Dan Miller Posted March 29 Share Posted March 29 Screen_Recording_20250329_053115_Instagram.mp4 3 Quote Link to comment
Pulci Gorgon Posted April 8 Share Posted April 8 "- Hey doctor, doctor ! Can you tell me : is it serious, are you going to have surgery with your scalpel ? - Stop the autopsy ! " 3 Quote Link to comment
Pulci Gorgon Posted April 18 Share Posted April 18 Two farang bump into each other in Pattaya, and one’s ready to show off. “Buddy, lemme show you how to drink all night and hit half the bars in this town—for barely a buck.” They stop by a fast-food joint, and the first farang orders a sausage for 30 baht. “Alright, here’s the deal. We walk into a bar, get some drinks, then I slip the sausage in my fly. When it’s time to leave, you get down on your knees and start goin’ to suck the sausage. The boss’ll freak, toss us out, no bill, no questions asked.” The second guy’s lookin’ a bit confused. “You kiddin’ me?” “Nah, dead serious,” says the first guy, grinning. “Done it in bars already. Worst case, you get slapped. Best case, free booze and a legendary story for the Romscars.” They hit the first bar. Two beers in, the sausage is in place, and the second farang gets on his knees, like he’s at a buffet in Germany. Sure enough, the owner screams, tosses ‘em out, chairs flying everywhere. They stumble into the street, laughin’ their asses off. “One down,” says the first farang. “Ten more and we’ll be the shitfaced kings of Pattaya—all for the price of a damn frankfurter.” They walk into the second bar, like pros now. Same setup—drinks ordered, sausage in the fly, fake blowjob on the way. But this time, the first guy pulls out a napkin and draws a smiley face on the sausage—two dots and a crooked grin. “Gives it some personality,” he says, deadpan. The second guy bursts out laughin’, but he goes with it. Drops to his knees, starts sucking the sausage. The bartender freezes, yells somethin’ in Thai, and they’re out again, this time with a mop thrown at ‘em. Once outside, they’re cryin’ from laughin’. “Man,” says the second farang, “the smiley face was a bit too much.” “That’s what made it work!” the first one cackles. “Art, buddy. That’s performance art.” They keep the same routine, tweakin’ things at each bar. By the tenth, they’re improvizin’ like crazy—“Don’t judge us, love is love!” At one point, a tourist films ‘em and posts the video on TikTok. It’ll soon be up on Cinederose's Instagram too. By bar twenty, they’re completely wrecked, shoutin’ lines like they’re in a play no one paid to see. It’s barely midnight, but they’ve got that thousand-yard stare, like battle-hardened vets. The guy who’s been on his knees turns to his buddy, all slumped over, eyes bloodshot. “Wait a minute, buddy,” he says. “Can we switch it up a little? I’m startin’ to feel like a circus animal. Kneelin’ down all the time, I’m tired as hell.”The other guy rubs his face, bleary-eyed, like he’s just wakin’ up. “Yeah, I’m with ya,” he says. “I’m tired too... especially since I dropped the sausage when we left the third bar.” 1 3 Quote Link to comment
Rom Posted April 19 Share Posted April 19 Your placing the joke in our board context with the Romscars and Cindederose did not go unnoticed and adds to the humorous effect. But what would have made it even more funny is if you had revealed the identities of the 2 cocksucker drunks who I know from good source were 2 management level evil punters at another ladyboy board. Can you imagine sucking either's wiener? Lots of BMs there seem to like it. 1 Quote Link to comment
Pulci Gorgon Posted April 19 Share Posted April 19 At least, we know this was not Cinederose since he shot the action. I ain’t the kind to snitch on two gay fellas from LBP—especially not when I’m a law-abidin’ friend of the Wandering Sausage, and their kind of humor’s been straightjacketed so long it forgot how to breathe. 1 Quote Link to comment
Cinederose Posted April 20 Share Posted April 20 15 hours ago, Pulci Gorgon said: At least, we know this was not Cinederose since he shot the action. And I thought getting a Room in Bangkok for 150 baht a night was a good deal , I live Rent free in pulcis head , my room is cleaner though and it's a dump , thankfully I don't come here that often 1 1 Quote Link to comment
Pdoggg Posted April 20 Share Posted April 20 Northern Irish Transphobe pic.twitter.com/ltOOyf3yF8— Marc Jennings (@MarcJennings90) April 17, 2025 1 Quote Link to comment
Pulci Gorgon Posted April 27 Share Posted April 27 This little story actually happened in AC and was faithfully reported by someone from that town whose name I won’t reveal — let's just say it starts with an S and ends with an E. One evening, a punter was partying with a fistful of local ladyboys around the hotel pool. (The story doesn’t say exactly who the tourist was — S...e who was partying with them didn’t tell.) Here’s how a bit of the conversation went with one of his new conquests: Him: "You're stunning... you have the most gorgeous body." Her (smiling): "Salamat, I know, aking mahal. It's because I spend a lot of time swimming in the pool." Him: "Well, honey, you might want to spend even more time with your head underwater." 3 Quote Link to comment
Pulci Gorgon Posted May 3 Share Posted May 3 A Smoggy Tale from the Old Country Let me tell you a story. It happened last century, somewhere in the UK. Doesn’t matter exactly where — just picture a cold, grey place where people only smiled when someone else slipped on the ice. The rich had electricity, of course. They paid through the nose for coal imported from god knows where. Everyone else had to wait for whatever scraps the miners could drag up from the pits. And when there wasn’t enough coal, the power went out. Again. There was fog all the time — thick, dirty fog, mixed with chimney smoke and factory filth. People called it “smog.” Some called it foke. And in one very retarded town, they called it phoque. Don’t ask. I told you they're retarded. No internet back then, obviously — this was last century, no power, no computer, no network. So men gathered in clubs. Strange places where nothing good ever happened. You know the type: grim wallpaper, warm gin, and colder glances. One such club was called LBP. No one knew what it meant, and no one dared to ask. The place was full of dull men pretending to be clever, sipping lukewarm tea and asking each other things like, “Are we gay?” for no reason anyone understood. They had guards, too. Not to protect the place — just to kick people out. If you spoke too loud, or wore the wrong coat, or blinked at the wrong moment, someone would snitch you, and you’d be out on the pavement. No trial. No explanation. Just gone. One of the club’s most unpleasant guards was a former corrupt policeman who dreamed of palm trees and tacos. He eventually made it to the U.S. and got himself a job in a supermarket, so everyone called him Piggy Wiggly. Ex-cop, full-time hater of everything. Ugly inside and out. He ended up bagging groceries in the States, but back then he acted like he ran the country. Now here’s where it gets good. One day, there’s another blackout. Big one — something like Spain last week. No power in the whole area. And at the hospital, three women go into labour at the exact same time. Chaos. Candles. Midwives running into walls. No one knows which baby came from which mother. So they call the fathers. First guy is black. (His wife too.) Second is Piggy Wiggly. Third is a man Piggy had kicked out of LBP the week before. No reason, someone had snitched him, then Piggy didn’t like his face. Piggy steps up. The nurses show him three babies — two white, one black. He points to the black baby right away and says, “That one’s mine.” The nurses stare. One of them actually laughs, thinking it’s a joke. But Piggy doesn’t smile. “Sir, that’s clearly not—” “I said that one’s mine.” They try to talk him out of it. They even bring in a psychologist. She asks why he’s so sure about this baby. He looks her straight in the eye and says: “Because I’d rather raise a black baby than risk ending up with the kid of that guy I kicked out of LBP last week.” All characters and events depicted in this story are entirely fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. 1 Quote Link to comment
Pulci Gorgon Posted May 3 Share Posted May 3 A farang is in a Thai hospital bed wearing an oxygen mask over his mouth. "Nurse," he mumbles "are my testicles black ?" The nurse lift his gown, hold his penis in one hand and his testicles in the other. She takes a close look and says, "there is nothing wrong with them sir." The man pulls off his oxygen mask, smiles, and says very slowly, "thanks for that ... it was lovely, but listen very, very carefully : "Are-my-test-re-sults-back ?" 3 Quote Link to comment
Pulci Gorgon Posted May 4 Share Posted May 4 19 hours ago, Pulci Gorgon said: A Smoggy Tale from the Old Country Let me tell you a story. It happened last century, somewhere in the UK. Doesn’t matter exactly where — just picture a cold, grey place where people only smiled when someone else slipped on the ice. The rich had electricity, of course. They paid through the nose for coal imported from god knows where. Everyone else had to wait for whatever scraps the miners could drag up from the pits. And when there wasn’t enough coal, the power went out. Again. There was fog all the time — thick, dirty fog, mixed with chimney smoke and factory filth. People called it “smog.” Some called it foke. And in one very retarded town, they called it phoque. Don’t ask. I told you they're retarded. No internet back then, obviously — this was last century, no power, no computer, no network. So men gathered in clubs. Strange places where nothing good ever happened. You know the type: grim wallpaper, warm gin, and colder glances. One such club was called LBP. No one knew what it meant, and no one dared to ask. The place was full of dull men pretending to be clever, sipping lukewarm tea and asking each other things like, “Are we gay?” for no reason anyone understood. They had guards, too. Not to protect the place — just to kick people out. If you spoke too loud, or wore the wrong coat, or blinked at the wrong moment, someone would snitch you, and you’d be out on the pavement. No trial. No explanation. Just gone. One of the club’s most unpleasant guards was a former corrupt policeman who dreamed of palm trees and tacos. He eventually made it to the U.S. and got himself a job in a supermarket, so everyone called him Piggy Wiggly. Ex-cop, full-time hater of everything. Ugly inside and out. He ended up bagging groceries in the States, but back then he acted like he ran the country. Now here’s where it gets good. One day, there’s another blackout. Big one — something like Spain last week. No power in the whole area. And at the hospital, three women go into labour at the exact same time. Chaos. Candles. Midwives running into walls. No one knows which baby came from which mother. So they call the fathers. First guy is black. (His wife too.) Second is Piggy Wiggly. Third is a man Piggy had kicked out of LBP the week before. No reason, someone had snitched him, then Piggy didn’t like his face. Piggy steps up. The nurses show him three babies — two white, one black. He points to the black baby right away and says, “That one’s mine.” The nurses stare. One of them actually laughs, thinking it’s a joke. But Piggy doesn’t smile. “Sir, that’s clearly not—” “I said that one’s mine.” They try to talk him out of it. They even bring in a psychologist. She asks why he’s so sure about this baby. He looks her straight in the eye and says: “Because I’d rather raise a black baby than risk ending up with the kid of that guy I kicked out of LBP last week.” All characters and events depicted in this story are entirely fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. It is rather curious. I recounted a story set in an entirely fictional town, in an utterly improbable location — and yet, the text appears to have been altered by an unseen hand. Below is a print preview of the original version, exactly as I had written it before posting. 1 Quote Link to comment
Pulci Gorgon Posted May 8 Share Posted May 8 A ladyboy addict went to the doctor complaining of insomnia. The doctor gave him athorough examination but found absolutely nothing physically wrong with him. "Listen", the doctor said, "if you ever expect to cure your insomnia, you just have to stop taking your troubles to bed with you." "I know", said the guy, "but I can't. My wife refuses to sleep alone." 2 Quote Link to comment
Pulci Gorgon Posted May 10 Share Posted May 10 One day, after having sex, my girlfriend told me she used to be a Christian. So I answered : "- It doesn't worry me at all, babe. - Awesome !" She replied". I really so much prefer to be a Christine." 2 Quote Link to comment
Pulci Gorgon Posted May 18 Share Posted May 18 The Frog That Said No So there’s this dude, right? He’s got a problem. His cock is fifty centimeters long. Yeah, you read that right. Five-zero cm — almost 20 inches. It’s not sexy — it’s a medical emergency. Can’t wear jeans. Can’t run. Can’t f… ladies, let alone ladyboys. It’s like carrying a concrete pillar in his pants. Anyway, one day he’s had enough. He hears about some old witch who does… you know, weird fixes. He finds her in a creepy, half-dead house — cobwebs everywhere, the whole place smells like dead cats and dust. Before he can even say a word, she barks: “Shaddup! Don’t talk. Go to Duck Lake. Then into the swamp. Look for the frog. Talk to the frog. Go, go, go!” Weird vibes, but whatever — guy’s desperate. So he goes. He finds the swamp, wades into knee-deep mud… and sure enough — boom — there’s a frog, just chilling. He looks at her and says, “Hey, uh… so my junk’s kinda… too much. Could you help shrink it a little?” The frog puffs up her little throat and croaks: “No.” Suddenly, he feels it — down there — like something just… recalibrated. He checks. 40 centimeters. (Less than 16 inches.) Better, but still kinda dangerous if you sneeze in tight pants. Especially the backdoors. So he tries again. “Hey frog, sorry, but my schlong’s still… too much. Could you… please?” The frog inflates, stares at him, and says again: “No.” Boom. 30 centimeters. (12 inches.) Now we’re talkin’. Almost reasonable. The guy does the math: ask one more time, land at a cool 20. (8 inches.) Perfect size. Everyone wins. So he looks at the frog and goes: “Come on, frog, please…” The frog loses her shit. Starts puffing up like a balloon, angry croaking noises and all. Then she yells: “No. No. And NO!” 3 Quote Link to comment
Pulci Gorgon Posted June 7 Share Posted June 7 It was my very first time in a Bangkok ladyboy bar, back in the day. I was nervous, excited — you know, all that. But the real problem? Something I’d eaten earlier was staging a full-on rebellion in my gut. My stomach was a gas factory ready to explode. The music was blasting — loud enough to wake the dead. Queen, Freddie Mercury at full volume. And then it hit me: No one’s gonna hear a thing over this racket. Right after, the dumbest idea ever popped into my head: What if I fart to the beat? So there I was, syncing every toot to Freddie’s rhythm: Braap. Pfft pfft pfft. Braaap braaaap! Pfft. Braap pfft pfft. Braap pfft pfft! I got totally into it — perfect timing, like I was part of the band. Kept it up for the whole song. When it finally ended, I felt light, relieved, zen even proud of my sneaky performance. Then I looked up. Every ladyboy in the place was staring at me, eyes wide like I’d just dropped my pants on stage. That’s when I realized... I never took my AirPods out. 2 Quote Link to comment
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