The Ping Pong Banana Show for Tourist Looking

Dude looked like Thor barged into my office and barked, “I hear you’re a writer.”  Six foot six two fifty blond long viking braided mane and beard, ripped, full body even his dick and forehead tattooed fucking freak.

I stuttered, “y-yes.”

He tea-bagged me then whispered murderously one inch from my face, “ever word I’m about to tell you is true.”

I’m not sure I don’t completely discount the balance of what he proceeded to tell me over the next several hours, during which time he devoured a pint of rum a fifth of vodka a blunt and several spliffs, nevertheless I recorded it on my phone, and have transcribed the record verbatim.

State your name, sir.

I am Gypsysattva, I have many names.

Your legal name then.

I guess that would have to be Thor.

What is the name on your birth certificate, sir?

I don’t know- I never saw it.  My mother was a gypsy.  My father was a sattva.


A sattva is a holy man.  Not always an ascetic, though Bodisattva gave up his own quest for enlightenment to urge others on their paths; Bodi is conseidered one of the top sattva models, but there are others.  All sadhus seek saddanah, but a sattva is not bound by a single aesthetic.  A sattva is like a free agent holy man.  Many gypsies and nomads are sattvas, my mother was.

I thought your father was the sattva.

Oh, he was.  I was very lucky.  But I gave it all away.  You might say I’m Siddhartha Too, you know?

No, I do not.

(3rd voice:)  You do realize that this is a custodial interrogation.  You are under no obligation to speak, however, everything you choose to say will be taken down as evidence and you will be judged.  You have the right to be wisely counselled, and if your counsellor were here right now s/he would advise you to remain silent.  If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided to you at no cost.  Do you understand these rights?  Do you have any questions at all?

Shut the fuck up, douche-suit.

Very well then, proceed.  Ahem- could you please put that out?

Nah, ganja helps i to think.


Listen… look… here… feel me… I didn’t do dat shit, I was outta my head.

Shut the fuck up nigga I heard that befo.

Fuck you too you wannabe nazi.

(3rd voice:) Fair enough.

I’m sayin.  I was in a 21 and up club and she said she was 23.  What was I gonna do, card her?  I had no intent

We don’t care about that right now Mr…

Thor is my surname.  I prefer the Asian style.


Surname first, you culturally incompetent nincompoop.

Sir, you’re the one with the white skin.

Did you really just say that?

(3rd voice:)  Would you care to explain where your pants are, or why you have “Baby Mama Love Bone” tattooed on your penis?

I’m from Seattle.  It’s an homage, you know?

Yes, I’ve heard that Seattle is a very homage-sexual friendly city, but I’ve never-

Shart-cummed?  You liar.  I can tell dear, takes one to know one.  No.  Shit.  Nevermind. Anyway, I’ve decided to call this scene:

The Ping Pong Banana Show For Tourist Looking

Ext, Night:  Noise, neon lights, party, young people, hedonism, Thai calligraphy on a mototaxi screeching wheelies, a big handsome blond white guy at the handlebars grinning maniacally.

Narrator voiceover, a la Fear and Loathing:

I had a few bucks left after that obvious ladyboy’d gone for my dong, taken it into her mouth, begun fingering my asshoe in preparation for fucking it with her enormous spurting cock, done that magnificently- s/he took my wallet.  Shit, you probably thought I meant that shit literally, you fucking faggot.

By the way, sidebar, sidebar: will EVERYONE PLEASE stop using the word literally like literally ever fucking sentence?  Especially when y’all use it perfectly incorrectly. But also when you use it superfluously – that’s literally fucking annoying. One properly uses the term literally only whilst contradicting an idiom. Such as that pool is cool, literally (I don’t mean neat-o, I mean temperature-wise), or gay bars are gay places, literally (i.e. they’re happy and full of pep).

Sorry for the fucking tangent, crackerhead.  Where was I?  Yeah so anyway I was blind drunk on Sangsom whiskey whipping stolen tuk tuk wheelies around the Khao San district.  No not the main strip of course, that was chock thick with hot sexy young Europeans and Australians and not too many Americans at all, which was nice, sizing each other and the Thais up for sex.  It was a twitchy hardon gushing gash gratuitous fuck cauldron, presided over by jaded schemers and scammers – everyone won.  The rum buckets were dirt cheap, the food was basically free, and the best in the world could be had for fifty cents on the street provided you packed iron intestines, and the Beer Chang 40s went down easy in that heat and so did the girls with no tits and little-boy asses and balls and – never mind, don’t take no notice – how often are you offered a butthole quickie in the lobby of a guesthouse?  Turns out whenever, wherever you look but I didn’t know that at the time but I digress.

Shut up I’m not gay this isn’t even that kind of book.

Mind leaking brilliant immediately forgotten diarrhea I eventually got bored not being particularly noticeable, my offensively dangerous behaviour notwithstanding; making such a spectacle of oneself was pretty much par for the course in that district.  I resolved to relocate further afield to kindle my ruckus.  Far from the maddening crowds, as the poet said.  Into the Zen.  Easy time.  Get outta my mind.  Lose myself.

But first, as long as I’m here- as long as it’s Now (take it away, AL)-

(Editor): In later pages the narrator divulges his first [second] name to be Almighty. Thought the reader’d appreciate the heads up, might benefit from knowing that on the front end.  He refers to himself as Allah as well.  Thor Allah, he says.

(3rd voice:)  Objection!  That is a highly prejudicial statement, I demand that it be stricken!

Nothing said may be unsaid, nor written unwritten.

Very well then, proceed.


Ten bucks only (Gypsysattva said).  Plus a compulsory cocktail to watch pockmarked stretchmarked hotties pull forty feet of rope out their cunts.  No striptease; no sexy slow dance.  Just tie the keks to the thigh (they’re worried about some pervert swiping them off the stage and shoving them in my mouth because apparently you have to pay extra for that) and go zombie eyed, and as it just keeps coming and coming out like a clown’s kerchief you start wondering how they got it all up in there.  Then get to picturing them practicing their exploits at home, maybe laying a little guilt trip on yourself so trying to empathize, which is tough, granted, to imagine what it’d be like to be one of these past their prime cum dumps, real people too, you understand, who’ve gotta make a buck, you get it, but they’re simply too old or never been pretty enough for the more lucrative sex gigs so they’re reduced to experimenting with what’s physically possible because they: Need The Cash.  That’s the bottom line.  Of course.  Quite understandable.  But all those raping eyes.

Then one waddles out on stage and squats and wiggles and out of her ass poops one, two, three… a dozen shiny balls linked by a string, the defecation mimicry highly sexual, her sphincter dilating as each anal bead peeks out, stretching more and more as it comes, slowly, max gaping, then contracting quickly like a fish mouth as it passes.  Plop, plop, plop…

(3rd voice:) Frued would have a field day with this.

That’s the last I want to hear from you, ya fuckin interloper- SILENCE!

(As you command.  #3 out.)

Anyway, the homework would probably be fun, though, wouldn’t it?  Getting yourself inverted, using a mirror and a whole tub of lube, inserting interesting objects – granted, you’d occasionally get shit stuck and’d have to call your friend to come over with her wok tongs, but I assume most females do that kind of shit together anyways out of curiosity so she’d probably already be there having her own fun.

Exploring the absolute limits of her vaginal elasticity, exercising certain muscles everyday till they become strong enough to: one girl’s act is she queefs a dart and bursts a balloon, then blows out all the candles on a birthday cake.  Then inserts a cigarette and takes several bright glowing drags — I guess the opposite skill.  The snatch is a curiously talented organ.  The women in the crowd are impressed.

Some of it is mildly entertaining.  Like when a ping pong ball shoots out of a tiny brown coochie into the drink of a trying-to-be-mature-about-it white chick, who makes an eew gross face and picks it up with the tippy tips of her fingernails and flicks it back up there, awkwardly laughing, trying to pretend she isn’t repulsed at herself for feeling turned on.

And the two actress performance amuses, though one immediately recognizes that the perfunctory tongue-to-pussy touching in no way resembles genuine lesbian lust. Moderately more arousingly, one does a handstand while the other pours a coke into her, then lays on the floor while her partner squats over her face and pisses it into her mouth.  Yeah she drinks it.

Then the anal girl shoves two bananas up her ass, inserts a calligraphy brush in her twat, squats, and after a couple minutes’ gyrating displays a perfectly stenciled WELCOME TO THAILAND above a pretty lotus flower, bows, and bends over, forecefully ejaculates the fruit, and fists her poop hole to the elbow.  She’s quality talent.

Unfortunately videocameras are discouraged.  But-

Please to enjoying you show.


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