previous pilot. He sets the speedometer at a steady 30 kilometers per career and started a mosey marathon towards my destination.
Whereas my first ride was like being on a runaway Shetland pony, this was like being on a bucolic burro!!
The sky was threatening and dusk approaching as we snail trailed our way along. My ass is hurting and my cock numb from sitting way too long on my pillion perch.
I contemplate jumping off my mundane mount and walking for a while to restore circulation, but realize stopping down the road to let the bike catch up would have been a face issue for both parties, so I suffered it out..
I realize that we are in the middle of a flood plain and waters are rising in every direction. Every bridge has a group of locals clustered around comparing water levels with known memory and waiting for the inevitable washout.
Outside the torrent zone was the flood plain. Here crowds formed as well, but instead of impending doom there was a festive mood as locals are utilizing make shift platforms to support fishing activities above the (presently submerged) next seasons rice crop.
As I watch a couple of kids paddle their way across an expanse of overflow – one using an ingenious set of water wings fashioned from a couple of empty five liter plastic jugs tied together and strung under his armpits – I can’t help being reminded of my kid-hood in the American Midwest.
When the torrents came we too would gather to see just how high the waters would rise and if the bridge would be taken out. In the meantime we would watch as uprooted trees, abandoned fridges and the occasional bloated carcass of a large herbivore raced towards us and crashed into the supports, dislodging minor detritus previously accumulated.
Hey, what can I say? – It was the sticks…..
Meanwhile, at dusk my big brother, myself and friends would be arming ourselves with head mounted carbide lanterns and gigs. A gig is essentially a three pronged fork with barbs. Like the lanterns, they sold for fuck all at the local sporting shop.
Fashion a pole outta a tree branch or mop handle, anchor the bastard frog fork with a whack on a second hand nail and it’s “Move over Captain Nemo” – we were in Biz!!
We stoked our carbide lanterns, lit up and set out like a row of roving lighthouses swiveling our noggins and projecting light beams – in my case, less to see what was illuminated and more to notify any imagined nocturnal predator, snake or wilderness boogieman that we “HAD THE LIGHT” – which of course rendered every fear impotent.
After the triumphant parade down the hillside and into the bottoms, as they were called (and I’m here to tell you that in the Central Baptist Republic that term had absolutely nothing to do with rounded mounds and posteriors…) , everything changed. Now we had to descend into the swampy sludge.
The boisterous beams suddenly become meaningless as they reflected off the brown brew awaiting our bare feet (flip-flops didn’t exist and when they appeared I remember them being called thongs and no one I knew was wealthy enough to have a sacrificial set of sneakers!!).
Now these are fields previously well traversed by my feet and those of my friends, but presently under a couple of feet of water a new frontier presented itself. Every step was an adventure that made Alien look like a Disney thing. For me, all predatory instincts fade as life turns into a focused attempt to survive the unknown.
The previously all powerful beams now narrowed to a half meter circle of meandering murk.
Feet, long hardened to stones, twigs, gravel and god knows what else, suddenly transform into sensory organs capable of analyzing each cc of mud and sludge streaming in between toes and transmit a perpetually portentous perspective of what horrors would be met with when the sinking stopped..
Of course, we all pretended to have great adventure – and maybe the others did – but I can tell you I was a nervous wreck and distracted myself from the impending doom represented by each stealthy mud slurping step by praying to “THE POWERS THAT BE” to please sent a sacrificial sac of squirming something in front of somebody so we could kill the damn thing and exit triumphant (read soonley) from this quagmire!!
I should like to point out that at this juncture in life I had attended enough Southern Baptist “COME TO JEZUS” meetings to know better than to fuck with god.
Trust me, if half the sermons I sat thru had any basis at all, that guy’ll kick your ass you even THINK of fuckin around!!
As a way around it, I had produced a more reasonable spiritual body based on my readings and listenings called “The powers that be”.
Omnipotent to be sure, from all I imagined, but without soul sucking (damnation and all, that) capabilities..
The trudge wasn’t totally without results. There were irregular ripples produced in the shallows surrounding us – all, I was relieved to observe, heading away from our position…
So, finally the end came. Not with a declaration of defeat - by any means. Instead there was an exclamation and the leader of the pack (with a wild hoot) launched his spear towards an ill-defined spot to the right and pulled it out (with a “Dang, MISSED!!”) to reveal an empty fork of fortune.
Suddenly there ensued a fusillade of foiled and futile attempts at spearing a nonexistent prey accompanied by excited cheers immediately followed by the inevitable resultant cries of disappointment at the lack of results.
This lasted a few minutes and after a silent but complete consensus was achieved we decided that the hunting grounds were not up to our standards and headed out for home.
Somehow the previously threatening and mysterious shallows took the form of familiar frontiers conquered as we trudged with abandon towards the road and started the march homewards.
I can’t remember any great catch (and I would have) but I do remember the siltey mud drying and flaking off my feet as we hiked home triumphantly.
(If not for game acquired, at very least on my part for fears overcome.)
At least that’s my story!!
So why plant crops in bottom land anyways? It’s a gamble to be sure. Not that it will flood, cuz it will – but when. Will the corn be tall enough to survive?
The answer is cuz the combination of other people’s terrain, rotting tadpoles and other effluvia deposits an incredibly fertile environment that rewards the strong at heart…
And why go gigging at night?
As I think back. I’m sure it was the lanterns. They were just too cool a concept and exploring dark areas of the backyard was a way boring application of something as miraculous as a head mounted contraption that with a few pellets and some added water created light – NO FUCKING BATTERIES REQUIRED!!
Where was I?.....
Oh yeah, unlike us, these locals were for the most part practical as they used throw nets to attempt the capture of possible riparian refugees of the piscine predilection.
Dusk was at hand as we reached familiar surroundings and about five minutes before touchdown the skies opened up with what back home we would call a heavy drizzle, but on the back of the bike felt like driving sleet.
We pulled into the resort and I paid off the mosey man, woke up the proprietor and found a bungalow.
There was no hot water so a warming shower was out of the question. Instead I made due with a strip down and a brisk towel rub to get warmed up.
Called the locals and in a half an hour a motorcycle shows up with the local mistress of ceremonies and thinking things are looking up!
So in she walks with herself and an older thin Lizzie. I ask about the original destination Desiree and am told in so many words she has “taken a powder!”.
We chit chat reviewing who’s working where and the health of others – Mongo’s on the mend – and where are the dollies I desire – and so on.
Polite preliminaries dispensed with, I ask who is gonna take care of Willy ( Who by the way is just getting feeling back in his legs) and am told the “Long Tall Sally”.
While not disgusting, she looks as long in the tooth as she does in the legs…looks can be deceiving, so I ask her age and I’m told 19….Kids?....No.
Ok, I’ll give it a try…and off goes the destination directress.…
Now we’re alone I ask LTS how old she is and she says TWENTY-nine. Hmmmmm. She’s slim and has a face that was surely a heartbreaker a decade ago.
Angular, with a defined brow, naturally attractive (and possibly unaltered) nose, nice lips and a 12 year old kid…………ARRRGH!!
Have no doubt of the fact I am hard wired when it comes to the will to exchange body fluids. It could be asserted that I am mentally in a perpetual priapistic state.
That being said, after multiple matrimonial disasters I have my standards and parameters which are always paramount in my perspective..
First off, this one wants to cuddle – UGH - read waste of time. (Trust me at twenty nine you ain’t got time to dawdle and at double that I certainly don’t!!!!)
Next thing we know she’s telling me about the beer garden she works with her mom and how things are ducky her side of the world – and the last nail in the coffin - No current boyfriend! Fuck sakes!! Recipe for disaster if I ever heard of one!!
Ok, how do I handle this….? Chick’s attractive but and pleasant, but intentions aside I don’t want to think about what evil pumas lie in the deep crevasses ‘tween her limbs……… further more, after siring a couple of mini-mee’s I have no aspiration to behold the tummy topographies I just know await!!
One more beer and I mentally rove to the “Boom-Boom” archives for a resolution…..a Spock style mind meld between the little and big heads……
The BACK SEAT BOOGALOO!! (or BLIND MAN’S STUFF)
Def: A mostly nocturnal copulatory practice (technique) engaged in by primarily unmarried individuals in the rear seat of stationary vehicles parked in (relatively) unpopulated areas.
Now, this dolly ain’t talkin’ prices, so to avoid sticker shock or- even worse – a “no charge cuz you’re now my boyfriend” scenario, I decide this has to be a minimalist exercise.
First of all, CUT THE LIGHTS!!! (She retains her dignity and I retain my lunch!!)
Next, the blouse open/bra pull down. (No matter what state the mams are in, the upper half is always the best bet.)
A nipple nibble followed by a full mouth matriculation and simultaneous thru the jeans mound massage has a leg over and small noise emissions happening.
A minimum of guidance has a well manicured hand releasing Willy who stands up admirably to his role!!
A subsequent nudge to the noggin has the Nelly (after a short series of disclaimers) doing a fair version of the tonsil tango with the little guy.
In due time I retrieve Cinderella’s cerebellum and responding to my fumbles, she unbuttons her trousers (This technique is iffy with a zipper!).
I match positions and Willy smells success! With the bottom of her fly scratching his belly, he seeks the (by this time) sloppy slot!
As per my predictions she sports a nappy root rug but the bad boy dives into the dense undergrowth with the intuitive skills of a blind truffle hunting Irish setter and without err noses his way to the slippery slit…
In this classic position several goals are attained simultaneously. Willy gets his head wet, momma gets her wooggie “Willied”, there is maximum interaction with the “little man in the boat” and we still have our clothes on!!
The Shiela shudders - indicating she’s done - I get Willy outta there well before he spews and finish the furlong so to speak in her navel to avoid any question where the little sqwigglies ended their short journey.
Last thing I want is a call a month or so down the road with scary stories of successful insemination…!!!
Obligation taken care of I rinse down the little guy, zip up and order some cold beer and grub!!
In order to avoid further intimacies I read until she gives in and tell her to sleep in the second bed….
Morning comes and I run a wet comb thru my hair to get it to lay down and take a whore’s bath with a face cloth I brought along with a mind on avoiding the dip and shiver shower that comes with the room!!
Nelly does about the same and offers to take me to the bus stop on her bike.
It’s still overcast, but brighter as the morning sun tries to break thru. We take a circuitous route to avoid flooding and end up not at my bus stop, but instead down the road at the dollies village where we stop for some morning grub – Laab, som tam and BBQ chicken.
I give NELLY a large bill and tell her to keep the change, in my mind taking care of any monetary obligations and equalizing any kind of merit imbalance between us with a minimum of implication/obligation..she seems to accept.
By the time we get to the family lean-to the sun is out, it’s getting hot and I find myself competing with the family cur for the good bits. A few nibbles later I excuse myself and request a ride to the bus station where I bid a fond adieu and get a local rattle trap to Buri Ram – 60 baht.
A half hour down the road I get a call from the young bird, who was absentee the night before, asking me where I was. I explained I was exiting stage left and she was abashed and clueless.
I tell her and I ask why she didn’t come the night before.
Because the older sister didn’t call her…..
Now, I’m starting to understand.
A week or so back I had been told that there was a girl that wanted to meet a farang… when that didn’t blow my skirt up the ante was upped with the younger bird…
As had happened before, the designated do-ee didn’t show and an alternate appeared….
Fate? Accident? Miss queue?
MY DYING ASS - BAIT AND SWITCH….plain and simple!!!
I roll into the Big BR and hit the hotel for a nice warm shower and then down to the local Pizza joint for lunch.
While I await my vittles I call for “room service” (servicing in the room) and by the time I can wolf down a pie, a beer and a “Vitimin V” and get back to the room “Miss Phone” is calling back for the room number.
I get back to the room and a couple of minutes later the “Tele-Temptress” is riding the pink pony and chatting away (with someone else) as I relax and wish I had a book to while away the time…..without angst…just a thought..
I really don’t want to deride the experience, FON is a wonderful exercise and in some ways a fantasy realized. The quintessential “Zip-less Fuck”. The perfect accompaniment to a dose of Viagra.
She can have a chat on the phone - you can watch a ball game, read a book, do your taxes or even take a piss and then when the magic moment arrives, you roll her over and pump iron until ya deal the gooey spew….
Phone puts the telephonic mouth spew on hold as she rinses my spew from her inner sanctoms.. (“Bye hong-nam” – “Wait, Go toilet”).
A long nap later I’m doing a wake up shower when the phone starts chirping. Shower completed, hair dried and balls powdered I check “missed calls”.
A ring back secures an appointment for another raunchy ride precluding redressing so I crawl under the covers and fall asleep. A few fantasy flights later I am aroused by a rap at the portal.
I let in the second shift and relax into what I call a cuddle fuck. A sort of sidewise position that allows me control of penetration and her control of the cadence….in the seventies we would have said I controlled the meat and she the motion….
It was so comfortable that we woke up an hour or so later with hungers a bit above the original level.
I called what pretended to be room service and ordered what it tuned out to be pretending to be food.
A quick glom later I sent the second shift home and on a pleasant note passed out…
As fate has it, it wouldn’t be an evening without BUZZ BABY “knock knock knocking” a heavens gate.
I was blurry, but as the old saying goes… WHAT THE FUCK – (OVER)!!
The buzz babe is anxious, so we cut the deal (standard fare) and she disrobes. Sweet, small and nasty sums up the situation.
I’m way past somnolence at this point and the Vitamin V hangover seems to be taking up the slack as we tumble into the sack.
I look down at the shrubbery and complain and while shrugging the issue she asks if I had brought the little Suzy Sizzler. I had to admit that not only did I not have it, but it was lost!!
She gave me a “Ok, I’ll fuck you anyway - THIS TIME GODDAMMIT!!” look and we proceeded into a way too energetic and inventive romp for my taste and or physical wellbeing…which had her interrupting the “back buck” transition to assume a two hands on the backboard brace position…
I of course accommodated the aspirations and on the way understood why the hotel positioned the headboard a foot or so from the wall……WHEW!!!
I’m on my back trying to restore rhythmic heartbeat and breathing as she hops into her shorts and implies /(demands) a tip inversely based on my inability to provide a buzzing bomb for her to wizzle her wooggie with.
Seems she had checked out for the night with the anticipation of a vibrational avocation for the little guy in the boat…and if I recall correctly it was a pretty pink piston indeed!!
I’m in no mood or condition to argue and gladly pass on a couple of red bills to cover any mecho/electronic shortcomings….
Final rinse later I collapse and can’t help going to sleep with thoughts of the bus stewie and how maybe I shouldda stayed on the bus and stalked her in Ubon……….oh well…tomorrows issue…..
Woke up with a start, sore back and empty Goo-nads that have gone from Son-Makers to Sunmaids (as in raisins).
Hey, I ain’t complaining!
I shave, shower and head for the bus station.
I board my chariot and see it’s last years model – not sure if it is luck of the draw or the fact it is a shorter haul by three hours….
Anyways I insert the ear buds, cue the blues, recline and zone out.
As I stare ahead my focus wonders to the TV which is playing the obligatory pre-flight music videos.
Used as filler on cable TV and on bus rides this media seems to take three visual (I mute the shite) cookie cutter formats.
First is a funk band with black and white flashes of the musi-actors strobing out to whatever they’re screaming.
Heavy metal lightweights that most likely if you ever heard them out of the studio couldn’t play a riff let alone carry a tune.
The second is a batch of pretties in garish outfits bouncing around in 2 to five second segments lip syncing to a bad translation of a western pop girl group. Uncoordinated spice girls a couple of decades too fucking late..
Occasionally, they insert effeminate boys – who are much more synchronized and less goofy – maybe even taking their 15 minutes of fame halfway seriously… between giving each other BJ’s..
Finally, there is the one Thai original. (Let’s just say non-western – was probably ripped off from another Asian locale.)
I call it the novella. (Portuguese for Soap Opera)
With minor variations the script goes like this.
Boy/girl has/wants boy/girl. Boy/girl rightly/wrongly perceives third boy/girl wants/is getting some of his/her boy/girl.
Conflict ensues between two of the above resulting in another of the above taking umbrage at being unfairly treated and exiting stage left.
Exit-ee reaches street and is distracted by one of the above who we will designate the “Som-nom-nah-ee” and is smashed to a bloody pulp by an oncoming vehicle.
The story then ends with a poignant scene of the som-nom-nah-er bleeding profusely (for some reason more often than not in the rain) holding a photo/flower/remembrance or being held by the som-nom-anh-ee.
Fade out to credits…
Fuckin’ weird you ask me!!
But then that’s just the way it is….GODDAMMITT!!!
See ya soonley and Cheerz,
Cactus John, the Girls and (…Pat)