July 28th, 2006, 09:01
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Traffic was thrown into chaos when jo-jo escaped from her underground condominium in Pattaya last night, and charged through the traffic lights on second road before stampeding into Walking Street, scattering street stalls, terrifying locals and tourists alike (except the Chinese, who thought it was part of the show). With a Pamplona-like scene of devastation in her wake, jo-jo was finally subdued outside the Marine Bar by a swift kick in the fanny from one of the local muay-thai boxers.
Speaking in pidgin English, her second language, (she had disgraced herself years before in her home country for breaking the dress code at her New England college and was subsequently exiled to New Guinea) jo-jo tearfully explained that she was desperate for her daily fix of Lacoste or Polo, and that was why she had escaped. "My boyfriend is very kind to me, and tries to help me with my habit, but he only brings me the generic stuff from his local supplier. I'm not a snob, but I really need the real thing, you know, with the proper monogrammes and labels. I mean, what would the locals think?"
By this time, Jo-Jo's boyfriend, an officer with the tourist police (and displaying beautifully manicured hands) had arrived.
"That's it, you old cow," said the officer. "It's finished. What you spend on a shirt costs me a month's salary, and your mobile phone bill is outrageous, not to mention the Volvo."
Ripping the motorola from around her neck, the policeman sped off into the night.
"What am I to do?" mooed jo-jo plaintively "I have no money for hay or my nightly brooks brothers, and who will look after my udder needs?"
Dik, a motor-bike taxi boy, gently put his arm round jo-jo and whispered soothingly in her ear: "No ploblem, buffalo die last week. You stay on farm."
Traffic was thrown into chaos when jo-jo escaped from her underground condominium in Pattaya last night, and charged through the traffic lights on second road before stampeding into Walking Street, scattering street stalls, terrifying locals and tourists alike (except the Chinese, who thought it was part of the show). With a Pamplona-like scene of devastation in her wake, jo-jo was finally subdued outside the Marine Bar by a swift kick in the fanny from one of the local muay-thai boxers.
Speaking in pidgin English, her second language, (she had disgraced herself years before in her home country for breaking the dress code at her New England college and was subsequently exiled to New Guinea) jo-jo tearfully explained that she was desperate for her daily fix of Lacoste or Polo, and that was why she had escaped. "My boyfriend is very kind to me, and tries to help me with my habit, but he only brings me the generic stuff from his local supplier. I'm not a snob, but I really need the real thing, you know, with the proper monogrammes and labels. I mean, what would the locals think?"
By this time, Jo-Jo's boyfriend, an officer with the tourist police (and displaying beautifully manicured hands) had arrived.
"That's it, you old cow," said the officer. "It's finished. What you spend on a shirt costs me a month's salary, and your mobile phone bill is outrageous, not to mention the Volvo."
Ripping the motorola from around her neck, the policeman sped off into the night.
"What am I to do?" mooed jo-jo plaintively "I have no money for hay or my nightly brooks brothers, and who will look after my udder needs?"
Dik, a motor-bike taxi boy, gently put his arm round jo-jo and whispered soothingly in her ear: "No ploblem, buffalo die last week. You stay on farm."