The Ping Pong Show

There were just so many questions.

Like, if lungs are fundamentally necessary to smoke cigarettes, was the upside down naked lady technically 'smoking' that Marlboro Light with her reproductive organ?

Should she be worried about cervical cancer?

And how did she propel those glow-in-the dark ping pong balls so far across the room that one nearly hit my travel mate, a girl I call the Brazilian Princess, on the forehead before she absently batted it away?

'I need to go wash my hands now,' she said, leaving me alone to marvel at the skill required to shoot darts from the confines of one's vaginal cavity. What accuracy!

'The Pussy Show' is indeed disgusting and degrading. And it is also as ubiquitous in Bangkok as fried noodles and corrupt pink cab drivers, with more giggling.

We were in the Thai capitol for 9 days waiting on our visas to Burma to be approved. It was Thai New Year time – Happy 2554! Thais celebrate with a three-day water festival that involves squirt gun fights with local kids and everyone else on the streets, including the good-natured cops.

By the third day, we were looking for something a little less wholesome to do.

We found it.

The Brazilian and I covertly shopped around Patpong, the red light/fake watch district, looking for a show. It was around 8 p.m. when we started getting approached by greeters who presented laminated menus of that night’s special.

Most of the ‘specials’ were the same – darts, horn instruments, painting.

‘Maybe we should just have a look inside and see what looks, you know, the least disturbing,’ Princess suggested.

The Super Pussy had a nice neon sign, but the girls had that depressing 'I've-just-been-trafficked-in-from-Laos' vibe going on, so we left.

Queen's was empty, apart from an old white guy chatting up a chubby go-go dancer in the corner. What really killed it was AC/DC. 'Thunderstruck' is mood music for monster truck shows, not housing goldfish in your reproductive organs.

Finally, on our third try I was sold - the DJ was jamming some Snoop Dogg and the vaginal gymnasts were chirpy and smiling, not all strung out on heroin or oppressed by their station in life.

What a breath of fresh air!

We were the only patrons until a curious couple came in, followed by Creepy Indian Guy, who was alone and not nearly as enthusiastic about the novelty of it all as the rest of us. He didn't even applaud when she squirted a whole hot dog OR played taps on the kazoo. I guess there's no accounting for some people's taste...

We wondered if the girls would come up with something for the New Year festival, but I guess opening a bottle of soda water with your pelvis is anatomically easier than pulling the trigger on squirt gun. Go figure.

The fun ended when the mamasans realized we were giggling more than spending and called the Brazilian over for the bill.

'Three thousand baht each?'

The equivalent of $100, I'm not saying the performance wasn't worth that much - anyone who can write a love letter with a Sharpie in your privates deserves some serious cash - but we didn't have it.

So we went for the door, which was promptly blocked by three Thai mob bosses, all women, all built like linebackers, all effectively annoyed. The negotiations started and in less than 60 seconds, the price dropped to $7, a real bargain in my view. And like that, we'd been kicked out of Club NoPhoto.

Lots of Thais I met are pretty ashamed of this style of Bangkok entertainment, including our cab driver that night who offered to drive us straight to the temple to cleanse our sins.

But be encouraged, people of Thailand! A 4' picture of the king hung over the stage, just above the Vaseline-lined ping pong balls.

If that's not patriotism, I don't know what is.