Residents of our picturesque little village in “No-Where-Fcuk-A-Buri” have recently been shocked and outraged to find themselves the victims of a series of horrific vandalism.
Our apparently idyllic rural setting maybe several hundred kilometres away from the lean mean streets of Bangkok, but on one fateful morning last week that was cold comfort indeed to find purposeful destruction had found its way to our tiny Issan village. The local inhabitants woke from their blissful rural drunken slumber only too find part of their harmonious utopia irrevocably smashed apart.
After the Poo-Yai-Baan (village head) had strapped on his flip-flops to go out to milk his pigs, he soon knew something was terribly terribly wrong, something bad had occurred that caused him to summon the villagers. He bellowed over the loud speaker demanding our community of farmers, drunkards, half-wits, in-breds and all to be shaken from their sleepy hangovers and as soon as they got dressed with the compulsory woolly-hat that keeps their skulls cool in the 30+ degree heat they were all to gather at the local temple.
That’s when they heard the news that many of them had secretly been dreading for years. The villages only telephone box had been sabotaged, he recited the people who did this were monsters and clearly have no respect for village life. He filled the gathering with dread; enough dread that some of them even forgot to pick their nose for a nano-second. He continued filling their honest agrarian ears with tales of woo and criminality as if the world was coming to an end, he then insisted that everyone must now contribute to the telephone box repair fund. Through this appeal he managed to raise enough money to pay for counselling for those villagers most severely mentally affected by not be able to spend their three baht on their daily phone call. The rest of the money raised paid to get the phone box operable, and of course 20 cases of beer that were to be the centre piece of the party held at his house later that day.
Within the week the telephone box was repaired, ironically; no sooner had the last grisly event been forgotten from the memories of our country folk the twisted hand of fate was to deal yet another cruel blow. Again, an almost identical act taking place in our rustic community just days later. This time however there were witnesses, a young "coupled-couple" who just happen to be brothers but hopefully after the operation will become husband and wife; stated whilst out walking their hen, claim to have seen a "magic chariot" (car) speed past the in the early evening hours. They recalled with such vigor the car was bedeck with laughing teenagers who had the pronounced qualities such as, unshaven faces, and remnants of shampoo foam fashionably styling their unkempt hair.
The local police officer, Constable Somchai Whodontgivesafcuk has refused to speculate on the identities of the perpetrators, saying only that all leads are being looked into and that comprehensive steps "could" be taken to protect the village from similar attacks in future if the funding was enough for him too have yet another Mia Noi. Despite his assurances, no one has yet claimed responsibility for the atrocities nor has anyone been made to re-inact the crime. So with the culprits still at large our little village now has an appearance of a village under siege with vigilante groups of machete wielding idiots regularly patrolling the village, we can also proudly boast of an armed militia of highly trained half-wits & in-breds have set up a 26 hour a day observation post by the telephone box.
Amidst this climate of fear and outrage, the local head monk who's is aptly named Iama Thievinggit and the highly respected Abbot called Gaymaiasrse Issore have asked for calm and urging members of our local community not too take the law into their own hands, but if they catch the culprits to bring them to the temple for a good roasting so as they can feel the wrath of his rod!!!!.
Now a tale to be told, I love the fact the villagers guard this telephone box with the precision of a military junta, and do you know why? In our little village there are only two telephones, one is the public box and the other is in my house. So if you hear that a Fat Falang contributed to the Village Public Telephone repair fund, I am sure you can understand why.