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G’day. Durin’ me rampages around Thailand I met a lot of beaut cobbers and shielas, just like yerself. I noticed that everywhere I went youse were askin’ me advice on matters of the ‘eart. So, from now on I’m gonna answer yer questions ‘ere in the hope that I can save yer from some of the agonies I have been through.

If yer want ter know more about me, yer can read The Chronicles of Foster Foskin’s Adventures in Thailand right ‘ere. Make sure yer start at Chapter One and work yer way from there:
http://holtww.com/holtblog/?p=3

Dear Mr Forskin,

My boyfriend me, he no good. All the time he go out every night, he come back long after I finish work he smell bad like lady bar. Sometime, I find lipstick on he collar. I think he hab woman, but I no sure.
 
I no hab time follow he, make sure he no buttafly. I working bar and must take care customer tree, four time every night. What you t’ink? He bad man?

Please help me, Miss Helicopter
 
Dear Miss Helicopter,

Please make sure you spell me name right, shiela. There is no ‘R’ in the middle, ok? We don’t want readers thinkin’ you are obsessed with a certain piece of anatomy, now, do we?

When you say your boyfriend smells bad, perhaps the problem is in your own physique, darlin’. Are you sure that your backbone isn’t too short and your nose is too close to your nether regions?

Lipstick is very common, so he could get that on his collar from anywhere. Why, just the other day I got home to find the back of me collar covered in it. I surmise that a katoey was packed too closely into the Sky Train and the shim’s lips kept hitting me collar as we swayed along the track. I’m sure it had nothing to do with the fact that I found its hand exploring me back pocket. The doctor says its fingers will heal quite well…eventually.

As you work in a bar and you take care of only three or four customers a night, I reckon you must have ter work long hours to extract as much money out of ‘em as possible. It must be ‘ard work gettin’ them ter drink enough to pay yer salary, eh?

I ‘ope you are giving a substantial portion to your boyfriend so that he can keep hisself occupied while you work? I doubt he’s a bad man, but yer might want to lavish some of yer talent and skill on ‘im more often to keep ‘im happy. We men do like our shielas to show some appreciation for the work we do keeping the bed warm for yer eventual return home. I say yer should take some time orf and spend it with yer boyfriend and have some fun tergether, then yer wouldn’t get such dark thoughts all the time.

G’day Foster,

Like you, I’m a you-beaut Ocker from Wooloomooloo. I met this ‘ere shiela in the Chrome Pussy Palace a few nights ago and now I can’t get ‘er out. I mean, I took six of them blue pilIs on the first night and now I can’t get me member out of ‘er. We’re stuck tergether. We can’t even go ter the bloody ‘ospital because it’s impossible ter get our daks on. We’d get arrested walkin’ out on the street joined as we are. We’re gettin’ pretty bloody hungry, mate. D’yer think yer can ‘elp?

Cheers! Augie the Ocker

G’day mate. Before I go any further let’s clear up this misapprehension you have that I’m from Wooloomooloo. Nah! Just because I mentioned the place in relation ter the Gay Pride march in Chapter One of me Thailand Chronicles doesn’t mean I actually come from there. Yer ‘aven’t read me Chronicles yet? Do it now mate, and yer might get a good ‘andle on how ter handle yer shielas. It might even soften yer member enough ter get out of yer present predicament.

‘Aven’t yer ever heard of the bloody telephone? Surely yer have one in yer bedroom. If not, I recommend yer hump yer shiela over to wherever it is in the house and use yer fingers fer somethin’ useful. A little KY might help too. Or I could go over and throw a bucket of water over you, like I do with me sheepdogs when they get into the same position as you.

Ooops! The thought just struck me. Yer aren’t both bloody sheep dogs, are yer?


Yo Foster Foskin!

I am a hip hop boy from Chicago. Last month I visited Fucket to get some rays man, and these fat white trash tried to tell me I was dressed inapppprop, er, wrong for Thailand. These honkeys were wearing knee length tartan shorts, Hawaiian shirts (red and bright yellow), wraparound shades, white cream on their sunburned cheeks, and a stupid lookin’ Mickey Mouse cap on their bald haids.

Me? I was wearing what I always wear in the Hood: my extra long shorts were hanging down so you could see the crack in my ass…the only crack you will see on me, too. None of that crack head shit for me thanks! My long-sleeve shirt was hanging out over my shorts, and my ‘dreads were short and neat. I had on my basketball sneakers coz I was on holiday. And my cap was on backwards, ideal to keep the sun off my neck and preserve the delicate tone of my skin.

Now, wasn’t I dressed better for Thailand than those white muthas, huh?

Your brotha, Hoppy

Yo Hoppy,

What do you think I am, a fashion maven? I don’t judge fashion, I just set it.

Your question was rhetorical, right?