Tales From the Banks of the Tonle Sap, Part III of III: Piss and Vinegar

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A Way To Not Be Killed By A Nuclear Warhead At Close Range

To execute this fantastic feat, you will need to collect a few materials:

1. A nuclear warhead (real)
2. 2 meters of string that you will tie to the manual trigger of the warhead.
3. A hot air balloon, fully fueled.
4. A wet suit and flippers
5. Neosporin

Bring all of your materials to the banks of a body of water in a sparsely populated area of a communist Asian country with cold weather. I like China.

Coat the entire back of your body (head, back, legs, arms) with a 5 to 10mm layer of Neosporin. Put on the flippers and wet suit without disturbing the Neosporin coating. Attach the string to the trigger of the nuclear warhead carefully. Inflate the hot air balloon and put the warhead in the basket. Get in the basket with the warhead.

Navigate the balloon to an area above the body of water with a depth of at least 10 meters. Position yourself standing on the edge of the basket, trigger string in hand, with your back to the warhead.

Leap head-first in a diving position off of the side of the hot air balloon basket and into the water, letting the string detonate the warhead behind you. The explosion should leave slight radioactive burns on your back as you near the water, which will cease to do any more damage upon submergence. Swim underwater using the flippers for enhanced speed no less than 50 meters from ground zero of the explosion so as to avoid additional radioactive effects, and come up for air.

If this didn't work, I would not be writing this. For I accomplished this TWICE! Twice in one week no less. After my second successful attempt at this feat, I entered my '83 Chevy station wagon and returned to my oversized 19th century Victorian mansion. My roommate, a Japanese man in his 30's who doesn't speak English, was waiting for me when I arrived with a concerned look on his face. When he realized my burns were not life-threatening, he went back to his electric keyboard and continued to compose his electro-Yanni masterpiece.

I walked into my bedroom in a funny sort of stride that minimized pain from my back burns - the type of stride one might use had one had a potato chip inside one's ass and was trying not to break it. It worked for me. I used a pair of long steel scissors to remove the tattered remains of my backless wet suit, took a quick rinse-off shower, and put some powder on my back and in my crevices. I spent the rest of the day in a bathrobe sitting cross-legged on the arm of a couch listening to my roommate's music in the dark (the inside of the mansion was always dark).

Psychiatrists, please analyze this dream that I had two nights ago. I'm scared.

Douchebag1 Loves Me

Go to the blog Hot Chicks with Douchebags.

Hilarious. Witty. Sharp. Original. Absurd!

Kind of reminds me of The Bangkok Gentlejerk Hideaway. If you go beyond the author's pen name, Douchebag1, you'll have trouble avoiding WILD similarities between his site and mine. By the way, my pen name is Gentlejerk 1. Maybe his came first. Doubt it.

I bet that scrote, douche, choad, taint, turd, and the prefix uber- have become vastly more significant search engine keywords than before, since the launch of HCwDB. I'll start burying doucherifically scrotal code to amp up my hitrate.

Douchebag1's use of commentary-worthy pictures with commentary is brilliant and flows from the muse. Not to fingerblast my own bunghole, but mine's not all that bad either.

The exposure of turds, be they Dr. Robert Vrijenhoek of the DSV Alvin, the Burmese Junta library bag check clerk or the decision-making SWD owner mongoloid, has driven me to write. Said inspiration is the lifeblood of Douchebag1.

If you explore his site, you'll notice that Douchebag1 writes haikus. I write haikus.

Can you think of any other similarities? Comment to me.

All things aside, he updates his site just about daily, has readers throwing content at him and probably has a million times more hits than my site every week. That's it! I'm adding him to my links.

Haikus From Home, Part V: Phatty Kind Veggie Avacado Hummus Wraps With Heady Salsa...Ummm

Phatty, kind veggie

Avacado hummus wraps

With heady salsa

*Wow. That was easy. Actually, I'm not the biggest fan of Phatty, kind veggie avacado hummus wraps with heady salsa, but as a former Phishead, the culinary delight deserved a shoutout. Let me counter with a genuine desire of mine, the almighty TK's Pizza of Fairport, NY. Guaranteed to be slammed within 24 hours of being stateside.

Haikus From Home, Part V.v: TK's Pizza (Pepperoni)

Pepperoni - YEAH!

Craps all over hummus wraps

Dip the crust in Ranch

Burp.

Haikus From Home, Part IV: Sierra Nevada Pale Ales

Phatty, heady, dank,

The Sierra Nevada

Pale Ale is damn good

Haikus From Home, Part III: Wegman's Submarine Sandwiches

Tasty Wegman's subs

I count the days until you

Dazzle my taste buds

Haikus From Home, Part II: Garbage Plates

White hot garbage plate

Greasy, drippy, mac-home fries

With everything, please

Haikus From Home, Part I: Buffalo Chicken Wings

Oh, Buffalo wings

Bleu cheese dressing on my lips

Drumsticks are the best

A Curse on a Mongoloid

A Bangkok Gentlejerk Hideaway non-fiction-ish interlude (of great urgency) to the three-part saga, "Tales from the Banks of the Tonle Sap".

I'm in such hopeless despair.

The nameless restaurant on the 2nd floor of my apartment building, maker of the finest Tom Yum Goong in all of Thailand, savior of gallons of my own sweat for having delivered food directly to my room for 2 1/2 years, delighter of my taste buds and gastrointestinal system (the food was always clean), and primary contributor to the fatness of my wallet with their low prices, has closed. It's a goddamn shame, and I'm feeling somewhat inclined to find a new Bangkok Gentlejerk Hideaway. I will indeed take some action...

The fine folks who ran the restaurant are now in Si Saket province, probably lining up to pick rice for 4,000 Baht per month, turn tricks for twice that (the male chef, Anon, included), join a monestary (which wouldn't be all that bad of an idea), or off themselves.

I visited the local Ramkhamhaeng Soi 22 witchdoctor last night to effect a curse on this blood-sucking, decision-making mongoloid. He wasn't home, so I went to the Ramkhaeng Soi 20 witchdoctor and put the following appeal in place:

To: The cosmos
CC: The Ramkhamhaeng Soi 22 witchdoctor - where were you, dude?
From: Gentlejerk 1
Date: 10 February 2007
Subject: yo

Screw you, SWD Court owner! Asshole! Scum! Menace! May Satan strike you down in the form of a bloody car accident that lands you in the bottom of the most polluted khlong in all of Bangkok! And then, may you live through the accident, only after having ingested enough khlong water to make your brain about as functional as a turnip for the rest of your miserable life!

The witchdoctor said that this already really happened, tragically, to a boy named "Big", member of a Thai boy band named "D2B." That's sad. I thought that was a pretty good curse. It's also sad what happened to the vocalist. At any rate, the witchdoctor declined the proposed curse out of fear that the cosmos would strike back for having added insult to Big's injury.

Okay, how about this one...

To: The cosmos
CC: The Ramkhamhaeng Soi 22 witchdoctor - where were you, dude? Beers later?
From: Gentlejerk 1
Date: 10 February 2007
Subject: whuddup

Venomous proprietor of SWD Court! May the dirtiest transsexual Cambodian prostitute in all of SE Asia give you the most aggressive, acute, mutated strain of venereal disease known to man! May it rot your phallus from the inside out! May you lop your dilly-wang off to seek refuge from the pain and may a soi dog gobble the putrid cocktail wiener down and wash it back with sewage!

The witchdoctor said, "Cool," but then tried to charge me 10,000 Baht for the service because of the severity of the curse. My patience was evaporating like so many droplets of steam from "nameless restaurant's" piping hot bowls of Tom Yum Goong that my tongue will never again fondle. One more try, then I'm going to Soi 18 for some bami noodles and then to Soi 16 to use that witchdoctor, regardless of the price (Soi 18's bami is good, but the witchdoctor there is a degenerate).

To: The cosmos
CC: The Ramkhamhaeng Soi 22 witchdoctor - your girlfriend is a mega-slut
From: Gentlejerk 1
Date: 10 February 2007
Subject: hubba hubba

Harlot! Baht worshiping prick! May you someday find yourself possessed and in zero control of your bodily functions while standing next to a giant vat of boiling vegetable oil that is intended for frying chicken! May you then find yourself testing the temperature of the oil with your toe! May you even then find yourself slowly lowering yourself into the vat of boiling vegetable oil, so slow that by the time your agony-shocked, wide open eyeballs touch the oil, your feet have already cooked through to the bone! You suck!

"Okay," said the witchdoctor. "200 Baht please krapom."

I await the day that this man finds himself next to a giant vat of boiling oil.

(Picture of this elusive monitor lizard pending)

Tales From the Banks of the Tonle Sap, Part II of III: The Dirt Gremlin (You Give Me One Dollar)

"I give you rose. You give me one dollar."

"You give me one dollar. I give you one dollar."

"No!"

So was the exchange between yours truly and the Sisowath Blvd. dirt gremlin one night prior to my death. Not that rose peddlers were an uncommon sight in Phnom Penh, but this one didn't even try to mask his sinister background by wandering alone and away from his master.

His red-eyed mother, the reaper of her little runt's rewards, reeked of meth and stood not ten feet from him, staring on indifferently. She was wearing a cotton Buffalo Bills football jersey (Cornelius Bennett, circa 1990) with greasy discharge stains all up and down the sleeves. We were unaware of this at the time, but she frequented the slums of Phnom Penh where she occasionally watched after her kids and habitually prostituted herself for a dirty needle, a shoelace and some heroin cut with baking soda, paint and head lice. The scabs on her arms were bleeding a brownish-red fluid which, I'm sure, smelled lovely. At least she wasn't an amputee - yet.

As I was not in the company of a lady, I wasn't in the market for a rose. Rather, I was greatly in the market for a beer, so we sat down at an outdoor table (it was a beautiful, muggy evening) at the Happy Frog Cafe. Bryan was intent on polluting both of our systems and thus ordered a pair of Angkor Beers and a pack of Angkor cigarettes to accompany. We opened our menus, scanning for what might be the best of the mediocre and overpriced dishes and before the words "I would like to order a club sandwich" could come out of my mouth, the Beyonce of Phnom Penh challenged us to a bout of Jenga. We accepted, and subsequently ordered club sandwiches.

Beyonce placed the pieces of Jenga on the far-from-level and warped table. Her sweaty cleavage was being presented to Bryan while she arranged the tower, entrancing him. His vulnerabilities were visible to the masses while her shiny bosom did a private go-go gyration dance for him. He was as a shark is when overturned: tranquil and indifferent.

I wasn't quite the picture of mental and physical invincibility either. My face took on a sickly expression as I witnessed a passerby, a woman in a dirty, faded blue dress, blow a snot rocket, which stuck to her hand. She proceeded to attempt to fling it towards the ground, but the mucus wad stretched out even further and whipped around, adhering itself onto her forearm. She wiped it on her dress in submission to its perseverance, sat on the curb on the opposite side of the street, facing us, and breastfed the baby that she was holding in her other arm, coughing like a crackwhore.

Neither of these incidents would have seemed like anything beyond the bizarre everyday goings on of the streets of southeast Asia had The Happy Frog not been playing an awful Khmer death metal album. The aggressive and evil soundtrack made the situation surreal. Unsettling. Borderline inhospitable. Our beers, cigarettes and club sandwiches were then served and Beyonce pulled the first piece from the tower.

It was particularly menacing to me that as we began our match, the junky mother and her little rose entrepreneur watched our every move from the slights of our hands while removing pieces of the Jenga puzzle to the way we wiped beads of mayonnaise from the corners of our mouths. The child was no doubt sizing us up in one way or another, for what, we were yet unaware. Regardless, he and his mother fired up a nugget of crystal meth out of an empty Coke can on the apparently lawless street.

Unsurprisingly, the club sandwiches were forgettable. The incident which followed was not. As the Jenga tower grew more porous by the minute, it teetered desperately. Beyonce urinated in Bryan's apple juice by successfully removing another piece after Bryan had previously thought she was fudged. The evening breeze practically wrecked the fragile remains of the puzzle. As he contemplated his next, and likely his final, move of the showdown, the dirt gremlin jumped up in an amphetamine-induced craze, darted in the direction of Bryan and Beyonce, eyes wild, mouth foaming, and effortlessly snatched a keystone piece of the tower at full speed without disturbing it in the slightest. He barked like a starving hyena. Bryan and I stared on in amazement, flabbergasted. Beyonce slapped him firmly on the side of his head with a menu and he retreated to his mother, dropping the puzzle piece into a stagnant puddle on the side of Sisowath.

The profound feat negotiated by the dirt gremlin would have been long dismissed as luck had he not repeated it in each of the next two games of Jenga at the same decisive moment.

It had become my humble opinion, although short-lived, that smoking meth is not fair when playing Jenga, so long as both parties are not equally under the influence. I trust you will concur.