I loved Vietnam—it was great. I still watch war movies—love them.

Sure, I saw some shit, was in the Hundred-and-first. Once, this guy in front of me was bitten in the neck by a snake while we were threading the hill beneath the fire base and he stitched the guy in front of him with his weapon—both died right then and there. That was just moving out.

But I wouldn’t trade it for anything. There is something about being the only round-eye in sight.

I’ve worked for oil companies since Nam. I love Thailand—prettiest girls in the world—and have enjoyed a lot of good Japanese pussy. Forget India, I saw someone die immediately after eating a piece of fruit at a market. The place is so filthy it was unbelievable.

The women back here are terrible. You don’t know how bad you have it—can’t know. It could be worse. You could be in the Arab World. I hate the fuckin’ Arabs. I worked with these two goddamned towel heads out of a trailer in Saudi. In the service and overseas you get used to shitting right next to another guy. But I’m bent over the sink brushing my teeth and this dirty motherfucker takes his left hand—pasted with shit—they don’t use paper—and rinses it off in the sink right under my nose. I wanted to kill him. But you can’t do shit over there. You can’t even keep skin magazines aboard ship, because the religious fucks will board and take it all away, probably to add to their collection.

The best place to work and live is the Philippines. I’m looking to get a gig over their again. It was the best living arrangement I ever had. I was only making thirty-five a year, but that set me well in that economy. I essentially bought a family. I had a nice piece of land with a big house and out buildings. The father ran the place. The sons worked in the fields. The mother cooked. The oldest daughter sucked my dick and I played chess all day on the porch with the grandfather. They were good, wonderful people and the women were beautiful, not like these fat, insane whores over here.

Joe might be the last man I personally know of who lived the old European Colonial fantasy life. I hope he found it again.

The point of including this story is that the oldest daughter was not a whore by our working definition, but a slave girl, which is quite another matter. Joe never thought of her as a whore and carried her picture in his wallet.

If you are stuck in America or some similar feminist matrix, your best bet for satisfactory manly living is usage of an initially semi-compliant woman, who might be more comprehensibly conditioned over time and through intimate contact. In other words, you find yourself a manizer, or a priestess, or even a whore, with a slave girl fetish [a lot of them have this ingrained in them] and then feed that aspect of her personality.

We will cover that in The Garden of Breedin’.