After 20 hours of plane-hopping – the price of getting to Phuket from the U.S. West – the last thing Charlie wanted to do was waste day 1 of his trip sleeping on the pull-out couch of his fleabag Thailand excuse for a hotel. It was time to party, party like an American who knows his way around around a plate of pad thai and $2 hookers.
And so he drank. And he hit on those hookers. And the beer and the jet lag amplified his American bravado.
“Ching-chang chong,” he slurred, intoning a Yankee-Thai accent. “You learn-a the Engrish, you earn-a the dollars.”
Sixteen hours later Charlie learned what $2 really buys you in a Thai brothel: A sore ass and a SharpieDick on the back.
In perfect English.
Charlie’s going to stick to Mexico from now on.
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