By Marc J. Randazza
Norodom Sihamoni is the King of Cambodia. I had the opportunity to meet with him recently. I was in a whorehouse on the outskirts of Amsterdam, and we were both stumbling in to the place, baked off our asses. I was high from smoking lemon kush, but His Royal Fucking Highness had a can of gold spray paint and a rag, and he just kept huffing the shit until his face looked like one of those buddha statues — except that he had a much more effeminate physique than the enlightened one.
I thought it was a little weird that the actually King of a country (to the extent that Cambodia is a “real” country) was using such a low-grade method to get high. In fact, before I knew who he was, I asked the bartender at the whorehouse if he was really going to let this guy do that in this place. (It was a pretty classy joint). The bartender said “don’t you know who that is?” I looked at him, and asked “should I?” The bartender laughed for a moment as I looked the guy up and down. Here’s a bald Asian dude, wearing a leather crosspatch harness. It had a thong attachment that appeared to have a butt plug up his ass, from which there was a slight buzzing sound. He had a collar around his neck that said “BITCH” and he stank of feces, which explained the brown smears all over him.
I asked “Is that Arthur Chu?”
The bartender threw a drink in my face:
“YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE! NO THAT IS NOT ARTHUR FUCKING CHU. HAVE SOME FUCKING RESPECT, YOU DAYGO SWINE! That is His Merciful Excellent Majesty Protector, King Norodom Sihamoni, who united the nation, religion, realm, and people of Khmer state, great king who is supported by Buddha and Indra, protector of independence, unification, and peace, King of Cambodia, the Great King in the Kingdom of Cambodia. ( ???????????????????????????????? ??????? ??????? ????????????????? ???????????? ???????????????? ????????????????????????? ???????? ???????? ???????????????????????? ????????? ?????????? ?????????????????? ???????????????????????)”
I said, “I don’t give a fuck if he is Burger King, he smells like shit and he’s scaring all the whores away.”
Bartender tells me “the fucking guy just dropped more Guilders in here than you’ll ever earn in a lifetime, so suck it.”
Realizing that I was either going to have to leave the whorehouse or contend with this shit-covered circus freak, I decided to just talk to the guy – maybe get him to pay for my whores, or at least my drinks.
What follows is my interview with him:
INTERVIEWER: “So hey, Norod, when did you start huffing paint and fucking whores?”
??????? ???????: First time was with my mother, in an outhouse, just outside of Angkor Wat.
INTERVIEWER: Wasn’t it a little cramped?
??????? ???????: Not after I kicked the goat out.
INTERVIEWER: I see, you must tell me all about it.
??????? ???????: Well, I never really expected to make it with Mom, but then after she showed all the other guys in town such a good time, I figured “Wat the hell?” Get it? HA. WAT, you know, like Angkor. Ha ha ha. (huffs paint)
INTERVIEWER: Yeah, I get it. Jesus, stop touching me. You’re covered in shit, dude!
??????? ???????: Yes, but it is MY OWN shit, so it is ok. You see, under my country’s lèse-majesté laws, it is illegal to say it stinks! Ha ha, fuck you all bitches!!!! (huffs paint)
INTERVIEWER: With your mom? Isn’t that a bit odd?
??????? ???????: I don’t think so. Looks don’t mean that much to me in a woman.
INTERVIEWER: Go on…
??????? ??????? Well, we were drunk off our Buddha-fearing asses on Campari, ginger ale, and soda — something my old friend Jerry Falwell called a “fire and brimstone.” But, after the first huff of gold paint, my mom looked better than a Khmer Rouge whore slurping soup made out of her parents’ bones!
INTERVIEWER: Gold paint soaked rags in the crapper with Mom … how interesting. Well, how was it?
??????? ???????: The paint was great, but Mom passed out before I could come.
INTERVIEWER: Do you do it a lot?
??????? ???????: Oh, lots of times. But not in the outhouse. Too many tourists lined up outside, too many flies, too much shit.
INTERVIEWER: I meant the gold paint.
??????? ???????: Every fucking day, motherfucker! Woo!!! (at that point, he fell off his chair, and the butt-plug fell out of his ass — it was shaped like Louis C.K.’s fist with class rings from Thomas Cooley school of law on the fingers) But, I try and get high as fuck. You don’t think that I could support having laws that make it illegal to insult me if I wasn’t wasted off my ass, would you? Do you think I would have a guy locked up for a Facebook post if I didn’t have a rubber fist up my ass while I huffed spray paint? Do you think I would let a 70 year old barber go to jail for social media posts if I wasn’t a completely fucked up deviant wackadoodle? That shit is more fucked up than having your entire ruling class brought out into the fields to farm rice!
??????? ???????: Of course, now you see why I’m here in the Netherlands, Mr. Bonobo! (I have no idea why he called me that). I love the Netherlands – because if there’s one other guy in the world who is as much of a sick fucking douche as me, it is Willem-Alexander! He’s upstairs right now felching a donkey!
At that point, he just started blubbering incoherently and eating the feces off of his nipples. Once and a while, he shouted something like KILLING FIELDS ARE IN MY ASS! SMELL THE GENOCIDE, MOTHERFUCKERS!!! At that point, with the stink and the insanity there, I couldn’t even imagine getting a hard-on. So, I wandered out into the cold Amsterdam night and decided to just walk back to my hotel.
Alone.
In the rain.
And then, in my hotel, with the neon glow pouring in through the windows, I masturbated thinking about getting a blowjob from the Statue of Liberty, while eagles circled overhead, shitting star spangled red, white, and blue guano.
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COPYRIGHT NOTICE: The author hereby grants permission to anyone to reproduce this post for free, without limitation, whether you give credit or not, until Cambodia repeals its lèse-majesté law and releases all people imprisoned for violating it. At that point, this post will be taken down, and all rights to reproduce it will expire.
