Cambodian hangover

I woke up this morning with a terrible Cambodian hangover - I had to find a good reason to go back to London. I sat in the bar where the girls call me handsome while feeding rice whiskey for $0.50 the bowl, which in every world except for this one would be a damn good reason to stay. On average, I have been called handsome every $15 I have spent, which considering the average 2000 pounds my ex-girlfriend needed to perform compliments, it’s another damn good reason to stay, drink and forget.
I have spent one average Cambodian salary in three days in Phnom Penh; half in a bar surrounded by old English perverts, and half to five years old beggars holding a newborn baby sucking dusty air, which in every world except for this one would be a damn good reason for them to move to London. I am clearly aware that everybody is cheating me – the girl pours cheap poison and compliments and the child sells the $24 condensed milk back to the bastard I bought it from, but you better don’t complain: your money is the only injustice policemen are looking for.
One of the most popular activities in Phnom Penh is the “shooting ranges”, where Westerners pay an average American salary (not enough for my ex to perform compliments) to shoot pretty much anything they have always dreamed of – AK-47, M-60 or B-40 grenade launcher - anything that was used in the 13 years of civil war that wiped out 20% of the population, including a beautiful 25 years old girl who was killed the day I was born in the year 1976. If you live long enough to come here. her picture is displayed at the Genocide Museum.
Although my heart and dick have been so far surprisingly untouched, extreme poverty and cheap whiskey have made both of them feel very much alive.
Rats in Phnom Penh are so massive and frightful that if the American government ever sees one, it could treat that as a biological weapon and invade the country.
The main difference between my hometown and Cambodia is that the local drug is crystal meth. They call it “Yama”, who’s the Cambodian God of death, also the first Cambodian word I learned. They also have bigger rats here.
With the same amount of dollars you spend to get high with the God of death, old decrepit American men engage with 12 years old disoriented girls, with a lifespan shorter than an average Mekong rat.
An army of slaves daily serve me and amuse me with an average salary of $5 a day and if you ask them if you have just eaten rats, they even say thank you.
I have my birthday party on Saturday; I rented a boat and we’ll sail down the Mekong. Men high on crystal meth told me there will be organized riots following the political election and amid fears of corruption – so I had no choice but to invite everybody.

A Sapio

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