What’s up mingemongers and moneyhoneys, my name’s Seven and this is my blog.
After a grueling month of torture in the United States, at time of posting I’ve been back home in Thailand for two days. At the start of the week, I watched my Facebook feed in horror at the sight of millions of Songkran idiots crammed cheek-to-jowl in my neighborhood. It seems all the people who sat out for three years due to Covid fears returned with a retarded vengeance this year. Thank Buddha I missed all of it.
Every time I visit the US after a year away, I find it newly unrecognizable and ridiculous. The people get progressively dumber and the authoritarianism of the State becomes more Orwellian. California teeters on the edge of collapse as prices soar beyond the reach of even middle-class earners and the poor are forced to turn to crime in droves. In the four weeks I was there, three houses in my mom’s neighborhood were burglarized.
As for the crumbling culture, there’s something in the West now called the “Soft Guy Era.” Basically, it’s a guy who expect a girl he’s dating to pay for everything and take care of him as a direct reaction to the Third Wave Feminist girl-boss movement that’s turned women into man-hating assholes and men into entitled bitches. The problem is, though women no longer ‘need’ a man, they want one. So men are reacting by saying things like, “No I won’t pay half thee rent, I’m in my Soft Guy Era” and “How dare you take me to Olive Garden? I’m better than that!” If you’re an expat in TLOS, that’s what you’ve been missing back home. Society has turned itself inside out.
Also, there’s now a thing called ‘whole body deodorant’ that you apparently spray everywhere. Why everyone stinks so bad now, I couldn’t say. Oh, and every TV commercial has a gay and a trans person, and half the ads are for prescription drugs. I think the West has already fallen and is just chugging along like a chicken with its head cut off.
The only improvement I found—and it wasn’t restricted to the US—was the food on offer in Business Class airport lounges. As bad as LAX is, the BC lounge buffet is shockingly adequate. Maybe it’s because the price of a BC ticket borders on the obscene, but it actually made preflight snacking fun, with a wide variety of fare from miso soup to Chinese, fried chicken, a salad bar, pasta, tortilla soup, and nachos, plus a full bar with a dozen different wines, including Stag’s Leap pinot noir.
The food funventure continued at my layover in Taipei, where the Starlux lounge provided truffle bacon cheeseburgers, borsht, full breakkie, braised beef in mushroom sauce, butter chicken, American hot dogs, limitless Asahi on tap, and Stag’s Leap petite sirah.
As the flight got me into BKK late Friday where I became preoccupied with a harem girl till late, I only had one night in the redlight, and that was Saturday. I hit K1 at 19.40 where the stage was packed and half a dozen earlybirds ogled the girls. One limey cunt sat next to his wingman, telling him a story. He spoke so loudly I could follow the narrative from five seats away. Offy came by to squeeze a tequila out of me and proudly show off her thinner frame. She asked how my holiday went. No one else acknowledged by monthlong absence. I spotted two newskinnies plus a lot of familiar hot asses and felt the poisonous mindset of America physically leave me.
In King’s II the aircon seemed to be on the fritz, though the girls were unfazed. Half a dozen came over to wai and say ‘long time no see.’ On the night, I think I must’ve said “bai tiow America” twenty times. There was one new youngin’ onstage in KII. Mena was there to give me a knowing smile. As so many of her friends battle with their weight, she somehow stays fit and slim. I don’t know how she does it. I don’t think she does yaba, so maybe it’s just good genes.
King’s Corner had only 10 girls onstage, because 20 were lined up fishbowl style for a gang of Nipons. A new-to-me hip-hop song blared over the speakers. The rapper in question insisted, “Erybody wanna be like me, erybody wanna be like me.” All I could think was, Uhh, no homey. I bet there are billions of people who have no interest in being like you. The song should go, “Some people wanna be like me.”
The lineup in Virgin was, in a word, excellent. Two stunning 9s rocked the stage like a pair of sex warriors. The sexual potency in that gogo feels like a wakeup slap to the gonads. But aside from a few nods and smiles, nobody seemed to realize I’d been gone for a month. Only the bathroom attendant asked where I’d been. I guess he missed my 20b tips.
From there, I reclined into a chair outside K1 for a beer and mini Cuban. The ping pong show across the soi, sporting a new sign, was stupidly busy, with a constant supply of foreigners streaming in and out. It was similarly busy during the month before my holiday. The show isn’t good. Last I heard, they had only three obese middle-aged women on the clock in there who perform the familiar hideous rituals of the ping-pong, the horrors of which, barring seeing it for yourself, defy description.
The gender breakdown of their customer base is 90 to 10 women vs men. For some reason, the clams really need to see the show. There’s definitely something broken in the psyches of a large portion of the white clam population. I’d call it a morbid sense of self-decrepitude. They watch the show because there but for a few lucky twists of fate would they go. It’s like tonguing a broken tooth, going to a ping pong show. The foreign twat sees herself on that stage, in an alternate universe. Leaving after the show is cathartic. She knows that no matter how bad things get at home, what with her Soft Guy Era boyfriend and catching the clap from that one-night-stand at the Hippodrome, her life could actually be a lot worse.
At around 22.00 my harem girl messaged to say she was on her way, so I bailed from the Pong, making my first night back rather anticlimactic. An hour after posting this, I’ll be in a taxi to Pattaya so next week’s blog should be at least a little more interesting.
In other news, the latest trend among Thailand social media hacks is to steal my photos and post them as their own. I had to report copyright violations three times last week on Facebook. In a way, it’s flattering. These untalented cunts are saying, “Seven, your content is awesome and we are too inept to come up with our own.” And I appreciate that. But you can’t just steal my stuff and post it as if it’s yours. This spate of assholes stealing my work has coincided with a tidal wave of new followers, which is nice, but I kind of liked it better when only 10 dudes knew me and read my stuff. Now my feed is flooded with fucking retards who either 1—call out my Ai photos as fake, like they’re Columbo catching a killer, apparently missing that I clearly state in the title that it’s Ai or 2—some horny jackass who thinks the girl is real and can read his comment asking for sex. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, how long can humanity survive when the world is packed with so many brain-dead morons?
Also, what’s with people on X and FB commenting, “Hey Seven, DM me. I have a question.” The fuck? If you wanna ask something, ask it. Or DM me, I’m not at your beck and call, fuckface. Or better yet, shove your question up your ass. I’m not here for you. I’m here to hit gogos and bang my harem, and that’s it.
My X has been locked for a week because I said cunts who steal photos should be burned alive. I guess the folks at X don’t know the definitions of the words “rhetorical” and “hyperbole.” A happy result has been all the extra time I’ve had to devote to other platforms. A Facebook group I help run exploded in followers over the past five days, from 3,000 to 16,000 since last Wednesday. And in that same vein, between X, Facebook, and Twitter, over a million internet surfers viewed my shit last month, so thank you to everyone who stopped by, and even bigger thanks to those who shared posts (and didn’t just steal the content).
And that’s all the monger that’s fit to ponder for now, friends. Sorry for all the typos. I didn’t proofread. Check back next Sunday for another summary of this redlight life. In the meantime, you can read more Bangkok-related stuff on my Substack: https://bangkokseven.substack.com/
Artwork and photo albums from inside the gogos are available for digital download at https://bentbox.co/bangkoksevenart at super-low prices.
Slideshows from previous blogs going back several years can be found at https://www.youtube.com/c/BangkokSeven
Follow me on Twitter/X @BangkokSeven for daily pics from the redlight, along with these other profiles that’re chock full of photos of hotties.
@bar_thigh
@BangkokNightli2
and until next time fellow BK Bukowskis and Bathshebas, keep your balls (or tits) warm, your beer cold, and cheers to another week above ground in the greatest country on Earth: Thailand.
Thai chick-related posters and prints on canvas can be purchased at
https://www.etsy.com/shop/ThailandNights
Pro Tip Post-Script: In current year, there’s a dearth of punishment for people who make bad decisions, so I’m doing my part. Yet another douchebag left a disparaging comment on my In-N-Out burger photo on Facebook. For that, he’s banned from all of Seven’s redlight photos and videos for life. In fact, a new pastime of mine is checking FB comments to see which cunt should get banned next. It’s time-consuming, because the world population is 90% fucktarded. But I feel it’s my duty to teach dumbasses to shut the fuck up. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: if you post stupid jokes, opinions, quips, or thoughts on my social media, the consequence is, you get blocked.
