Comedy Writing in Southeast Asia

I've been teaching English here for the past ten years and supplementing my income with freelance writing, which is more often than not incredibly boring. This being the case, in my spare time I write comedy (I hope) pieces about day to day living in southeast Asia, predominantly northeast Thailand. Around literally every corner one can stumble upon a scenario fit for a piss-take...because if you don't laugh at your circumstances then you will surely be referred to a mental institution where you will be treated for excessive foaming at the mouth.

Here's an example of the style of anecdote I write, which I hope to script and film at some point.

I've never had the opinion of professional writers and comedians before, so pick it to pieces if you would

Many thanks....

"THUD - STAB - SQUEEZE - PUNT - JAB - KICK - WRENCH - BIFF - WALLOP - KERRRPLUNK!"

"I'm not going down without a fight! Take that, you fascist bastard -THWACK! And this, you lecherous swine - BASH! Oh, you want more I see! Well get a load of this, you sanctimonious f**k - ALAKAZAM! "

I've just relayed, verbatim, a heated conversation which took place between a rogue morsel of local fare and my large intestines, several hazy evening's ago.

As you can probably gather, the offending cuisine lacked somewhat in terms of vocabulary and sentence structure and apparently even required the use of Roget's Thesaurus in order to fashion the aforementioned scrawl, but, despite a strong finish from the large intestines, which featured a last gasp five syllable flurry, the contaminated foodstuff, as always, triumphed, with quite devastating results.

The bickering commenced as I was maneuvering my Honda Wave, which although is completely f**king broken, still somehow manages to chauffeur my ample frame from here to there , along a well vegetated section of country lane.

Upon the comprehensive slaying of my bowels I quickly reasoned that I should relieve myself, without delay, in my underpants. The victory had been exact and absolute, allowing me virtually no leeway at all for a buttock clench followed by the glorious volley of fecal discharge in an anonymous convenience. Oh how I so yearned for a f**king convenience.

But what's this? Oh my good God! Could it surely be?

On the far right corner of the horizon, which was now barely visible due to the fact that I was nearly crying with pain, was a little shop. God, I love little shops!

I pointed my motorcycle towards the convenience store, which appeared to glisten with a Utopian aura, and raced towards it in a state of anal suction.

"CANIBORRAYASHITTER?" Being polite was obviously of the essence but I was a hair's breath away from messing myself in front of the instant noodle stand.

After having been scrutinized for what felt like the combined duration of every dump I've ever taken in my life, I was finally pointed towards a shed. They obviously had their own toilet within the shop, but my current gait probably suggested that I wasn't here for a quick wee-wee - and that I might irreparably destroy anything that came into contact with my buttocks.

Charging through an assortment of cobweb drenched boxes and other various 'small shop' paraphernalia, I eventually happened upon the bog, and with a deft hop, skip and a jump, landed on the f**ker with my pants down....

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH HHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

It was only when I peered back into le toilette to observe the damage that I took in my
surroundings.

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Next time I'll probably opt for the underpants...

^ Damn, piccie didn't attach - but it's an incredibly unhygienic shatter.

Here's another about my father in-law or Por. He's quite the character: a deaf alcoholic in the early stages of Alzheimer's.

Sweeping Imaginary Leaves

What time Por arises I have no idea, but come 7 O' Clock in the evening he wobbles his way back to his little annex and howls incomprehensible abuse at his 14" portable television, and half the time it isn't even f**king switched on. When the cacophony of colourful wailing eventually subsides, I suspect that Por drifts into a peaceful slumber. Dreaming dreams that customarily feature pint upon pint of lao khao (Thai moonshine), an assignment of crates each packed to the brim with Thai rolling tobacco, sparsely clad females offering their commodities in the form of stripping down to the bare flesh and bending over whilst waving large root vegetables suggestively about their person, and brooms!

Yes, brooms! Por is f**king mad for sweeping!

Come half past six in the AM, if you didn't hear the dulcit sheeesh - sheeesh - sheeese - sheeese of Por going hell for leather in the back garden, then you'd have to sadly assume that he was taken in his sleep, eventually succumbed to the toxins of rice whiskey.

The other day Por approached me, forlorn dismay etched deeply into his weathered features.

I was just about to dig into the depths of my pockets for another 20 baht - 'Por obviously requires a top up' - but he hastily stopped me. This was obviously a problem that the sacred liquor was unable to amend.

'What is it Por?' I bellowed into his good ear. "You need a bird? Get on the back of the bike then, I'll drive you up the local knocking shop." Por had recently been making noises about the barren spell of sexual activity that he was currently experiencing.

But with a despondent shake of the head, abandonment carved into his very soul, Por once again responded in the negative.

Eventually I followed his lonesome line of vision which immediately led to the all the answers for this sudden melancholic mood.

He'd swept his f**king broom to death!

(Picture of dead broom here)

Never mind, Por. Let's pop over the shop and get you a brand new shiny one. And a vat of lau khao to iron out the stress of it all.

I hope to God your students are good at maths, if they're not they're f**ked.

This piece is far to complex in its explanation and thin on funny.
You need to edit it down and try to make it more comprehensible and you need to get the social services to give Po the once over.

Thanks for the reply Teddy. When you say 'complex in explanation' do you mean my grammar's a bit retarded, or the piece just didn't flow for you.

Many thanks

It was a mixture of Syllabus English like explanations and descriptions and the subject matter.

You need to lighten up the language and work on the content.

It would be worthwhile effort as it is plain to see you want to write, its just that at the moment that urge is surpassing the implementation.

Calm down, break it up into blocks of simpler wording and inject more humour.
You'll enjoy it more and that in itself will help the humour.

Another try.......

Fishing in northeast Thailand

Having found that the fridge was decidedly lacking in the particulars required to construct a sound and nutritious breakfast, I forewent the usual five rounds of fried egg, bacon and sausage sandwiches, each smeared with half a pint of HP sauce and saddled up my bicycle which has recently come out of retirement with a view to make its reluctant owner somewhat less of a large, pointless vegetable.

My destination, as always in times of crisis, was the local shop where if one is lucky, something that resembles edible fare may be happened upon whilst rooting through the cascade of filth that the shop-keeper has the sheer gumption to put on display - although it does, for reasons totally unfathomable to the contemporary human palate, get purchased and consumed. I, on the other hand, would prefer not to wake up in a puddle of my own filth and eventually opted for a packet of Mama Noodles which I ate dry from the bag after applying the accompanying condiments. Washed down with a five baht bottle of coca-cola, this made for a totally unsatisfactory way to break-fast, so I quickly surmised that I should call for back-up as a shot glass and a small bottle of Lau Khao appeared on the table after a knowing glance was exchanged with the proprietor; yes, this would surely bring some closure to the repast.

Of course with the sacred liquid now present, it was only a matter of time before I noticed a posse of peasants whose forte included sporadic bouts of unskilled labour and the unyielding consummation of Ya-Dong, heading excitedly in the direction of my face. More glasses were produced and soon the steady flow of alcohol began to divert my attention from the whoft of decay which seemed to be seeping from the pores of my new drinking companions.

Communicating with an animated series of grunts, the chaps began to tell me of their plans for the day. The morning would be spent staggering to the nearest lake, making sure they were suitably intoxicated by the time they arrived and an afternoon of fishing would ensue.

With a shove in the right direction from the Lao Khao, I began to vocally reminisce my teenage years which in one way or another always seemed to feature a 'rod in hand situation' - be it waiting patiently for a roach to take a chomp of bait or wanking profusely over episodes of Home and Away.

Although fishing for me was never really about the fish, no, it was the relaxation and escapism factors that went with it which I was attracted to. A pint of maggots in one hand, three litres of Old English Cider in the other and an ounce of extremely powerful cannabis safely ensconced in my tackle box, all ready to be nibbled, quaffed and inhaled within the uncontested English countryside, the only distractions coming in the form of elderly dog-walkers making observations such as 'lovely day for it' or 'that's a long cigarette'.

Back in the present and I decided to challenge the gentleman about their angling technique; what kind of fish were they hoping for; did they use floats or ledgers; what was their preferred hook size; did they require a landing net; did they pre-bate the swim; did they feel the maggot trumps the worm?

My questions were met with looks of puzzlement as one of the chaps produced a pair of f**king electric tongs from a carrier bag, immediately making all of my previous queries academic. Having just romanticized my teenage angling experiences I felt a touch deflated when I realized that these people were going to plunge a pair of electric charged rods into the lake and electrocute every f**ker living in it.

One man's leisure is another man's lunch, I managed to reason before ordering 'one more of those bottles of filth for me and me mates please, bar-steward'.

I think you need to start teaching gym in this school lad.
Otherwise we could have another Nam on our hands!

Maybe you had to be there

^ ^haha - Nice one!

One more...just in case someone thinks its good...

A Fable: The Prince and The Peasant

A Prince strolled nonchalantly along the crop bordered lane towards a backwater convenience store, occasionally fanning himself with a small banana tree leaf. Already present at the store was an unemployable Peasant who had somehow mustered the currency to spend the morning quaffing an unsociable amount of rum. He appeared to be consoling himself with self penned poetry:

'Oh great woe is me; if only the farm could see; that I'm a humble servant; I'll even work for free'
'Yes, I have my demons; they come in the form of drink; but if I have no work to do then I shall surely sink'

About to breach the shop entrance, the Prince immediately became offended by the cacophony of melancholic wailing the Peasant had the nerve to be reciting. So standing beneath the awning he motioned to the proprietor:

'Move this scoundrel from my path to the refrigerator, immediately!' he ordered. 'Not only does this Peasant emit the most vile odour but he also makes the place look thoroughly untidy'.

With this, the Shop-Keeper brandished a shotgun and aiming it at the Peasant's face, asked him sternly to leave.

'Allow the Prince access to the Frigidaire and exit the establishment this instant, we don't want you contaminating his Yakults' the Shop-Keeper bellowed.

Forlorn defeat became etched upon the Peasants face, not only concerning his current predicament but his entire existence.

'Forgive me, sir' he said to the Prince, 'please accept this as a gesture of my most sincere remorse'.
He handed the Prince his last shot glass of liquor before departing.

The Prince cautiously sniffed at the dark red liquid which had just been presented to him and was greeted by a quite stunningly fragrant infusion.

'What is this?" he demanded.

'That there'll be Ya-Dong (rice whiskey infused with herbs and honey), your Highness' answered the Shop-Keeper.

The Prince took a sip. Like Viper venom, the alcohol promptly began tracing through his veins. His disagreeable disposition instantaneously replaced with that of devil may care. His pale complexion transformed into rosy red blotches on his cheeks and nose. His testicles swung lower than they had ever dared venture to go and his voice seemed to have lost all of its tensity.

'Hey, Peasant! PEASAAAAANT! Get yer f**kin' arse back 'ere and let's get on eeeeet!' the Prince called.

A week later the Prince came to in a puddle of his own mess. They had been drinking without relent for seven days and nights and a hangover which felt like death had marched with exacting steps into his head.

He stole a look at the unconscious Peasant lying next to him and through what he thought were his final breaths ordered the Shop-Keeper to 'Shoot that f**ker for High Treason'.

After having been nursed back to health with lots of fresh fruits, water and sleep, the Prince was eager to return to the convenience store to imbibe a few more shots of the sacred Ya-Dong, something he hoped to do in the company of his new chum, the Peasant.

'Any sign of my friend?' He asked the Shop-Keeper

'Erm, well ,no, sir, I shot him in the face if you can remember?' He replied

'Oh bugger! That's right. Say, Shop-Keeper, would you like to join me in a few glasses?'

The Shop-Keeper was hesitant to do so, but eventually he joined the Prince and another solid week of drinking ensued.

A fortnight later, after having once again been nurtured back to health, the Prince arrived at the convenience store only to find it completely deserted and boarded up with a mish-mash of rotting plywood.

'How odd!' he mused, as he continued on regardless to the next shop in the village.

That one makes 'Monkey' look like 'Citizen Kane'

^ Sorry, I'm a bit thick so I'm not able to appreciate the analogy.

One more - feel free to ask me to leave...

Riders On The Storm
I was in the market shopping for stodge when the rain started.

'Dear Rice, I no longer require your services. You have served your purpose fairly efficiently but I have to confess that if you dare have the gumption to appear on my dinner plate again I will locate the nearest chao na (rice farmer) and beat the fish sauce from his pores. Hey, rice! You see this potato? I'm going to bake it, half it, stuff it full of chips, pop it between a pair of thick granary slices and gannet the f**ker! Start taking notes, rice, and grow some f**king balls'.

Initially the light precipitation served as a thoroughly welcomed break from the torrential humidity, as my taxing front-crawl through the market place turned into a leisurely breast-stroke.
With potatoes, bread and beef purchased and ensconced in various orifices of the Honda Wave, I decided that the rain was gentle enough to endure and should I wish to arrive home before the world was instantaneously plunged into darkness - 'Oh, we should really think about taking our next holiday in the tropics, darling! Wouldn't it just be so romantic to watch the sunset every evening from a beach with palm trees and coconuts!' Do what, retard? You do realize that sunsets in the tropics last for about five seconds and are generally just shit, don't you?! ' - I surmised I should leave this minute.

Some 50 billion kick-starts later with the choke open nigh-on to the point of being ripped from its housing, I finally elicited some life from the motorcycle and chugged my way past the late evening shoppers who were busy sniffing and prodding at recently deceased insects. No sooner had I exited the stall bordered avenue, the rain decided to immediately upgrade itself to that of 'tropical monsoon storm'. I glanced back at the clutter from whence I came and saw that the whole f**king market was airborne. Huge parasols which were present to protect the vendors from the unrelenting Issan sun were now serving as projectiles, fish who had previously thought they'd shortly be making up the lion's share of a sea food platter were now merrily swimming down the street and an assortment of fruit and vegetables were congregating in drains and gutters.

Before you could say 'I'd rather be in North Korea', day turned into night as a cloud the size of Bulgaria sort an appropriate parking space.

With this, I obviously only had two avenues I could explore:

a) Find the nearest pub and get totally f**king obliterated before passing out in a gutter.

b) Drive home, 15 kilometres, on a beaten scooter laden with groceries, in the dark, in the eye of a bastard hurricane.

Naturally I opted for (b)..or certain death, if you like.

Donned in only a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, I strapped my helmet on tight, bowed my head against the oncoming surges of rain which were so f**king powerful that it felt like I was being assaulted by an Uzi, and began my journey home through the baron country lanes.

Of course in my haste I forgot a rather important piece of information. The bike had next to no fuel in it - and petrol stations were extremely few and far between.

The first few kilometers were relatively unremarkable. A near miss with a ditch, here, an impromptu swerve around a fallen tree, there, a handful of twats who didn't feel it necessary to turn their main beam off, here and an unprecedented gust of wind there which nearly saw me f**king fly home, there. My visibility was no more than about 4 feet and my eyes were closed some 70 per cent of the time. Obi-Wan Kenobi didn't have shit on me that night. I was driving home, in a tropical storm with my f**king eyes closed! Beat that Yoda!

Half way or so through the trip and I'd just negotiated what I considered to be the most testing section of the route. A steep climb which almost hairpins towards the top where a Buddha can be found. I gave him a ceremonious chorus of beeps and toots in recognition of making an unhindered ascent and carried on. Only seconds later did the important piece of information that I'd neglected to remember, register.

FUCK IT - FUCK IT ALL ON A MAJOR FUCKING SCALE!

I managed a few more metres before the gasoline vapour ceased to assist me any further.

This was most definitely not part of the plan. At first I tried to push the bike along whilst still seated, but it became so tiresome and wearing that I ended up inadvertently swallowing about 5 litres of rain water, so I was resigned to get off and push the f**king thing. The road still had a slightly ascending trajectory which made me swear that little bit louder.

Oh, wait a minute! Why didn't I think of that before? I've got a perfectly good telephone in my pocket! I'll make a quick call to the Mrs. and have her bring me a bottle of petrol! Problem f**king solved! Fantastic, I'm great again..

I fished around in my pockets and first to come out was what use to be a packet of cigarettes. Bollocks, I can't have a cheeky smoke while I wait now. Out next came a sodden assortment of bank notes which were all but perished. Oh well, you win some, you lose some. Finally, out came the telephone, a very wet and very broken telephone. In the heat of pure anger and frustration I think I tried to consume the f**king thing, 'I'm gonna eat you, you BASTARD!'.

Calming down and carrying on I decided to make the best out of an incredibly bad situation and look on this whole ordeal as some much needed exercise, and indeed there was only a mere three or so kilometers to the next gas station.

After a solid 30 minute yomp, I finally reached the petrol station which was of course closed. 'Oh no you f**king don't, you twat' I said to nobody in particular and wheeled the bike onto the station's forecourt. From under the metal shutters of the adjoined building I could see the flickering of a television. I wearily slammed my open palm against the shutters whilst shouting 'give me some f**king num mun (petrol), you lazy bastards, it's only half past f**king seven'.

Fortunately I knew these people so they were quick to react to my plight. Next issue was the fact that my money had evaporated and I had no currency to pay them with.

I looked at Uncle Somjit sternly in the eye and with my last ounce of patience, barked, 'TOMORROW!'

Got home, had a shower, cracked a beer and laughed.

F**king country..

This is a cross between 'It ain't half hot mum' and 'Back to Bataan'
I can feel the intense mugginess and almost smell the petrol.
But I don't see the humour, its just an account of life in the jungle.

Why don't you buy a bag off weed of a police informer in an off white suit
.
That way you could go to jail get raped and then be forced by the evil governor to be the front man for a You Tube dance video.

Then after giving about three billion baht to a guard with a wispy moustache and greasy hair you could escape.

If you do all that and come back on here in three years with anecdotes from the caper, you could end up get a one liner on NewsJack.

Which I might ad is more than I have ever had!

I'm kind of hoping it makes 'Citizen Kane' look like 'Monkey'..

Ok thanks Teddy! I do appreciate your responses.

Must.learn.to.be.funnier.

If you kept the orange jump suit uniform with a tear in the pants and if it had sequins on from the dance routine you could get you on 'Flog It' and tell a few jokes during the valuation.
But given the audience Flog It has I would tell them that you tore the seat of the suit on barbed wire during your escape and leave the rape part out till you get invited onto Chatty Man.

One more effort to amuse...

A Massage with a happy ending?

I was engaged in the time consuming ritual of peeling off my sweat-saturated underpants when a rather buxom Siamese wench barged unannounced into the room and offered me a pair of robust boxer-shorts.

With this I cursed. I cursed because a) the rude harlot had caught me with my pants half-way down, balancing on one foot whilst attempting to free up my shrivelled member from the inside thigh (I demand you unstick, you devious bastard! This here heat has much to answer for; a mere 100 metre walk down the road renders one an incapacitated streak of sticky piss) and b) the boxer-shorts which had been offered, nay given, without being asked for suggested that the pending rubdown would not end with a dramatic spillage of unwanted water. If they give you a towel - jackpot! Pyjama bottoms or boxer shorts - you may as well have stayed at home and had a ferocious wank in the bog.

The massage began and all signs pointed to a full-sack come the conclusion of the two hour pummelling marathon. For one, the masseuse wasn't middle aged or sporting risque garments (a sassy frock, for example, or a pair of 6 inch stilletos, or whips or f**king chains - tight f**king bitch! Go work in a f**king bank or something), she also apparently felt it necessary to press play on a provided stereo which offered up a selection of soothing panpipe classics.

'Listen bitch!' I attemped to subliminally channel my thoughts into her mind with my gaze, 'I don't wanna be deafened by a bunch of f**king flutes, I want two hours of red hot carnage featuring a selection of makeshift dildos and this fist'.

My failed attempt at telepathy saw the masseuse paying some 15 minutes worth of attention to my feet - but then, just as I'd resigned myself to dozing off and letting her get on with it, a curious hand began its journey towards my genitalia -and what's this? I do believe tampering is about to commence!

And indeed it had. A flick here, an accidental bollock brush there and a selection of decidely dangerous sorties into the abyss of the anal passage there.

The massage eventually began to draw to a close (you know, that bit where they for some reason feel it necessary to beat the shit out of you), so being the polite chap I am, I motioned for her to 'finalise' the task.

'Oh no. We don't do that in here' she said.

'What!?' I responded, aghast. 'Your busy bastard hands have turned my nuts numb and I'm f**ked if I'm leaving this place without parting with the contents'

With this I shuffled into the shitter adjoining the room and pretended to have a shower.

He who laughs last, my girl...

Orange jump suits are for posh prisoners, Teddy. Most just walk about in their underpants eating fish head soup with flesh wads of phlegm in it.

Are you already in Jail?