SoCal1990

They have a place down there known as Mary Lardo, or something like that (sorry if I got the spelling wrong). From my understanding, it's filled with many of those, and dozens of dirty adult diapers too. Ewwwwww....

I was going to do a count of all the 😔 on all of your posts, but my calculator only goes up to seven digits.

Stagflation has already started, hasn't it? Inflation is back on the rise, consumer confidence is falling, wages aren't going up, unemployment is rising, and growth has slowed. Done deal, right? The only thing missing is the recession, but that will be the product of all this.

I saw that on consumer confidence. 4 year low now. Hasn't been that low since pandemic. It's looking scary.

Woo, Woo! You got this! Only 50 more to go now. That's a piece of piss for you. You could nail that in another 15 minutes. You go girl!

Almost there now, i'm doing my best to try and help you over the finish line. You go now!

troll, stalker, beta, snowflake, spammer, cuck, hater, shill, flamer, narcissist, simp, chav, karen, boomer, fake, lefty, righty, etc. these are all badges you wear with honor. but back to the topic du-jour, don't let us down on the post count target. you are getting much closer now and i'm confident you'll hit it. i've even placed a wager on it. so don't disappoint us, please mate. 🙏🏻

That is the topic. And it's always the only topic with you.

Well, if it isn’t AN’s most dedicated serial troll. Nearly 115 useless, trolling posts from you today already. Indeed, impressive work there, mate. And with half the day still left, what a gift it is to us all. By the time it’s all said and done, you’ll surely hit at least 200, no? Why not aim for 300? If you’re going to flood the place with rubbish, might as well keep holding that title. You’ve already got the highest post count on the site for the last seven days by a miracle mile. Keep grinding there, champ.

1. Pesky Nigerian drug dealers on Sukhumvit Road 2. Nonstop 24/7 construction noise 3. Cars ignoring pedestrian crossings 4. Arabs cutting store checkout lines 5. Farang-targeting street touts 6. Aggressive soi dogs at night 7. Needless road repairs for construction grift 8. Loud, mannerless expat bar clowns 9. Fake dragon-costumed temple performer-beggars 10. Streets and sois always flooded after rains Did I forget anything important?

Lads, I don’t know what it is, but it seems the stars simply refuse to align and let me live here in peace and happiness. As you lot know, my Harley’s still in the shop being fixed up as new, so I decided: Why not embrace the local lifestyle a bit more? Money is never an issue for me, so when Bob does something, he does it proper. So, I went out and bought myself a brand new f***-all Bangkok tuk-tuk, direct from the factory. Not just any new tuk-tuk, mind you. No mates, a bright neon pink, fully customized, balls-to-the-wall, chromed-out, LED light-blazing, speaker-blasting, wide tired, absolute behemoth of a machine. Even Elon the Don would be proud of this whack-a-doodle. Plus I demand respect and admiration and I planned to cruise down Beach Road like the man-god that I am. What I got instead? A one-way ticket to more sheer, unrelenting humiliation. Now, mind you, it’s a Monday night, the air is thick with heat and possible bad decisions, and I’m sitting in my brand-new tuk-tuk, parked up on Beach Road, feeling like the absolute Patts legend that I am. I’ve got my colorful marijuana print shirt unbuttoned halfway down because I’m a Big Baller, my ten baht gold chain gleaming under the neon glow, aviators reflecting in the city lights, and a juicy kebab dripping grease all over my snakeskin loafers while I puff on a nice big Bob Marley style fatty all at the same time. Cause that’s how I roll boys. I’m then about to bounce over to Soi 6, bask in the admiration of the masses with my new ride, and maybe engage in a bit of salami swordplay if I fancy. Life is good. But no, disaster, again. Out of nowhere, four fat Indian tourists suddenly pile into the back. One of them, an excitable bloke in a fake Gucci tracksuit, leans forward. “Brother, Pattaya Walking Street, quick quick.” I nearly choked on my kebab. “Oi mate, what? I’m not your bloody personal chauffeur.” He laughs. “No problem, brother. Two hundred baht, okay.” Before I can even react, his mate starts barking directions like he’s my copilot. “Fast fast. Good driver. We pay you good tip.” Lads, I was f****** fuming. I turn around, kebab in one hand, burning spliff in the other, and I hit them with my most pissed off stare. They had really gotten my back up. “Do I look like some two-bit tuk-tuk driver to you sweaty chavs.” They look at my tuk-tuk. They look at my outfit. They look at the giant neon sign above my head flashing "Big Kahuna Bob" in blinding blue letters. Then back at me. “Yes, brother.” Before I can even begin to explain the sheer levels of disrespect, one of them pulls out a handful of crumpled up twenty baht notes and starts shoving them in my face. Do I look like some tuk-tuk-riding peasant? Like I’m desperate for their sweaty little stack of crumpled baht? Like I’m not an international stallion and a respected local dignitary? I nearly launched my kebab at his head. “Out. Now. Cu**s.” They argue for a bit, muttering something in Hindi, a bit of head wobble, but finally, they get out, but not before one of the cheeky plonkers takes a selfie with me and instantly uploads it to his IG captioning it "Good tuk-tuk driver, very happy." Mates. I was seething. But before I can even fully process what just happened three six foot tall ladyboys suddenly jump in the back like a tactical assault team. “Wow, Daddy Bob, sexy new tuk-tuk neh.” Do they know me? One of them throws an arm around to hug me, practically strangling me in a cloud of coconut-scented perfume and a bulging bicep. Another one is pressing every button on the dashboard like she’s trying to launch a missile strike. The third one cranks the speakers to max volume and starts trying to have a right fiddle with my bait and tackle. Now we’re blasting out hard-hitting Thai techno so loud that people are actively covering their ears. I haven’t even agreed to take them anywhere, but suddenly one of them grabs the handlebars. “I drive Daddy. You relax neh Khun Bob.” I try to protest, but at this point, I have completely lost control of my own life. She stomps on the gas pedal and the tuk-tuk lunges forward. I am no longer a man. I am cargo. Cargo in an led-light-lit, bass-blasting, ladyboy-piloted missile careening through the streets of Pattaya. We’re screaming down Beach Road, music blaring, lights flashing, Ladyboy number one is yelling Go faster Big Daddy Bob, and Ladyboy number two is hanging out the side, catcalling tourists. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in a passing storefront window. My open Hawaiian shirt is flapping wildly like a silk cape. My gold chain is bouncing like I’m in a rap video. I look like a man who has completely lost control of his last ounce of dignity. Just when I think this night can’t get any worse, my phone pings. It’s Harry the Hummer. "Where u at matey? Bar girls asking for u." Mates. I don’t even know anymore. All I wanted was an ounce of respect. Instead, I’ve become the captain of a neon-lit clown car filled with hyperactive ladyboys and blaring bass so loud it’s probably rupturing eardrums all over South Pattaya. Tuk-tuks don’t make you a mensch. They make you a joke. And in my case a joke with a hostage crisis and a minor hearing disorder. Best regards, Original Bob.

Alright, lads, just had the most bizarre experience at the local wet market yesterday afternoon. Thought I’d pop in to grab a few kilos of fresh mangoes and give my business to some nice, hard working local vendors; simple enough, right? Wrong. So I walk up to this vendor’s stall, which looks like it has nice stuff, but I know it's not going to be cheap. However, I’m willing to pay top price, expecting to get some really fresh, ripe fruit. What does he hand me? Overripe, bruised mangoes with small black spots on them that look like they’ve been through a smoothie blender. I ask him politely, in Thai no less, if he could kindly give me something fresher. What’s his response? A blank stare, a grunt, and then, get this, mates, he mutters something about me needing to go back to my own country if I don’t like how things are in Thailand. What? Really? I’m just asking for some decent fruit, and I'm here paying top price bruv. Come on, mate. At this point, I’m standing there trying to process it. You know me, I’m friendly, humble, extremely polite, respectful and, most of all, reasonable and I don't act out of emotion. I also don’t want to cause a scene, so I just let him toss the mangoes in my bag. Then he practically throws them at me. No apology, no response to my polite request to exchange them, nothing. Just a cold shoulder and a side order of attitude. Look, I’ve been here a while now and didn’t just land at Swampy 48 hours ago. I get it. Not everyone’s going to be thrilled to see a fluent Thai speaking farang buying mangoes in a local market. But am I really asking for too much? I spoke in Thai, I used the right words, was courteous the whole time, I tried to keep things friendly and amicable. And still, this is how I get treated? It also makes me wonder if his charging me such a high price, and giving me overripe mangoes was merely to rip me off because I’m a foreigner and he thinks I don't know anything about local quality standards or the price of things. Could be, right? I know people get stressed at times, but this kind of response? Feels a bit over the top, doesn’t it? Am I just unlucky, or does anyone else get this kind of treatment for trying to buy something as simple as a bag of mangoes at a local market? What happened to the Thai smile I first fell in love with, lads? A place where people at least pretended to be nice, even when they didn’t care about you. Now, it’s like every simple task turns into a confrontation. Sad. Best regards, Original Bob

Lenny the Licker and Nick the Nonce are fixing it up as we speak. They said give them a week. Meanwhile, I’m off to HK on Monday to get new clothes made.

Lads, let me tell you, I’ve suffered my share of great injustices in this place during my time here over the ages; crooked bar tabs, dodgy tailors, fake Rolexes, women who swear up and down they’ve never seen me before despite me single-handedly funding their sick buffalo repairs upcountry for months, but this latest one? This one takes all the mickey out of me mates. It all started a few days ago when I decided to get my laundry done. I hadn’t had any of my valuable threads washed since getting back to Thailand from Dubai. Now, as a man of fine distinction and high class, I don’t wear your average market-stall tat like some of the skint geezers slumming around Patts. No, my wardrobe is a carefully curated collection of high-quality, Hong Kong-tailored, Italian-cotton, investment-grade garments. So when it’s time to freshen them up, I don’t just toss them into some grimy, coin-operated youth-hostel washing machine. No, I go professional only. So I take my laundry to a sparkling new laundry shop just a few Sois off Buakhao recommended by Billy the Blagger. Small place, local operation, looks clean to me. The attentive woman behind the counter nods, smiles, and hands me a little slip to fill out. Smooth process, right? What could possibly go wrong? Well, everything lads. I return two days later, expecting my 24 beloved designer shirts to be professionally ironed and my 16 tailored trousers to be folded up nicely, smelling of jasmine-scented starch and ready for another week of me hitting the bar scene hard and looking more dapper than every other sweaty knob in town. But instead, the woman hands me a suspiciously lightweight plastic bag. I open it up and immediately feel a chill run down my spine. Inside, I find: • One neon-green tank top with “Full Moon Party” printed across the front. • A pair of cargo shorts that smell like motorbike exhaust and Soi 6 regret. • Two crusty socks, one torn nearly in half. • An old pair of underwear with a waistband stretched wider than a ladyboy’s departure lounge. • No sign at all of any of my actual expensive clothes. Now, at this point, I’m reasonably concerned. So I do what any man in my position would, I hold up the insulting looking tank top and say, “Oi, love, what the frigg is this tosh?” And do you know what she does? She nods at me, like a schoolteacher trying to explain the first 3 letters of the alphabet to a slow learner, and says, “Same same you bring. Look very good now, Khun Bob.” Lads, I nearly passed out from sheer rage. “Same same?” I hold up the torn sock. “You telling me I walked in here with this rag?” She nods again. “Yes, you give. You wear before sir.” Before? BEFORE?! Now, I’m not a violent man, but in that moment, I understood why some blokes snap and end up in a real legal jam over something daft. I demand she check again, and after much sighing, eye-rolling, and a quick chat with her sleepy mate in the back, she suddenly produces another bag. Finally. My actual clothes. Or so I think. I rip it open, and what do I see? • One of my white linen shirts… looking like it’s been used as a napkin at a somtam stall. • My favorite navy trousers… now featuring a weird bleach mark in the shape of Soi Cowboy over the crotch area. • My lucky pink polo… now somehow three sizes smaller. • And worst of all? My best collared dress shirt… now sporting what looks suspiciously like a bright red lipstick kiss on the collar. I look at her, petrified. She shrugs and delivers the final insult: “Like that when you bring, Khun Bob.” Like what when I bring?! Really, doll??? Lads, at this point, I knew there was no winning. I could argue, I could call the BIB, I could get a forensic investigator to analyze the stains and prove they weren’t mine, and it wouldn’t matter. The house always wins. So, there I was, standing outside the laundry shop, out 3,200 baht in laundry fees, and another 3,000 quid in ruined HK wardrobe kit, for the mere privilege of getting somebody else’s sweaty, lost tank top AND my own clothes destroyed. And do you know what the worst part is? The only thing they didn’t lose were the minging cargo shorts that looked like they’d been rescued from a bin along Beach Road. Like they knew I’d rather set myself on fire than wear them. So there’s your moral of the story, boys: If you value your wardrobe like I do, either do your own washing or accept that one day, you too may end up dressed like a backpacker named Nobby from Nottingham, drowning his sorrows in a piss-warm draft Leo beer. Now here I am, nothing left of me mates but a feeling of pure defeat. What would you do, lads, if you were standing here naked and wardrobeless in no more than my battered Doc Martins? Best regards, The Original Bob.

No need mate, I own Skynet.