Pinch Us
Pinch Us
January 26th, 2008“Good” morning. Another nasty hangover. Rivaled in nauseous skull-pounding misery only by the last one, December 24. Stumble to the toilet, head and stomach spinning in different directions. Gag. Someone says something about “Prime Minister Samak.” Dry heaves: eaaaghhh! eaaaghhh! He’s decided to take the Defense portfolio as well. Retch. Chalerm is taking the Interior, salivating sons at his side; Vatana gets—nah!—Public Health. R-e-e-e-e-tch. The taste of bile, acid creeping up to scratch soft tissue. Force your head up to the looking glass: who the hell is that? Never again. Never, ever again.
Beep-beep-beep, beep-beep-beep, beep-beepbeep… It’s morning. Again? Wait a minute: it hasn’t happened yet. What a nightmare. Good morning! We’ll work things out—we always do.
“Stability” is just around the corner. Feels good, like a cool northern breeze. Mucking things up a bit, as usual, is Chuwit. But you can’t really blame him: he got screwed. Sure, we have some concerns about how he made his fortune, and his park quite frankly is crap, but at least he’s entertaining, no doubt about that. Just mind the spittle, if you must move in for a closer view.
After all his money is exhausted on billboards and firefighting equipment, he’ll make a great cooking show host. “Lemongrass to cut the fishiness! More! More!” But for now the idea is to pretend that it’s the principle that’s pissed him off, even though we know and he knows that platforms and policies come after. It’s just that this time he’s been locked out of the wheeling and dealing. “Thanks, sucka—as if we’d actually invite a Ratchada kid like you into our club!”
We wish he’d just say it: “Banharn.” You hate him, don’t you? H-A-T-E. Just say it, man of the people. We can see that “B” on your pursed lips, your spotty mustache quivering. We don’t hate Banharn, though. Not after that nightmare. Compared to the shit that bubbled up from the depths of our subconscious, he looks pretty good. Stability, here we come!
Beep-beep-beep, beep-beep-beep, beep-beep-beep… It’s morning. Another nasty hangover.
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