Just to let everyone know, I'll be fulfilling my part of the Goulash Mix CD Challenge on Monday. Until then, it's not too late to enter. After that point, I will have no sympathy when you try to enter. The only response you'll get from me is a big pot of mush. If you ask what the mush is for, I'll point and yell, "Your face!" And then you'll have to eat the mush with your hands, and only when that has been completed will you be let into the Mix CD Challenge. But like I said, none of this mush stuff will occur until Monday, so rest easy and send in those emails.
Last night, I attempted to start up the magnum opus again. The magnum opus is... well... magnum. It's kind of a secret, but basically I'm writing something very long. Whether it will be a book, teleplay for a Filipino soap opera, or the libretto for a vulgar opera, I have no idea. I've had the idea for a long time, and I've actually been working on it for quite a while. Not consistently, of course. I manage about three good days of production each month. At this pace, you can look forward to reading the completed thing in November of 3856. When the time comes, make sure to ask your alien captor for the unabridged version.
Anyway, the reason I put all of this out here is because I think I'll start serializing my progress here. Get ready, Internet; in case you were worried I didn't churn out enough crappy content already, I'm now vowing to throw down thousands of more words. So, sometime next week, look for the first installment of Brown Fizzie. If you're in the market for a bawdy saga about bordertown cockfighters (unfortunately, I'm being serious) and you specifically want this saga from me, boy howdy, you are in luck. If that's not quite your cup of tea, you better just get over it and show some damn enthusiasm.
If you've been paying attention to the comments lately, you'd know that I'm making a trip to Shreveport this weekend, the gambling mecca of Texas and Louisiana. Some may consider this a bad idea, as my previous gambling trips this year didn't work out so well. This time, it's different. This time, I have a system. I call my system BLACKJACK.
B is for bladder, which I intend to stretch. No matter how many free drinks I'm served by the casino, I will not vacate my seat at the table to use the potty. This way, I make the most of my winning streaks.
L is for lozenges, which will overflow from my pockets. Casinos are chilly, and I'm going to take plenty of precautions against catching a cold.
A is for applesauce, the only suitable food for gambling. Also, if I bring enough, perhaps I can trade a cup for a pull on a nickel slot.
C is for Cody. That's my first name, and it's how I'll introduce myself to the dealers. "Hello, I'm Cody and I'm about to induce the worst day of your professional career."
K is for kleptomania, which I will use to cushion the wallet if I start losing heavily.
J is for jungle mentality, which I will adopt for the entire length of my stay. I'm the lion, they're the gazelles, and it's dinner time. What's for dessert? That's right, the applesauce.
A is for aardvark, the type of animal I'll be purchasing with my winnings.
C is for chalkboard. I will carry one of these around the casino with me, with two big columns, ME and CASINO, to track my progress, along with a series of Garfield characters I'll use to represent the specifics of each hand.
K is for kabbalah, the mystical Jewish art under which I will pick my numbers at the roulette table.
It's that simple: BLACKJACK!
Take a look at the Goulash Mix CD Challenge, if you haven't yet. A few spots remain open. If you willfully ignore the call for the Goulash Mix CD Challenge, your name goes on a list. Who do I send the list to? It ain't Santa, let me tell you that.
I had a brutal day of work today, thus no big, fancy post. I will say three things, though. First, the Texas Rangers suck; they are the Diet Rite of baseball. If I ever see Buck Showalter in my yard, I'm turning on the sprinklers. Second, I wish Gene Wilder were in more movies. I'm not saying make him the next Terminator, but just think how great it'd be if he had a cameo in something like Anaconda 2. Third, I haven't been able to find a Star Wars game for the X Box that'll allow me to play as Lando Calrissian. For $50, I think I could almost get Billy Dee Williams to come out at my house for day, so why should he be so hard to obtain in video game form?
In case you missed it yesterday, there's a little something going on right now called the Goulash Mix CD Challenge. If you want in, email me. If you don't want in, pray for your soul because I take things like this personally. I forgot to note something in yesterday's post about the challenge: if you enter and I discover that we live in the same zip code (as has happened once already), I will deliver your mix CD on foot with the official Goulash Hell Hound in tow. You don't get to keep the GHH, but if I'm roaming the neighborhood, I may as well as bring her with me and let her soil the streets for a change.
I recently completed my two year anniversary at work. One might think I'd mastered my surroundings by now, but that is far from the case. To wit, here are a couple of things I still haven't figured out.
1. Changing the water dispenser. It seems easy enough: just put the jug on the dispenser. The water has to come out somewhere though, doesn't it? I'm worried I'd find that water relief valve and empty the jug onto the breakroom floor just in time for the CEO to step in, slip on the water, and crack his skull. Then he'd get out the corporate cannon and fire me into the dumpster or something like that. As it is, I just use tap water if the jug is looking a little low. "I like it better this way," I tell anyone who comes in midway through.
2. Transferring a phone call. I get like one call a month at work, and very occasionally, these already-occasional calls have to be transferred to someone else. Whenever that happens, I set the phone down very quietly, run swiftly to the desired party's office, and ask them if they know how to pick up a call on my phone. I'm pretty sure I transferred successfully once, but every time since, I either hang up on the person or call my voice mail. (Related entry: I'm not sure how to put someone on hold.)
Also, I don't know where to get tissues and pens. Ten minutes of effort would probably resolve all of these issues, but my hopes are high that before I reach this point, I'll get a robot assistant who can do all this for me.
Alright, let's kick it up a notch! I have decided to undertake a new iniative: from now on, I'm wearing my underwear on the outside of my pants. More importantly, I'm starting a little something called the Goulash Mix CD Challenge. How does it work? Basically, you send me your address, then I send you a mix CD in the mail. Once you receive it, you listen to it until it no longer makes you weep and then you send me a CD back. If, bychance, I send you something and you do not reciprocate, then I hunt you down like a dog and shove beets down your mouth until you black out. No one wants that, except for the beet importers.
Okay then, it's awfully simple. Just send me an email with your address, and a few days later, the mailman will bring you a bundle of joy straight from me. After you receive it, you send a CD back to Goulash Headquarters. Whether you want to include several dozen roses with the CD is your call. Can you dig that? Let us hope so.
How many times in my life have I been mistaken for a male prostitute? Ohhh, I don't know, let's say seven. Almost always, it's a delightfully light-hearted affair, something ripped straight from a sitcom. Last night was the exception. A little Indian guy tried to proposition me, and it was absolutely terrifying.
Here's the set-up. I'm at Barnes and Noble last night, in the nerdiest section of the store (Programming books). Not only am I in the nerdiest section, I am in the nerdiest single shelf (Object Oriented Analysis). There I am, minding my business, when a guy passes by and starts talking to me about the book I'm holding. He seems like a nice enough guy, so we chat back and forth a little bit about software development and where each of us works. He is a tiny Indian man, around 35 years old.
All through this conversation, I'm not really putting it out there. It should be noted that I was wearing pants, and I was also taking pains not to lick my lips and wiggle my booty. I know the effect that has on people (males and females), so I take pains only to use such actions for good and never evil.
Anyway, we're talking and he's slowly getting a little bit weirder. He veers from talking about programming to discussing nutrition. I'm just being friendly at this point; I subsist almost entirely on a diet of bacon grease and butter milk so nutrition doesn't interest me at all. Despite that, I talk to the guy and make nice, even though he is starting to look a little glassy-eyed. And then, he dropped a casual question my way.
"So tell me," he says, "are you open-minded?"
"About what?" I say. "I guess when it comes to nutrition and stuff, I'm pretty open-minded."
"No, not that or your job either. Are you open-minded?"
"I don't understand," I declare. (And in my defense, I didn't. He could've been talking about anything: religion, politics, the designated hitter. Unfortunately, interleague play was the least thing on his mind.)
"How about some night, we get together to talk?" he asks coquettishly.
Ahhhhhhhhhh, I see. While absent-mindedly browsing some computer books, I inadvertently sent out the HUMP ME signal. Woops. Yes, this is all strange, I think, but not totally bizarre. I am, after all, a little bit of a looker.
"I'm sorry, I'm not into that," I tell him. "Good luck with your job." With that, I begin to walk away. If anything, I feel a little sad for the guy. Here he is in Barnes and Noble, trying to hook it up with computer nerds. I am tempted to turn around and yell, "There is someone out there for you, tiny Indian man!"
My new acquaintance, for what it is worth, is not ready to end our interaction. No sir, not by a long shot. He has one last, desperate card to play. And play it he does, thus freaking me out for the rest of my life.
"Wait," he yells. "I'll pay you. You can make a lot of money."
In retrospect, I should've asked how much. I don't know how much male prostitutes make exactly, but I could do a little research and determine where I stand on the scale. Instead, I ran into the childrens book section and cowered for a few minutes.
If someone described all of that to me, I'd probably find it pretty funny: one computer nerd tried to pay another to have sex with him! But when it actually happened to me, laughter was the last thing on my mind. No sir, I went straight to a whispered torrent of profanity that has yet to subside. When it came time to leave the store, I walked out on my tippy toes, wary I'd bump into him again. When I finally got home, I locked the doors and bathed myself over and over again, trying to wash the creepiness from my skin.
Little Indian Man, you need to refine your social skills. Just because someone makes smalltalk about C++ with you does mean that someone trade money for intercourse with you. Take some charm classes, go to the gym, and give 'em hell, tiger. Just keep it out of the programming aisle.
One of my comrades at work got a fancy, fast, new car earlier this week, and he's really putting me to shame. A hot dog cart puts my car to shame, so you can see how bad it'd be with a fancy, fast, new car. At least if you wanted something warmed up, you could stick it in your hot dog cart. My car has some sort of bizarro air conditioning where it blows hot air when I'm going for cold, and cold air when I'm going for warm. The only way to bend the temperature to my will is to push it to maximum force, at which point the car begins to shake violently and shoot lug nuts towards my eyes. With features like that, there's absoltuely no need to pimp this ride, as the kids are saying.
Back to my point, about how my coworkers should all drive crappier pieces of crap than my piece of crap. The past few days, I've shown up to work and felt like I just pulled up in an ox-drawn cart made of rags and livestock feces. It's not just the presence of the fancy car, it's the way my coworkers keep pointing it to me. They keep suggesting that the sight of the fancy, fast, new car in the parking lot next to mine must really get my goat. Well, a little bit, but not nearly as much as the insinuation that my goat's been gotten. And that, friends, is why I have been scheming.
Over the course of this afternoon, whenever I had a free minute, I thought about what vehicle I could bring to work tomorrow to put everyone in their places. I'm not talking a Lexus or a Subaru with power windows; I mean something really impressive that could never be topped. I see two options here. The first is a stealth fighter jet. It'd be worth it solely so that I could fly across the parking lot, then ask someone, "Hey, you pick that up on your radar detector? Yeah, I didn't think so." The other option is a unicorn. I could push it to the limit with a unicorn-driven stealth fighter, but I see no need to get fanciful here.
If either one of those manages its way into my drive-way tonight (hint hint), expect a full report on it tomorrow.
One day, I'll do an assbuster of an entry on shingles and it'll blow some minds. Just like after Dylan went electric, the hordes will storm my comments and tell me how nothing I've done since has had any relevance. They'll scream, "What is all of this crap on eskimo pies? The shingles meant something!" Well, I'll do that entry one day, but not today. I'm just getting through a week of walking around the beach with a great, oozy, horrendously uncomfortable rash on the chest, and there's still enough calamine in my system to euthanize a polar bear. So, for my sake, let's save that little gem for a rainy day.
That's not to say that I didn't enjoy the ol' family vacation. Quite the contrary, we had a large time. Let it never be said I let my immune system get in the way of booze, the wild surf, a trip to Mexico, and breakfast burritos. I'll spork my spleen out for just two of those, so suffering a rash for all four is sort of like trading Manhattan for $24 worth of beads and other trinkets. (I should note here that I've never been to Manhattan so I can't really assess its worth. Also, I don't know what beads are. The simile above was entirely theoretical.)
Anywhozzle, so much rippin' and a-runnin' wears a man out. As such, there's no big finale for this entry. I know, you're used to the big Goulash ending, where I burst out of a birthday cake with my pants onfire, wrestling a giant squid. No such luck today. However, if it will cushion the blow, you should know I have something big planned for later this week. How big? So big that if I dropped it right now, it just make smash through the crust of the crush, then the core, then another layer of crust, before coming to rest on a kitchen table in Bangladesh. Alas, I've said too much. More on this tomorrow, perhaps.
Is it really a vacation without a hurricane and a shingles outbreak? Let's talk tomorrow.
First, no entry tomorrow or Sunday, as I'll be embarking on the Powell Family Annual Vacation with the rest of my paternal side. We'll be hitting up the beaches of the Gulf of Mexico, as well as its liquor stores, corndog stands, shuffleboard supply stores, and reptile exhibits.
Since I've already gone on vacation once this summer, I can't spread this out as long as I'd like; that may be a good thing. Whenever I visit a beach, I always have an awful fear that I'll spend my money, wrack up some debts, and be forced into work as a crab fisherman. I just don't think that would work well. First, I would have a hard time throwing that net on target. Second, I have a healthy dose of respect for the pinchers of a crab. The less time I spend in a beach setting, the more unlikely this already absurd scenario becomes.
That last paragraph leaves me with a question: are those guys really called crab fishermen? Fish have nothing to do with it; it seems more apt to call them crabbermen. Or, if you're feeling mythological, hallowed crab slayers. I'd shy away from using the latter term, if only because it'd encourage those guys to try to kill crabs with battle axes and enchanted talismans (that's actually the correct plural form of that word, I just checked). I don't see this entry turnign around any time soon. Enjoy your weekends, and I'll be back shortly, hopefully with as little net-throwing aptitude as I left with.
As I mentioned a couple of days ago, I got a grill/smoker contraption on Sunday. I feel fully qualified to use the word contraption since I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing with it. If anyone wants to verify that, just ask my neighbors about the giant ball of fire that roared forth from my back yard last night. It was so impressive, I would've got on my roof and started cheering had it not been for the act that my arm was inside the grill when I accidentally gave birth to my first ball of fire. Talk about a pants-soiling experience.
Last night, I was determined to put the new cooking apparatus through its paces. I called my good pal and noted bbq masterblaster, Darbney Coleman, and together, we purchased meat, lighter fluid, and all of that good stuff. We rubbed the meat up, stacked up the coals, and got ready to light that bastard. However, all of our attempts to keep the fire going were met with complete failure. After a minute or two, the fire would inevitably peter out on us. Neither Darby nor I are known as men of patience, so we got out the lighter fluid and sprayed with abandon. I imagine we sprayed so much, the charcoal briquets began taking up a tsunami relief fund. Oh yeah, we were going to fix its wagon.
The problem with our previous fires was that we couldn't get the coals on the far side of the grill to burn. "I can fix that," I said haughtily, as I grabbed by lightin' thingee (no idea what's that called). I reached down into the grill and across it, over to the problem coals. I pulled the trigger on the lighter, I heard a woosh, and suddenly I found myself eating corndogs with Jesus in my happy place. For a split second there, I knew what it was like to arm wrestle with the human torch. After the seven foot tall flame subsided and I got back on my feet, I said, with as much dignity as possible, "Do I still have my eyebrows?"
What's the moral of this story? Well, a little bit of lighter fluid goes a long way. Also, fire whooshes out much faster than I can move my arm. Also, the no-hair-on-the-arm look will never go out of style. Not as long as HEB keeps the lighter fluid on sale, at least.
Last night, Laura made me watch "Queer as Folk" with her. I knew she meant business about that show right after we moved in together. The day our service was transferred over to the new place, she flipped through the channels with the slightest look of consternation on her face. "Where's Showtime?" she asked. "I only got HBO," I replied. "I need Showtime so I can watch Queer as Folk," she said. "Well, you may have to miss an episode or two until we get that sorted out." And then, suddenly, she grabbed me from behind and pressed a butter knife against my jugular. She whispered crazily, "I get Queer as Folk, or I make you bleed. The choice is yours."
Anyway, I watched it last night and I have to say it fulfilled my expectations. That is to say, I certainly don't feel like I got gypped out of any homosexual elements. They promise it right there in the title and they definitely deliver. In fact, they deliver so thoroughly, it'll take me a while to recover. After an hour of that, I sat on my couch until 3 AM, alternately shouting "Heavens to Betsy!" and "I can't believe that was the guy from Talk Soup!" When I finally went to bed, I proceeded to have a very disturbing dream where the governor of Texas, Rick Perry, had moved Nathan Lane in the governor's mansion and refused to comment on the situation.
For my strong reaction, I do not blame the writers or cast of the show, but myself. As someone who found "Sex and the City" almost unimaginably uncomfortable to watch, I had no business in upping the ante with a spirited dose of homosexuality. The next time I want to expand my horizons, I'll do it slowly, with an Elton John CD and a cup of chamomille tea. I will not install a hidden camera in Harvey Firestein's bedroom and force myself to watch its recordings in slow motion, which is where last night was headed.
Gays and lesbians, don't get me wrong here. I will continue to support your push for equality in the eyes of the law and our society, as long as it requires very little effort on my part. I must draw the line somewhere, though, and that line for me is watching the former host of Talk Soup get buggered for several minutes. I forgive your forays on show time, and you forgive Nascar. That's really all I ask.
Dear Lord, I'm hanging on by a thread here, people. Yesterday, I spearheaded a 14 hour tubing trip (not a typo). Sitting in a tube and drinking sounds pretty sweet, but nearly anything spread over 14 hours will wear one's ass out. Throw alcohol into the mix, and one begins to see how the next day could turn into a Bathroompalooza (and trust me, I'm playing the main stage). The few moments that I didn't spend communing with my commode, my hands were full. I had to pick up a washer and dryer, move it into the house, and then hook the damn thing up. I also bought a grill, put it together, and made some nachos. SO EXCUSE ME IF I HAVE NO ENERGY FOR THIS. Bastards.
One more thing! One of the Goulash best buddies is Wilbur Edmund Lybrand, who is starting up a site of his own to chronicle his move to Beverly Hills. Booya, look at all of that fancy crap!
I did two entries for today, this one and then the one below it, about Giving Blood. The one below is more traditional Goulash tomfoolery.
Now for something completely unrelated, but definitely important. I remain very close to my circle of friends from high school. Originally, we banded together because we were dorks who liked to drink; the situation hasn't changed in the nearly ten years since so we've really got no reason to stop hanging out.
In spite of that, that social circle is beginning to fall apart. The core group of guys are all still good friends, but it seems to me that other folks are trying to get in the way of that. Through a bunch of petty, juvenile, mean-spirited nonsense, some are trying to regulate who can and cannot be parts of the group, how and when the members of the group should interact, and so forth. It's ridiculous, particularly when you consider that this group is, at its core, the lamest group of guys in the world.
To anyone who is interested, here is my stance on the issue. My friends are my friends, and no one convinces me otherwise. How many best friends does an individual have throughout his life? Not many, I think, and I'm not going to allow mine to be treated poorly. I say that not just because I think it's important to treat them well, but because, at the very least, I owe it to them. They've been there for me and I'll be there for them, regardless of how anyone feels about the issue. Well, I'll be there until I owe of them some money.
At work today, we had a blood drive. I signed up immediately after I heard about it, just because nothing gets me to spill my bodily fluids like a free Nutter Butter. As I went out to the parking lot today to donate, I stopped to tell a few people where I was going and that I wouldn't be back for a little while. Donating blood isn't a short process; not only do you have to lay there and bleed for several minutes, but you also must answer a questionnaire about your health hhabits and you have to allocate a little bit for recovery (aka the Nutter Butter Buffet). I told all of them that I'd be back in an hour, probably.
Eventually, I returned to the office. I wasn't gone for an hour. No no, I was gone for maybe 3 minutes. That's because I failed the questionnaire. This questionnaire features questions like "Have you ever paid a resident of the Congo in drugs to engage in unprotected sex with you?", and I couldn't pass it. It had nothing to do with my almost-unconscionable habit fo paying residents of the Congo in drugs to engage in unprotected sex with me; I was totally prepared to lie about that little activity. Instead, they told me that I'm now a malaria risk after last week's trip to Belize. Ouch, blood bank, big ouch.
Almost immediately after I left, I had to go back to my office. Since I made such a big deal out of giving blood, everyone noticed my return. I can't assert this, but I believe they were all a little creeped out that I was eliminated from giving blood so quickly. As I walked down the hall, I could feel them thinking, "I must remember never to interact with that scary, creepy, unsanitary man ever again." It's hard to take it as a vote of confidence when the public blood bank refuses to deal with you.
In hindsight, I should've asked the blood bank people for a sticker that said "Too Worldly to Donate Blood". And then, when everyone started to shake their head sadly when I was sent back to work, I would point to it. I would point to it and yell, "Remember this, or I'll cut myself in drench you in mosquito blood." Worldly indeed.
Huge milestone earlier this week. And by huge, I mean HUUUUUUGE. We're talking the size of Louie Anderson after an omelette bar, folks. Yesterday, when I got back to work after vacation, it was my distinct pleasure to realize that...
*that's hardly a drumroll, I'm just asking for a few quarter notes*
*and no, it's not good enough if you just bang your hands on a desk, I want some actual snare drums involved here*
*You know what may sound nice now? Some kettledrums.*
*What? You lost the gloves for your kettledrum mallet? Some operation you're running here. I'll announce now just to spite you.*
My site is now blocked by the web filter at work!
That may not sound like a true accomplishment, but to me, it's a sign that I've made it. Right after I started my job, the powers that be installed a web proxy that kept us from visiting certain sites. In the two years since, I've watched with egg on my face as more and more of the sites I visit are classified as Not for Work Purposes. It burned me up on the inside not to be included. Who the hell is Websense to tell me this site is relevant to my employment? I thought about doing a week of nothing but hardcore porn posts, just to show them. After several months of fuming, I just gave up. Much like being the first black astronaut, this represented a goal I simply could not achieve.
And then, sometime recently, Fortuna smiled in my direction. She didn't just smile as much as she dry-humped me like a lonely German Shepherd. When I got back from vacation and went to check something on the site, I was greeted with a glorious image that read "Access to this web page is restricted at this time." When did it change? When did I make the stunning leap from "vaguely suitable" to "ehhh... we don't like the looks of this"? I have no idea; I believe that my week of nothing but hardcore porn posts had something to do this with it, but I can't be sure.
To commemorate the newly certified status of this site as unacceptable, I would like to offer up the following: weiner weiner weiner, poop poop poop. Now that the blocking has occurred, I have nothing to hold back.
Hey-o, who wants some vacation pictures? I don't have many, but the ones that I have will be shoveled down your throat like gruel at an orphanage. Let's get her going!
(Click continue to see the rest of the post)
One thing that no one says about life at sea is just how swank it is. For confirmation, just take a look above. In how many other bathrooms can you go #2 while shampooing your hair? Tres chic.
More swanky accommodations. After I saw the room, I began to secretly hope that I'd get abducted by a jungle warlord, if only because I'd probably be staying in a bigger room then.
Any malice towards the joint evaporated that first night when I came in and saw a towel sculpture waiting for me. Man, I loved those things. For all I cared, they could've doused me in Hepatitis and I wouldn't have complained as long as the towel sculptures kept coming.
But really, no one goes on vacation to stay in the room. No sir, you go to do things, and do things we did. Unfortunately, the weather didn't cooperate at first. If you look at the picture above, you'll see a little cylinder coming down from the middle of the clouds. Laura, being the world's foremost nautical meteorologist, took one look and loudly declared, "That's a tornado and I think it's coming right from us." The next time I want to clear out a deck on a boat, I must remember to bring her along.
Look, it's a Mexican beach! The boats and the hasty escape they could deliver tempted me a little more with each bar tab that floated my way.
I've taken lots of disturbing pictures in Mexico. In fact, I didn't think I could possibly find a stranger picture taken in the nation. And then, well, I found this pirate on a bench. Suddenly, we have a new front runner.
The next stop was Roatan, an island off the coast of Honduras. If we could get a work visa for Fat Elvis and set him up there, I could confidently declare that I'd found my personal mecca. It was such a cool place.
Here's a look at the beachfront bar/restaurant/snorkel we rocked for the day. It's called Les Boucaniers. They didn't shy away from taking all my money, but could I really complain when it involved a snorkel tour through the world's second largest reef, led by a short, hairy Belgian? I mean, if it was a tall, hairy Belgian, I'd still plunk that money down and feel pretty good about myself.
The only bad part of Roatan? The locals were after my woman. Eventually, I was forcibly removed after throwing a tank of live lobsters at these guys.
Look, it's a Seaward Young Republicans convention!
We also went to Belize. I only got one picture there, as seen above. There's a good reason for that: Belize City is absolutely terrifying. Now I'm no daisy; not only am I pretty much the only white person willing to step foot in Nuevo Laredo right now, but I've seriously considered running for City Council there.
However, Belize City is another beast entirely. In retrospect, I should've just crapped myself out of fear immediately so I could take lots more picture. Instead, I had to fight it out for a whole morning. (It should be noted the islands around Belize are really great, I just didn't get any pictures of them.)
There's your final picture. The mathematical formula for that can be expressed as 1 Ton of Sand in Swimsuit + Ran Out of Money + Trapped Under Dock in Mexico. The sum, of course, is expressed Pissy Pants. (One ton of sand probably doesn't even come close to the actual weight; it was insane. I was shaking sand from unpleasant places for days afterwards.)
It was only one bad moment weighed against roughly fifty bajillion excellent ones, but it serves as a useful reminder: the next time I hit the beach, I do it in a suit made of latex.
Better luck next time, dirty foreigners! I will post some pictures on Tuesday, after the Fourth has passed. Until then, sit on it.
(There was some hosting weirdness while I was away, but I've sorted it all out. You may all behave normally, and immediately discontinue any rioting.)