ChumpChange

The only quiz question I'm interested in is this: Are there still fools out there paying 200 Baht per gram from this website when anyone with a functioning internet connection can hop onto LINE and order top-notch weed for a tenth of the price? I mean, unless you enjoy getting ripped off as some sort of expensive hobby, in which case hey, who am I to judge?

Sounds like he needs a long, extended lie down.

Sheesh, here we go again, Bunk-Bed Bob is back on his soapbox, shaking his fist at yet another segment of Thai society that refuses to revolve around his personal, self-entitled level of comfort. This time, it’s the Scooter Gimps & Transit Tuk-Tuk Tyrants ruining his otherwise serene, beer-soaked existence. The outrage! The horror! The mild inconvenience of having to occasionally look both ways before stepping out onto the street. The downright audacity! Honestly, Bung-Basting Bob, you must be absolutely exhausted from the sheer volume of things that grind your gonads. From motorbike taxis riding on footpaths to delivery drivers daring to do their jobs at speeds that offend your delicate sensibilities, it’s a miracle you haven’t collapsed and suffered a conniption on the spot. And what’s this about delivery drones being the answer? Yes, Bobby Ball-Tug, because I’m sure the sight of dozens of buzzing metallic contraptions whizzing over your head, dropping somtam and milk-tea beverages from the sky, will definitely be less annoying to you. Let’s be real, mate, you’d be on here the very next day moaning about “those bloody flying rats” ruining the pristine Pattaya skyline, scaring the soi dogs and bar hags, and dropping krapow gai onto your balding head like spicy bits of bat-dung while you sulk over a lukewarm Leo. But tell us, Blimpy Bob, did a Food Panda driver accidentally cut you off while you were wobbling back from 7-Eleven with your daily ration of cheap fags and Chang? Or was this just another manufactured grievance to pass the time until your next dramatic declaration that you’re now finally a PR, but that you're so cheesed off that you are leaving Thailand forever (again)? At this point, mate, the only “lunatic on the roads” that really needs to be dealt with is the one who’s been endlessly circling the mental swamp drain for the past decade, desperately trying to convince himself that he’s still in control of anything in his beer-swilling, hardship-posting existence, except for the frequency of his own adult-diaper changes.

Don't bother. Frankly, not even the dog next door gives a toss.

The PR card in the US, known officially as a permanent resident card, is also known as a "green card" because of its historical greenish color, but It was formerly officially called either a "certificate of alien registration card" or an "alien registration receipt card". And non-citizens residing in the US are still called aliens, even today. You have legal aliens and illegal aliens in the US.

Oh my, Blinging Bob you are at it again, clutching your imaginary PR book like it’s the golden ticket to Willy Wonka’s Pattaya Fantasy Factory. You must be exhausted, mate, lugging around that massive chip on your shoulder while also carrying the weight of your own delusions. But let’s be honest, Bob the Scrog, the only thing you’ve ever successfully “moved on” from is your bar tab. And even that usually involves a sprint down Soi 6 with a couple of ladyboys clutching after your unit. Apples and oranges, you say? More like bananas and bingo cards, mate. Because while you’re here still banging on about your PR dream, the rest of us are living rent-free in that hollowed-out skull of yours, watching you desperately try to convince us (and yourself) that you’re not just another washed-up beer-bar rusty-stool philosopher who’s two Chang beers away from crying into his deep fried pork skins. But sure, Bob, keep feeling sorry for us. It must be tough, standing on the imaginary pedestal you’ve built from untruths and broken dreams. Just try not to trip over it on your next dramatic exit from Thailand, because let’s face it, we all know there’s another flounce-off to nowhere-land coming from you any minute now.

Ah, Bonkers-Bob, now suddenly heartbroken over being called an alien. How touching. You’ve spent many piss drunk years moaning about 90-day check-ins, immigration queues, and how Thailand’s gone to the dogs, yet the thing that finally brings a tear to your eye and causes you to readjust your gonad position is a bureaucratic label you’ve lived with for decades. What’s next, mate? A hunger strike over the unfairness of being called farang every time you go buy your M-150 at 7-Eleven? But let’s get to the real reason behind this latest sermon shall we, Batty Bob? This isn’t about “dehumanizing terms,” is it? No, no. This is just another one of your "I’m better than you lot" rants because you claim you’re about to get your PR book, while the rest are doomed to forever wander the immigration office like lost buffalos. But hold up, Blithering Bob, last time we checked, almost getting a PR is about as useful as almost fluffing yourself off. Until that little red book is actually in your grubby mitts, you’re still just another alien nobody in a sweat-stained polo, grumbling in the visa queue with the rest of the sorry old geezers. And this whole “permanent part of the Thai furniture” bit, what does that even mean, Barmy Bob? Really? You reckon you’ll be reincarnated as a half-broken barstool in the corner of some Nana Plaza hellhole pretty soon? Or are you picturing yourself as an antique wooden sanctuary, forever blessed with offerings of half-drank bottles of pop and stale peanuts? Either way, it’s nice to see you finally embracing your true destiny, an old, worn-out, wooden relic collecting dust in the corner while the rest of the world moves on in reality.

Well, who would've thunked it? Sounds like our very own Bung-Bang Bob has found himself in the middle of yet another perilous scandal! Who would believe that the self-proclaimed PR permit aspirant, always one step ahead of the game, would end up as the poor sod getting a thrashing at the hands of a couple of furious bar tarts? Apparently, Blimey-Bob decided to hit up one of Pattaya’s finest piss holes for a night of ladyboy patrolling, probably under the guise of “just a quiet drink” (we all know how that ends). But, alas, Bell-End-Bob doesn’t do “quiet” very well. After a few too many tins and a session of his signature “I’ll pay you later, darling” routine, the bill came, and surprise, surprise, Bobscat thought he could just fob off the ladies with a wink and a promise. Guess he didn’t realize that in Pattaya, even slappers with high heels have a very firm stance when it comes to unpaid dues. It seems that Bobby-Bogart, in his typical fashion, tried to squirm his way out of paying. We all know how much of a tight arse he is when it comes to parting with any of his dosh. He even had a couple of Scott's weld his anose shut for him so that he spends even less. Well, maybe it was all over an extra Leo draft he thought was on the house or perhaps a “fiddle under the table” with one of the skeezers that he thought came free of charge. But lo and behold, the bar mingers weren’t having it. One swift heel to the shin, a couple of well-timed slaps, and Bilbo-Bob found himself backed into a corner, probably muttering something about how “this kind of treatment wasn’t in the brochure", but yet it still kind of turned him on. Oh, but don’t worry, folks, he’s fine. Bullocks-Bob is used to being beaten, metaphorically, at least. He’s had more run-ins with angry waitresses, baht-bus drivers, cashiers, 7-11 gals and hotel receptionists than we care to count. But this time, it seems the unpaid tab and his “Prince of Pattaya” act finally caught up to him. Tell me, Bitter-Bob, when’s the last time you actually paid the bill and didn’t whinge about the service? Seems like your habit of pretending to be a full-fledged baller, but dodging your obligations finally got you in some serious trouble. Maybe next time, instead of handing out the world’s smallest tip and disappearing like Houdini after another Ladyboy fluids exchange, you’ll remember to settle up your full tab before the stiletto squad comes calling you out mate!

I just placed another order with iHerb on Feb 2 and it arrived yesterday on Feb 6. Amazing. Took only 4 days to arrive. That's about the same amount of time it order takes to receive something from a local seller on Lazada.

Sheesh 🙄

Well, well, well, Bong-Boy-Bob, now turned armchair novelist, spinning Hemingway yarns like a Soi 6 bar girl with a sick buffalo and a borrowed baby. What a tragic fictional tale we have here, yet so detailed, so heartfelt, almost as if you’ve drawn inspiration from personal experience. But naah, couldn’t be, right? You’re a high-flying PR procurer, a man of wealth, fine taste, and endless mistresses, but not some washed-up, hard-done-by bloke clutching a beer bottle with a sponge-foam condom on it and a crumpled photo in his pocket of his favorite ladyboy gone astray, lamenting about his wasted years in the hub of short-times. Still, let’s unpack this little masterpiece, shall we? Jim, you say? Poor sod failed his O-Levels, fled to Thailand, faked a degree, became an underpaid teacher, drank himself into oblivion, picked up an alcoholic bar girl (shocking, truly), got shaken down by her deadbeat brother, and finally ran off to Cambodia to die in a shoebox flat surrounded by regret and cheap whiskey. A tragic tale indeed. But tell me, Beastly Bob, is this a cautionary tale, or are you testing the waters for your next exit strategy? Because we’ve seen this pattern before, haven’t we? First, you’re Bob Smith, the big London baller flush with US$800K cash in a safe. Then you’re the humble Colin Neville from Dorset, starting fresh as a self-proclaimed bar aficionado. Now, you’re Elvis from Tupelo, philosophizing about the “end of the line” like a washed-up lounge lizard with a sack of broken dreams. But really, mate, if anyone should be worried about their final destination, it’s the bloke who’s gone through more identities than a Nigerian prince on Tinder. If Thailand truly is beneath you now, and Cambodia is the last stop, we can only wonder where you’ll flop to next. South America? Eastern Europe? A tent outside Heathrow begging for change with a sign that says, “Once had a PR in Thailand, now only got PTSD and an STD”? Either way, keep the fanciful fictional fluff flowing, mate. It’s always a pleasure reading your unintentional autobiographies.

Ah, Pelvis from Portobello, Pattaya’s 2-Satang drivel pump on steroids, back once again to air his grievances about people daring to enjoy themselves in his own private paradise. The rage, the sheer indignation! Imagine it, some bloke with a GoPro 10 having the audacity to film himself without first obtaining permission from Butt-Rash-Bob, the gatekeeper of all acceptable behavior in Thailand. It must be exhausting, mate, spending your fleeting golden years seething over other people’s engaging hobbies. But let’s address the real issue here; this thinly veiled threat of dousing some unsuspecting YouTuber in warm Chang piss suds. Now, Barf-Bag-Bob, let’s be honest. We all know the only thing you’re throwing at people these days is another minging forum post whining about a barmaid overcharging you for a half eaten bowl of greasy peanuts. Or maybe an aggressive eye-roll when a waitress forgets the ice in your watered down whiskey-soda. A face full of beer? More like a muttered complaint into your half-empty glass before shuffling off to your next big adventure, probably whinging to the world about 90-day reports again. And of course, there’s only one content creator you like. One. An Irish bloke, no less? No doubt some miserable young nonce who spends his time griping about the very same things you do such as overpriced drinks, “scammer” motorcycle taxi jockeys, unwashed ladyboy panties, and how Pattaya isn’t what it used to be back in the day when you could get a short-time in for under a fiver. But tell us, Brokeback Bob, what really grinds your gears about these YouTubers? Is it that they’re out there enjoying life, while you’re here, day in, day out, thumping away on your sticky, old keyboard, searching for new ways to be bitter? Do their smiles offend you? Their followers grind your jock strap? The fact that they’ve actually got faces people want to see rather than one like yours that makes children cry in fear into their McDonald's Happy Meals? At the end of the day, mate, they’re doing their thing, and you’re here, moaning on about it to a bunch of elderly state pensioner on AN, none of whom you know personally and who honestly couldn't give a toss. Who’s really winning now, eh Elvira?

Ah, Belching Bob, sorry; Elvis from Tupelo now, is it? Back once again like a bad butt rash that festers like a Trump tariff, but this time with an extra sprinkle of smugness. My, my, what a journey it’s been. From Bob Smith, the high-flying East End geezer flush with cash, houses and Rolexes, to BarBoy, the hapless, Dorset-born Colin Neville, to Elvis Presley who died on the porcelain throne pinching a loaf, but now the soon-to-be Permanent Resident of the Kingdom. At this rate, mate, your next incarnation might be the big, sweaty, Mango-Mussolini who decides to run off to South Africa with Elaine and elope. But let’s break this down, shall we? Here we have Brokeback Bob, the same fella who’s spent the last decade from a barstool on Soi 6/1 moaning about taxi drivers, uncomfortable motorbike seats, rude waitresses, and the outrageous injustices of 7-Eleven pricing, suddenly on the verge of loving it all in Patts and securing Permanent Residency. A true inspiration, mate. And there we were, thinking immigration procedures required patience, financial stability, a job, connections, and, you know… a general ability to function in society without throwing a wobbly over bar girls not displaying enough stretch-marks for your own liking. Yet somehow, you, Bob the Moaner, Bob the Menace, Bob the “I’m Leaving for Spain” Smith, has cracked the code. Just a few more hoops to jump through, you say? What are we talking about now? A PowerPoint presentation on the injustices of lukewarm Chang beer? A dramatic monologue about the betrayal of a 600-baht short-time ladyboy special where the bloke laid a death grip on your unit with his anoose? And the best part? The not-so-subtle dig at the “lowly Non-Immigrant” status, as if you haven’t spent your entire Thailand career knee-deep in the very same queue whilst clutching zillions of photocopied passport pages in your own sweaty paws. Oh, but now that you’re almost in the exclusive club, it’s all about how tedious and beneath you it all is. Classic Bar-Booty-Bob behavior. But tell us, mate, what happens when Elvis leaves the building again? When the PR dream inevitably crumbles, do we get another farewell speech? Another dramatic flounce off to somewhere like Colombia, Cambodia, or Cucamonga? Or will we be blessed with a new, exciting character, perhaps Bargain Basement Bob, the half-French half-Thai and half-witted bum-gun aficionado? One thing’s for sure, mate. It’s really great to be alive at the moment. Just knowing you’ll always come back for another cheeky round of Bob's Bareback Buffoonery.

A man of true happy endings.

Man oh man GG, you're on a rampage of unbridled drooling nothingness these days. Post after post of relentless babbling buffonery. Do you wear a bib at least?

Thank you Bobby Saville. I never got a chance to go to college because I joined the YMCA. Alas, I thought Elvis had already left the building? Or is he still hiding out in Soi 6/1 running a Thai sausage stand?

Best ones are the digital Wise cards created in the app. Then whack it into your Apple Wallet and bob's your wife's lover. Can pretty much pay for anything with your phone in Thailand, just tap and go.

Drivel. Too much mansplaining.

Ah, BotBoy Bob, sorry, I mean Elvis Pansy now, is it? A true man of mystery, constantly reinventing himself like a cheap Jason Bourne suit, but with more complaints about motorbike seats and bar tabs. Tell us, mate, what prompts these frequent identity changes? Are you confused about your own identity or on the run from a scorned 7-Eleven cashier? A vengeful taxi driver still reeling from your righteous one-star judgment? Or perhaps the legions of lovestruck dating app maidens, devastated by your swift and merciless blocks? But back to your latest harrowing ordeal in the treacherous world of modern romance. A poor, innocent geezer like you, just looking for a bit of wholesome companionship on a dating app, only to be ambushed by a deranged temptress with the audacity to love you long-time and unconditionally within just minutes. The horror! The sheer madness! One can only imagine your plight, a handsome, well dressed East-end bloke like you staring in abject bewilderment as she twirled her rump and pranced before you, showering you with digital affection while you sat there, throbbing todger in-hand, radiating raw masculinity through the screen. And yet, despite your minimal effort, she declared you the love of her life! Truly, the burdens of irresistible charm must weigh heavily on your broad and weary shoulders. Who would have thunked it aye, Bobby-Bubbles? But fear not, gallant Colin, uh, I mean Smelvis, for you made the noble choice. You hung up. You blocked her. You protected the sacred purity of your DMs from yet another lunatic minger whose only crime was loving you too much, too soon. Stay strong, mate. The world of online minge milking is treacherous, but your valiant efforts to document these perilous encounters are an inspiration to us all!

So what did his wife's wife think of all this? Who doesn't?

Yep, a completely hapless windup. Needs some lessons in how to spin fairy tales. Maybe bob can lend him a hand.

Ah, Bumbling @bob smith, the trials and tribulations of your daily existence in the land of vertical smiles never ceases to tingle the senses. A true warrior of the streets, battling against the injustices of uncomfortable seats and inappropriately timed fuel stops. Forced onto a motorbike taxi? Wow, fate is truly cruel innit. First, the indignity of waiting in the merciless sun while your charioteer dares to refuel his steed, and then, the ultimate betrayal, a seat that failed to cradle your delicate posterior in the comfort your sweaty bungholio so rightfully deserves. One can only imagine the anguish as you dismounted, cheeks bruised, spirit shattered, only to have your genuine grievance met with indifference, or worse, deflection. How dare he not take full accountability for your anal buggering? Didn't he at least offer to give you a reach around for FFS? And where is the justice, Binging Bob? Should there not be some governing body, some tribunal, where you could formally lodge a complaint about the state of his inferior cushioning? Perhaps one should be established here on AN for those sorts of events in the future. We can put @GammaGlobulin in charge of it! Alas, it seems Thailand remains woefully unprepared for your exacting standards. But do not lose hope, brave tosser. Perhaps tomorrow’s great struggle will be against an improperly executed happy ending or the soul-crushing betrayal of a barmaid overcharging you by five baht on your warm piss tin of Chaeng. Whatever it may be, we await the next chapter of your epic saga with bated breath. Stay strong, Bobless. The world needs you mate!

Ah, bobby boob, what a poetic turn of prose from you. One might almost think you have had a sudden epiphany, a grand spiritual awakening to the simple joys of life, a heightened level of enlightenment. Gone are the tales of Thai doom and debauchery, the battles with taxi drivers, the arguments with waitresses, the scuffs with street touts, the lone crusades against numpties and ne’er do wells. No more are we subjected to accounts of tourist ghetto hardship, motorcycles riding illegally on foot paths, and one star vendettas. No, today, you are a new man, reborn, a philosopher of the tropics, a poet of paradise. Hemingway 2.0! The cat rubs against your leg, a tender reminder that even the smallest creatures seek your approval. The skies stretch endlessly, the sand cushions your weary feet, the sea whispers sweet nothings, and the drinks? Oh, the drinks! Chilled to perfection, each sip of that cheap piss is a new testament to the majesty of your cherished ascent to Nirvana. But tell us, dear bob, is this true bliss or merely the calm before the next sh*t storm? Will tomorrow bring a new drunken revelation about the inherent dangers of sand grain distribution? Will the azure sky suddenly seem too bright, the warm sun too oppressive, the beautiful ladyboys too… abundant? Only time will tell. For now, bask in this moment of serenity from your newly found pain-killer drug addiction, my wisest bob. You deserve it bruv! Absorb the beauty, sip the drink, let the cat love you long time. You have earned this, after all. Even the greatest warriors must take a break from Pattaya baht-bus blues.

Windup of the week. Bingo Bob is trying on a new moniker. Well done. Not as interesting as his always "I hate everyone, including my wife" characters, but at least Bad Breath Bob is back, no, I mean Bell Boy Bob, oh, whatever, it's phoonkin Bob-Colin FFS!

Fish farms as well?