Right now, at this precise moment , if I were to happen upon a chicken of any size, weight, pertness of crest, clucking ability, manicure mismanagement, ability to squawk blue fucking murder at its mate eight fucking amphurs up the road, I would caress its feathered, furrowed brow whilst lovingly buggering the living shat out of it.
Hark! Such an unsavoury opening gambit, I hear you outwardly muse. Was conjuring images of an anal engagement with a farmyard animal really necessary or indeed relevant to the eventual outcome of this story/rant/frothing at the mouth INSANITY?
Well, yes it was. Because now you have an inkling of an idea about my thoughts regarding life in the big city. About how I would rather spend an afternoon wildly rolling around in the hay with pair of sexually uncertain weasels than suffer the malfunctioning minds of the local peasants who go about their business in the city as if they are the most important people in the fucking world. Well, here’s the news Somjit, you selfish kunt; You aren’t important, I fucking AM – so get that Songthaew out of my fucking face before I comprehensively assault you with contents of my bowels.
So swiftly moving on to my new found nemesis – The Songtheaw Driver.
Take my previous arch rival ‘the cat’, for example – I’d rather spend six months in quarantine with fifty of those fuckers than share 50 metres of road with one of these so called ‘taxi drivers’. You aren’t a taxi driver, mate; you’re a fucking disgrace to the world of motoring. Your ilk should be rounded up in a local park, airlifted somewhere over the middle of the fucking Pacific Ocean and dropped in it.
Allow me to regale my most recent encounter with one of these barbarians.
The angry sun was perhaps enough to make even the most serene of souls dramatically morph into snarling beast with an unsightly nervous tic, so as I cruised leisurely along one of the busy roads which help comprise of the absolute concrete mayhem that is downtown Korat City, with a Songthaew heavy breathing up my arse, I began to feel nauseous with anger, an emotion which amplified 10 fold after he over took me, drove back into the slow lane and stopped to pick up more selfish fucking passengers. Just stopped! Could you have not just waited five more seconds, you gaping kunt of a person?
However, it appeared this wasn’t to be an isolated incident – quite the contrary; it in fact became a trend. Heavy breathing – over take – stop. Heavy breathing – over take- stop. Heavy breathing – overtake – STOP!
After the third infraction I could contain myself no longer. I maneuvered my motorcycle with the deft poise of a spasticated tortoise, with a view to pull parallel to the driver’s side window. Whilst doing this I reached into the realms of my mind’s thesaurus for apt wordage to spit at the offending motorist.
There he sat, proud as an infant who had just spent 10 minutes smearing his own shit over the living room floor. My eyes met his, although he was wearing dark glasses, and I made to speak:
‘I hate you’ I said.
‘jufguhfuuhhfarangojfjuifhuhfih’ he cleverly retorted.
‘I hate you and I hope you die in the near future’ I continued
‘gygdygudgugdHIUKHAOhdugtdyyd’ he quipped, quite, quite brilliantly, I might add.
Now, although this was the end of the conversation and it hadn’t been as productive as it may have been should I had been carrying a 12 bore double barrel shot gun, I still departed feeling very much like the victor. Oh yes, indeed! I had told him, albeit in a foreign language, clearly and concisely, EXACTLY what I thought of him, and my wishes for the remainder of his existence after we parted company. ‘I hate you and I want you to die’ may not be the most cutting of offensive remarks, but the message it conveyed was nonnegotiable – no grey areas here, ladies and gentlemen.
I continued along the shop boarded street and ticked up yet another great victory.
Then he over took me and stopped again.