'Twas a Late Night in Pattaya

[SEAsia Traveler]

Dedicated to those farangs who suffer from the delusion that they are somehow “special” in the eyes of Thai people, whether in Bangkok, Pattaya or Nakhon Nowhere. 

 

'Twas a Late Night in Pattaya (a taxi driver's perspective)

 

‘Twas a late night in Pattaya, when all through the house,

Not a soi dog was stirring, not even a mouse.
The ATM cards were stored in wallets with care,

In hopes that the pension payments soon would be there.

 

The farangs were sleeping, passed out drunk in their beds,

While visions of red light districts danced in their heads.
And my gik in her sarong, and I in my hat,

Had just settled down for a whiskey night cap.

 

When out on the soi there arose such a clatter,

I stepped around from my taxi to see what was the matter.

Around the parked car I flew like a flash,

And quickly retrieved my weapon from under the dash.

 

The moon on the pavement of the rainy soi glow,

Gave the lustre of mid-day to the surreal midnight show.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But an intoxicated farang, holding a cigarette and a beer.

 

The old white man, so frail and so sick,

I knew straight away it was a farang, so dumb, so thick.

More rapid than eagles his sad delusions came.

And he whistled, and shouted, and called out his false fame:

 

“I’m special! I’m important! Thai people love me!

I’m a White God in Thailand! They can’t get enough of me!

From the bars! To immigration! To my charitable cause!

I’m the Number One Farang in Thailand! My ego above all!!"

 

As exiting tourists before the rainy season fly,

Taking off from Suvarnabhumi, they mount to the sky.
So to the limits of sanity his soaring ego flew,

With a head full of delusions, this drunk farang had no clue.

 

And then, in a twinkling, I heard in the street,

The unsteady gait of this staggering creep.

As I drew my weapon, and was turning around,

The farang stepped forward with an unsteady bound.

 

He was dressed in a Singha singlet and covered in dirt,

His body odor was horrific, sweat dripping from his shirt.
A bundle of vices he had stored in a fanny pack,

And he looked like a hobo wandering about high on crack.

 

His eyes – sunken and bloodshot! his countenance how scary!

His face was like a ghost, his skin pale and hairy.
His droll little mouth was turned downward in a frown,

And the image he portrayed was like that of an evil clown.

 

The butt of a cigarette he held tight in his teeth,

The smoke blew from his nostrils, as in and out he breathed.
He had a big nose on his face and a giant beer belly,

His teeth were half rotted and his breath was so smelly.

 

He was fat as a whale, a right drunken old elf,

I laughed so hard when I saw him, I nearly pissed myself.
The look in his eyes, and the chemicals in his head,

Soon made me wonder if he would end the night dead.

 

He spoke no more words, but started to smirk,

And guzzled his beer; then dragged his cigarette with a jerk.
And laying a finger inside of his nose, 

And giving a nod, toward his motorbike he strode.

 

He jumped on the bike, and gave his ladyboy a whistle,

And they zipped down the soi with the speed of a missile.
But I heard him exclaim, as he drove out of sight,

“This is MY THAILAND, every day and every night!”

[OneMoreFarang]

That reminds me of this part of the story: