What I Did On My Vacation

[whispering_surrender]

Yay! Congrats MG! Isn't it wonderful?

Whisp

 

[MathGirl]

Go Cardinal!

Yay! Congrats MG! Isn't it wonderful?

Dear WS,
Yep.
MG

Well, I'm afraid this opens with us still on that big white boat out there somewhere south of Mexico. This is perilously close to becoming another DFW, and we sure don't want a repeat of that travesty, do we? Of course we don't. Heading for Mazatlan, which I'm sure you know, is ON mexico, not IN mexico. Something like that could make a big, big difference when you're traveling by boat. Even one as big as ours. Let's say you wanted to go to Mexico City. Well, that's very definitely IN Mexico. Way up there in the very bowels of the country. Think of the head of steam that boat would have to get up to make it all that way. To say nothing of the big gouge it would leave in the landscape. Let's face it, boats are limited in their capacity to reach places. Oklahoma, for instance. I'll bet it's a long time between cruise boats in the Sooner Memorial Harbor in Oklahoma City. Well, that's enough of that. End of subject. Finito. It was after lunch, ... used the room spray, learned the origin of all the B.Franklins, etc. Been married for hours, so the novelty had worn off. Besides, I was a little sore from our very enthusiastic celebration. Not that I'm complaining, mind you. I like it that way. We were walking around the deck with Louise and Howard when we ran into the old folks I'd met playing shuffleboard. I tried to introduce everyone, but I knew the old guy only as Chief or The Old Fucker. Well, I also knew that he was seventy three and could still get it up, but I didn't think it was proper to include those facts in an introduction. Especially since Howard was having his little problem at times and might think I was poking fun at him. Anyway, Marge introduced everyone sort of. She was on her best behavior and didn't use a single cuss word in the first couple of sentences. The Old Fucker's name turned out to be Art. He's also known as Chief, and I believe I mentioned that. Of course I did. She, Marge that is, didn't mention that the Old Fucker could still get it up. I thought that was nice, for Howard's sake. I'm like that, you know. Sensitive to the feelings of others. When Art learned that Howard was a ugggh urologist, he got some free medical advice about a prostate gland that had been acting up on him. I guess that's common in old timers, and I'm glad I don't have one. A prostate, that is. Well, I'm also glad I don't have an old timer. John has one, and that's plenty for a couple. Prostate, I mean. Man and woman, that is. Of course you knew that. If you have one, you had better be prepared for trouble. According to Howard, it's going to act up on you, sooner or later. Howard knows about that stuff, and he says every man's prostate acts up on him eventually. Good thing for Howard, though, because he makes most of his his money off prostates that act up on people. I don't know what prostates do when they act up, and I don't think I want to find out. That's enough about that. End of subject. Finito. There were still birds up there, and I was hoping to see somebody else get a guano deposit, but no luck. Actually witnessing the impact of that bolus of bird numero dos on that lady's head was definitely one of the high points of the trip. I mean, it's not often you can see something like that live, up close, and in person. Whop. Splat. I felt truly blessed. The lady was the one who got anointed, though, and that made it even better. I doubt my enthusiasm would have been so heartfelt had I been the recipient of the guano. Well, enough about that. End of subject. Finito. We were still at sea, since that was an at sea day. I believe I mentioned that earlier. I mean, when the morning boat newspaper says we're going to be at sea, we're at sea. They don't fool around about stuff like that. I guess the boat newspaper people ask Lago and his boys upstairs where they might expect the boat to be the next day and the nature of the surroundings thereat. Then they let the passengers know in the newspaper. In fact, we knew we were going to be at sea that day a couple of months before. It's in the published itinerary you get when you sign on as a passenger. It's not like you just get on and hope Lago takes you somewhere interesting. You don't have to worry about ending up in Turkey, American Samoa, or Bolivia, depending on where Lago felt like going. No way, Jose. The trip is all planned, and Lago and his boys just drive. No stopping by someplace like Iceland or Madagascar so the assistant captain can visit his girlfriend, or anything like that. When the itinerary says you're going to be at sea, well, Lago and his boys had damned well better make sure that's where you are. At sea, I mean. I thought I'd better set you straight on that, in case you thought we were sort of aimlessly wandering around down there. I think the guys at that canal thing also appreciate a little advance warning when something as big as our boat shows up and wants through. I'm pretty sure it involves more than just driving up, honking the horn, and yelling out the window at everybody to get the hell out of the way because we're coming through. Maybe I'm wrong, but I'll bet I'm not. I'm like that, you know. Usually right. Of course you know that. The haze disappeared, and you could see for miles, except there wasn't anything to see. No, I didn't mean that YOU could see for miles, because you weren't there. Of course you weren't. We both know that. I suppose you may have been able to see for miles where you were, too, but if you were in S Cal you can seldom see for miles there. Unless you like the ocean, of course. For looking at, I mean. On the boat. It was sort of sea blue, as I suppose you could have guessed. I didn't care much for looking at the ocean, because that got me to thinking about all those creatures down there doing number dos and swimming around in it. I think that's about all they do. Swim, eat each other, turn each other into numero two, discharge it, swim, etc. Sounds awfully boring, but I don't think those creatures mind much. Let's face it, the truly brilliant sea creatures have IQs that start with a decimal and a bunch of zeros. The less intellectual species require extensive use of negagive logs to even approximate their smarts. It's my experience that the boredom threshold is inversely proportional to intelligence. High IQ, easily bored. If we assume that, then we would have to conclude that aquatic life forms are essentially ennui free. Of course spending all their time dodging lumps, wads, clumps, piles, and drifts of number dos gives them something to do. I expect that the imminent threat of being eaten alive would also add some excitement to everyday life. I still think that the lucky ones are those whose humdrum existence is foreshortened by their becoming part of a nice mixed seafood platter. Well, enough about that. End of subject. Finito. Auntie decided she was getting fat, so she announced that she was going on a diet. Louise is pretty smart, although she never took anything hard in school, but that's about the dumbest thing a person could possibly try on that trip. I mean it's easy to diet if all you have available is gruel or celery three times a day, but the grub on that trip was really outstanding. I can recognize that when I see it, you know. Outstanding grub, I mean. Some people go on those cruises mainly to eat. Some go to play cards, some to get drunk and stay that way, some to see the sights, some to get away from it all, and some for all of the above and/or some other things. Like us. Many, though, go for the chow. I just gorged myself on everyday stuff for breakfasts, lunches, and between meal snacks. Dinners, though, gave you a choice of three different entrees with accompanying side dishes and it was a great opportunity to try things I'd never had. Like French Chicken and Lobster Thermidor. Some of the world's best chefs work on those cruise lines, and some of them are famous for their grub. You could have all three entrees, if you wanted, or as much as you wanted of any combination. Once, for example, they had urggl escargot as appetizers before dinner one evening. Served in a little tray with individual holes for each snail. Howard loved the stuff and ate his, mine, Auntie's, and four more orders that Amat the short, hairy Turkish waiter brought for him. He still smelled like garlic the next day. Howard, I mean, not Amat. Actually, I didn't even see Amat again until dinner the next night. Those people just sort of disappear somewhere into the bowels of the ship and only appear when they're needed. I guess they store them in some sort of closet way down by the motor when they aren't needed. Ummm... Oh... You could spot the tables of heavy eaters. The room seemed to sort of tilt in their direction. I'm surprised that Lago didn't make them disperse around the dining room to prevent overbalancing in one direction and turning the boat over. Those who were on the trip for the chow, I mean. They tended to bunch together and seemed to know each other. Sort of a fraternity of the flesh. They were all fat, of course, and it was easy to see how they got that way. I mean I thought I could eat with the best of them, but those feeders put me to shame. I'll bet that a twenty thousand Kcal meal wasn't unusual for some of them. One dinner! I doubt that I ever put away more than a mere six or seven Kcal at one sitting. Compared to them, I was an anorexic who just picked at my food and in imminent danger of kwashiorcor. If you ever saw the part of the movie The Meaning of Life, Monty Python, where Mr. Creosote ate dinner, you'll know what I'm talking about. They had decent manners and didn't see Ralph or undergo catastrophic deconstruction like Mr Creosote, but they put it away like Mr C. Well, Auntie decides to go on a diet in the middle of all that eating. Shrimp, prime rib, filet mignon, rack of lamb, lobster, French grub, fabulous desserts, etc., and Louise decided she wants to go on a diet. Howard said that was the single dumbest fucking thing he ever heard of. John ignored her, as usual. Since I'm family, she fully expected me to diet along with her. Moral support or something. Hah! Fat chance, Moosebreath. Well, Aunty's diet lasted long enough for her to get grumpy because we were all nonsupportive. About twenty minutes. Then the guy with the pina colada cart came around. She had three in about ten minutes, and Howard had to help her to their shoebox downstairs for a nap. I doubt if Louise cared whether or not Howard could get it up when they got there. Aunty loves to drink, and she has just about zero tolerance for alcohol. It's interesting to see her get drunk in about ten minutes. She goes from completely sober to plastered with no stopoff for happy, tipsy, or maudlin in between. She can also sober up again in a few minutes and repeat the process over and over again. Well, enough on that. End of subject. Finito. End of subject. Finito. Oh, I already said that; sorry. This might be a good time to mention the population demographics of those on board that boat. I believe you will find it stunningly dull. Between the paying customers and the hired help on the boat, there was a representative of almost every racial, ethnic, religous, sexual orientation, and lunatic fringe group you could think of. Just to name a very few, there were kikes, negros, limp wristers, bohunks, teeney boppers, John Birchers, racist pigs, fat girls, ragheads, pissants, sand niggers, nips, spics, limp dicks, dagos, cunts, elitist running dogs, jungle bunnies, burrheads, sheenies, split lickers, wogs, grease balls, numismatists, whitebreads, jigs, southpaws, landlubbers, old goats, dope fiends, pinkos, Red Sea pedestrians, felons, young whippersnappers, micks, maggot gaggers, porcine hedonists, morons, crater faces, wasps, mackerel snappers, droolers, cross dressers, bog trotters, hunkies, four flushers, jock sniffers, hawgs, camel jockeys, gimps, rump riders, coots, monkey's uncles, assholes, sheep fuckers, stink fingers, portagees, ambulance chasers, muff divers, BO Plentys, jive ass nigras, crones, weenie waggers, japs, slopes, liver lippers, swishing queens, wimps, codgers, shit eaters, fart faces, sumbitches, zit faces, baldies, flakes, buttfuckers, dopers, shitheels, pinos, moustache petes, pot wallopers, tree huggers, nose pickers, pencil dicks, faggots, bible thumpers, back door boys, cunt lappers, gator baits, meat beaters, roundheels, stoop laborers, feebs, dingleberries, hairballs, horse's asses, limeys, flatlanders, pinchees cabrones, crips, snaggle toothed hags, papists, whoresons, weak sisters, heathens, frogs, knuckleheads, cholos, pachucos, a-rabs, beaners, pinheads, cocksuckers, holy rollers, portsiders, pill rollers, peckerheads, buzzard gaggers, perverts, jewboys, shines, philanderers, gooks, bastards, pecker checkers, blimps, ricans, brown stripers, swampers, krauts, ruskies, redheads, worry warts, seat sniffers, chinks, coons, shitheads, slant eyes, oinkers, groin gropers, bottle blondes, pendejos, motherfuckers, wops, dumpster diners, pants pissers, half breeds, old buzzards, colon trollers, queers, airheads, bitches, nutcases, greasers, guineas, walleyes, Tyrones, shitasses, runts, fat boys, she males, coon asses, crackers, spear chuckers, dickheads, homos, pederasts, rednecks, oles, bull dykes, huns, flashers, real dogs, jigaboos, towelheads, jack mormons, white trash, okies, boy toys, whiteys, yellow dog democrats, cornholers, bird brains, mofos, shanker mechanics, codgers, fart snorters, good ol' boys, southpaws, rump rangers, nesters, meatheads, hags, abos, trailer trash, shit kickers, phillies, polocks, etc. This is only a partial list, but I think it's enough to give you the general idea of the ethnic and ideological diversity of the inhabitants of that big boat. Certainly enough so that I'll get letters. If I've left you out, I'm terribly sorry. Possibly you could write a letter of outrage to the editor of your hometown newspaper. You could refer to the cruise company's literture for a more complete list. Howard refers to himself as a purebred, native American Jewboy Kike. I guess I'm a sort of half breed, since Mom's a Yid and Dad's a redneck shit-kicker. That makes me sort of a Jewkie. Auntie is a readhead, and that says it all. John is just a plain WASP, but he can also be several of the above-listed at times. Well, enough of that. End of subject. Finito.
Ps. Go Cardinal!

 

[Rumple Foreskin]

Let me see now, MathGirl gets mad as hell thinking about the only B she got in college, so she and John get married at sea. Makes you wonder what she does when thinking happy thoughts.

Between MG, WS and raphy, this joint's starting to seem like a Honeymoon Hide-away. Congrats and best wishes to all of you.

Rumple Foreskin

 

[MathGirl]

Speaking of shit .....

Between MG, WS and raphy, this joint's starting to seem like a Honeymoon Hide-away.

Dear Rumple,
Okay, okay. I'll try to be low key about it in the future.
MG

Believe it or not, we were still on that damned boat, still in that one small area of the Pacific Ocean. The boat kept going towards Mazatlan, but I've been stuck out there at sea for a long time. These letters just don't seem to be getting us much closer, and, frankly, it's beginning to be something of a strain on my already tenuous patience. We seem to be getting into another of those DFW-Miami situations,here, and we're all starting to get a little cranky. I know you need the details, though, so I'm willing to keep writing to satisfy your unquenchable thirst for knokwledge. Did I mention that the rooms on that boat had little safes in them? Just in case I'd forgotten, I thought I'd better mention that. Well, they did. I've decided I'd like to have a safe here at home. Having had access to a safe on the boat, I felt something of a vacuum of my life when I got home to find myself in a state of safelessness. I actually went to a place that sells safes the other day. It's a security company on my way to the gym, so I just stopped in. I'd driven by it a hundred times, but I'd never thought of going in there until I discovered the delights of safe ownership on that trip. They had a great bargain on a safe they'd taken in on trade. I guess safes are like cars. You trade in the old one when you get a new one. I didn't know safes wore out. I don't think they do. It isn't as if they have many moving parts, you know. It's probably a matter of someone wanting a more stylish model. More chrome, racier lines, something like that. I've never seen a safe that I'd call really racy or streamlined, though. You seldom look at a safe and think of speed. I mean, a safe manufacturer is quite unlikely to have a Greased Lightning model in their produce line. Know what I mean? Of course you do. They just aren't like that. Streamlined and/or speedy, I mean. Just a glance at even the most modern safes would make it clear that they are hardly what you would call aerodynamic. It's my opinion that aerodynamicism in safes is approximately as useful as nipples on roosters or bikini bras on geese. Let's face it, safes are installed to be essentially immobile and, hopefully, remain so. Anyway, I fell in love with a lovely old Mosler, about the size of a really big side by side refrigerator freezer, but deeper. A real classic. Black, with gold leaf lettering on the door. Door almost a foot thick. I thought it would look very nice in my little office upstairs. I'm not sure about getting it up the stairs, though, because the guy says it weighs a little over three tons. About twice the mass of my car and considerably less mobile. Well, safes are meant to be that way, aren't they? Of course they are. Immoble, I mean. Those things aren't very flexible when it comes to getting them around corners and through doorways, either. That's another characteristic of safes, you know. Rigidity. Also, if I ever got it upstairs, it might come back downstairs faster and by a more direct route than it got up there. Make its own little basement, too, while it was at it. I'm sure the Homeowners' Association would have something to say about that. Probably the same sort of reaction they had when I applied for a permit to install a garderobe upstairs. Fat chance, Moosebreath. Well, I decided that was impractical, but I can dream, can't I? Of course I can. I can think about having that beautiful old Mosler with the gold leaf, day door,and all the little drawers inside, you know, and fantasize about all the neat stuff I would have to buy to fill it up. You can't have a big safe and leave it empty, you know. It just isn't done. I would have to get into precious metal bullion. I obviously couldn't afford to fill it with gold, and not even silver. I mean the thing is huge. I'd probably have to settle for aluminum or maybe iron ingots. Possibly lead. I could also keep my dishes and most of my clothes in there. Well, enough about that. End of subject. Finito. Let's see, where was I before I got off onto the safe subject? Oh, yes, heading for Mexico. At least that's where Lago and the boys upstairs were supposed to be taking us, and I had no reason to expect anything otherwise. I got a new Kodak 6330 digital camera for the trip, and I took dozens of pictures. I suppose my tropical cruise photography is a little different from most persons', but I have saved some really good photos that I will treasure always. There's one of Louise, asleep in the sun with her mouth open and drooling. A great closeup of a mole on a skinny woman's back that's slightly larger than a quarter. The mole, I mean, not her back. Truly a spectacular specimen, if you're a mole fancier. There's also a facial shot of the same woman that I took when she wasn't looking. She has the worse overbite I've ever seen. John said she was buck toothed enough to eat dinner through a cyclone fence. My personal favorite is of a guy who was seasick and having projectile vomiting over the side of the boat. I caught the whole initial upheaval of his gastric contents. He was full, too. A real Mr Creosote, I might add. I wish I'd had the presence of mind to set the camera on the movie mode. It does that, you know. The Kodak, I mean. I think I also took a picture of the canal thing, but I can't seem to find it. I sure wish I'd been able to photograph the high speed arrival of that guano on the lady's head. I believe I gave you some indication of the ethnic and personal profiles of the passengers and hired hands on the boat. That was by no means comelete, nor was it meant to be. Did I mention that there were some portagees there? I thought so. I just wanted you to have some idea of the type of people I was on that boat with. The last letter got us to about three pee emm, I believe, and that meant it was nap time. Nap time was from three to six every pee emm. That doesn't mean that we slept for three hours, though. Au contraire, Pierre. I just got used to thinking of our little pee emm routine as nap time. Every day at about that time, John and I would go to a quiet little bar that was usually almost empty at that time of day. That's about fifteen hundred hours, in case you prefer your time that way. I don't know how many bells it would be on the dog watch or whatever those seafaring types would call it in that ridiculous time they use. I'd prefer not to even think about it, because it makes me uneasy. Seagoing time with dog watches and that sort of stuff, I mean. There were something like twenty bars on that boat, so there was absolutely no excuse for anyone to walk around suffering from the nagging pains of sobriety. Most passengers seemed to make the most of the abundance of bars, saloons, cocktail lounges, watering holes, low dives, beer joints, etc. Had their been roadblocks like they have around here on New Year's Eve, finding a passenger with a blood alcohol concentration below the legal limit would have been cause for widespread disbelief. BACs are expressed in milligrams of ethanol per deciliter of blood, you know. But of course you knew that. Sure you did. Now wh... Oh ... Nap time, bar... There was a nice older guy named Jesus tending bar there every day. That's Haysoos, you know. Of course you do. We would take a corner booth, have a drink, hold hands, and sort of get in the mood. That started nap time. Nap time ended with a shower together so nobody got lonesome, and getting dressed for the evening. Nap time usually involved about an hour of exhausted sleep, too. I'm sure you don't care, but we ... did it somewhere between twenty two and forty times on that ten day trip. It seemed like we spent most of the time getting ready to do it, doing it, and getting over it. Lots of time spent in postcoital stupor, which is one of my favorite ways to be. We actually could have had a pefectly nice time and saved a lot of money by just staying at a Motel 6 in Modesto for a couple of weeks. As long as there was a Denny's next door, of course. John just paid a lot for scenery, the canal thing, expensive ambience, etc., but it was nice. The imprecise statement of summation of times doing it is because it was often hard to decide when one thing ends, another starts, or is it just a continuation of what was going on before. You know what I mean? Of course you do. Twenty two minimum, though, and that's the count using the most conservative possible parameters. That, of course, doesn't include incidental collisions in which only one person was the active participant. Well, actually, both participated. It's just that one person was the doer and the other the doee. There was quite a lot of that Like getting John awake in the aye emm, interruptions while changing clothes, getting up to pee at three aye emm and not getting back to sleep until four, etc. Well, we hadn't been together for months, and it was only natural. Besides, luxury cruises seem conducive to that sort of thing, and there was the novelty of being married and no longer living in sin, although I see nothing whatsoever wrong with a little sinning now and then. In fact, I've experienced quite a lot of very enjoyable sinning in my life, and I don't seem any the worse for it. Besides, sinners are a lot more fun to be around. I mean, if Howard had been, say, a really serious Jehovah's Witness, it would have sort of thrown a wet blanket on the whole thing. Besides, we would have spent a lot of time hiding behind the couch when he knocked on the door trying to give us those damned pamphlets they love to distribute. On those boats, I think they make it romantic so they don't have to entertain people constantly. I mean, if people are making their own fun, the hired help on the boats don't need to entertain them. Makes good economic sense to me. I'm sure you would agree. Of course you would. I didn't ask Auntie for an accounting of what she and Howard did, because I didn't want to know. I only know that it wasn't as much as Auntie would have preferred, because of Howard's little problem sometimes. Well, that's enough about that. End of subject. Finito. We had predinner cocktails with Marge and Art. You remember them, the newlyweds in their seventies. Marge made sure everyone knew that she and the Old Fucker had been doing the same things John and I had during nap time. She was very proud of the Old Fucker's ability to get it up. He probably wished Marge wouldn't tell everyone they met about his ability to get it up. Well, I suppose it's better than her complaining about his inability. After all, we had Louise to carry the ball on that subject. I didn't think it appropriate to mention that John could, too. Get it up, I mean. Of course it's sort of assumed that someone his age can. He's forty, you know. Well, possibly not, but now you do. I personally didn't think it was anyone else's business. I'm that way, you know. Of course you do. End of subject. Finito. I had lobster thermidor for dinner. I think any lobster would be grateful to be saved from a life of crawling around in a slime of multispecies number dos and turned into a thermidor. Let's face it, the poor swimming creatures have it bad enough. They swim around in the number dos of themselves and other species 24/7. The unfortunate lobsters, though, don't even swim. They crawl, wriggle, or walk around on the bottom, and EVERYTHING falls down on them. It would be like walking around in a continuous drizzle of shit without an umbrella. Not even a hat or goggles, either. Even a newspaper to hold over the head would be useful, but no luck for the lobsters. Would you like that kind of life? No, of course you wouldn't. Lobsters are not very agile, and it's hard to see down there, so I suppose it isn't unusual for a lobster to walk headlong into a huge pile of whale BM. How would you like that? You're moseying along, minding your own business, and suddenly you're buried head first and waist deep in a pile of whale BM the size of a Mazda 626 sedan. I certainly wouldn't like it much, and I doubt that those poor lobsters are very fond of it, either. No wonder they're so eager to get caught and have it over with. Being part of a nice lobster salad, newberg, or thermidor would be much better than walking around in a constant downpour of numero two. I tried not to think about what the delicious lobster had been eating and had turned into lobster meat. I knew, though, that a significant percentage of the average lobster's diet was multispecies shit. I actually have great respect for lobsters. They can turn what is essentially a diet of excrement into rather delicious lobster meat. No mean feat. Well, I had two thermidors, and seriously thought about asking for a third, but everyone else at the table was finished eating. Cherries jubilee for dessert, and that's one of the best things I ever tasted. I only had two. Like the baked Alaska, they also served the CJ au flambe. Yep, set fire to them right at the table. I didn't want to appear porcine. From overeading, I mean. There was enough of that over in the corner where the professional eaters sat. Piggishness, I mean. Besides, there was that midnight buffet in my future. I'd become rather fond of that. Those eaters were a jolly bunch and seemed to have a great time. Of course they were getting world class chow and all they wanted. They were like pigs in you know what. You do know what, don't you? Of course you do. They did everything but grunt and roll around in it. Every evening as we left the dining room, our dinner finished, they were all still there, chowing down. It always looked like the chowers down were just getting into the really serious scarfing as we were leaving. I felt sorry for the poor waiters who drew those tables. Like John Cleese with Mr Creosote. Well, enough about that. End of subject. Finito. After dinner, we walked around the deck a couple of time to let things settle, then we went to the casino. John was sitting at the blackjack table, and I was standing there watching. Somebody let a fart that was one of the most horrible things I've ever smelled. Well, I didn't actually hear the fart, but the smell could have only been the result thereof. Oh, it might possibly have been someone shitting his of her pants, but I think it was probably a fart. And just after a great dinner, too. Be that as it may, it was worse than my cat when I give him ice cream, and that's NASTY. It was thick enough to drive a nail into. I think it was the fat lady sitting next to John, but nobody ever admitted it. When it got too awful to just ignore, she said, "Oh, Dear." I had a sudden urge to get some fresh air. The dealer called for a substitute, saying she needed to go to the restroom. John went outside with me, and the only one who didn't leave was the fat lady I suspected of having done the deed. The substitute dealer just closed the game down and walked off in disgust. Even people at nearby slot machines suddenly lost their urge to gamble. That fat lady must have liked it, though, because I could see through the window that she never moved. Maybe she had just lost consciousness. As we watched from a safe vantage point outside, a couple walked merrily into the casino, entered the blast radius, assumed facial expressions of horror, performed a nifty about face, and marched right back out again. Whoever did it deserved to either be congratualted or thrown overboard. Possibly both. In that order. Aren't there maritime laws about those things? Can't the offender be keelhauled, or cornholed, or something like that? I'll bet if that happened upstairs, Lago and his boys would have cleared the bridge. Then we would have been without a driver and might have run into Mexico. I personally thought they should have called some sort of Chemical Biological Warfare alert, but I guess it wasn't really anything life threatening. Just made you wish you were dead. That fat lady who just sat there probably had a terrible time getting the stench out of her hair. Must have had to throw her clothes overboard. I wanted to ask her what she had been eating, so I could avoid it. Well, enough about that. End of subject. Finito. We went to a show that evening. They have people on those ships just for entertainment, and they put on a fairly good show every evening. Since there were no children on the boat, the entertainment could be R rated, I guess. There was the filthiest mouthed comedian I'd ever heard, but he wasn't funny. It was too bad. He obviously went to great lengths to be obscene, but he didn't know any good jokes. Like George Carlin without a sense of humor. I felt kind of sorry for him, but I felt sorrier for myself because I had to sit through it. It was one of those acts where everyone gets sort of embarrassed. The rest of the show was good enough to be mediocre. Enough about that. End of subject. Finito. We met up with Auntie and Howard and all went to the dancing place. That's what they call the place where you dance, you know. The dancing place. Well, of course you know that. Who wouldn't? They have a live band, you know. Well, all musicians are alive, I guess, but these guys were actually there. I believe that's what the expression live band means. Not that a band has an actual life per se, of course, but the members of the band were all alive and present. Personally; right there in flesh and blood. The band wasn't that good, but our dancing was worse, so it all evened out. Considering the quality of our dancing, someone with Down's syndrome playing a kazoo would have been more than adequate. Of course the band guys were the payees and we were the payers, so it seemed a little unfair. They really weren't good enough to deserve any pay. Maybe they just gave them a free ride and all they could eat in exchange for their playing. I think it would have been best for all concerned if there had been no band at all and no dancing place. That way, payers could have found something more useful to do with their time, and the band members might have been able to find a job that made them productive members of society. After all, dancing is one of the dumbest things that otherwise intelligent people do. An even worse pastime is watching people do it. The watcher doesn't even get any exercise. I didn't bitch about it, though. I'm like that, you know. Tolerant and long suffering. Well of course you know that. I've told you. Well, enough about that. End of subject. Finito. Thinking of those aquatic creatures down there, doing number dos and swimming around in it, I couldn't help but think about the procedures for disposing of the sewage generated on our boat. I know that few people on a cruise of that sort think about things like that, but I have a half assed engineering background. I'm like that. Sewage and sanitation conscious, I mean. In school, we called the course in sewage and sanitation tracing turds. I doubt that the people who run the boat encourage passengers to think about those things, either. If one does think about it, though, some rather seriously unpleasant questions come to mind. The more I thought about it, the more concerned I became. Well, I think I was justifiably concerned, because there's a lot of good old numero two involved. Counting passengers and hired help, there were over 4500 people on that boat. A good sized little town. By hired help, I mean everyone from Lago and his boys upstairs down to the guy who does things like oil the batteries and clean up that big ashtray that the guy used to speak to Ralph. I don't know the average daily gross fecal output of a human, but let's just estimate it at a pound a day. Well, of course it's all gross, but I'm talking weight here, not esthetics. I think that's probably a very conservative estimate, when the volume of grub consumed on that boat is considered. In fact, I think I'll revise that to two pounds daily. Okay, let's go for nice round numbers and say that the production was about ten thousand avoirdupois pounds of number two per day on that boat. I'm not talking dry weight here, you know. Just what you would get if it was weighed in its natural, immediate post evacuatory state. E.g. steaming piles. Now the question arises: What the hell do they do with it all? Well, the only two possibilities are obvious. They either get rid of it on the way or keep it until we get home and then dispose of it. In either case, getting rid of it is the primary, overriding concern. After all, something like that and in that quantity simply doesn't just go away by itself. Unfortunately. Neither option is very palatable. Well, of course it isn't palatable, because we're dealing with shit here. That, by its very nature, is an unpalatable subject. Except for sewage and sanitation engineers, of course, who consider it their bread and butter. Well, we all know what they say about those people, don't we? Of course we do. You've probably said it yourself, and I certainly couldn't blame you if you had. I'm like that, you know. Nonjudgemental. I believe I've mentioned that before. Of course I have. Where was I? Oh. Okay, we're motoring along on this big boat that's really nothing much more than a seagoing shit production factory. Oh, I know that lots of other things go on, but it can still be viewed as a fairly fecund free floating feces forming facility. We're talking five tons daily, here, and that's a significant production of BM by anyone's standards. Just try to find someone who considers ten thousands pounds of shit insignificant. Good luck, Chuck. Even whales'. Standards, I mean. Well, of course you knew that. If we assume, and let's do, a fecal specific gravity of one point zero, that means roughly twelve hundred gallons of pure shit per day. Assuming, of course, that it's well tromped down to eliminate air pockets. No, I don't want to go into tromping methodology here. Suffice it to say that it involves specialized equipment that begins with high, sturdy rubber boots. That, I repeat, is a lot of shit. One thousand two hundred gallons, I mean. Now we will consider disposal procedures. Shudder. By the way, I mentioned my thoughts to John and asked his viewpoint on the situation. He's very smart and knows about almost everything. He suggested that I share his attitude and refuse to think about it. He said it's something that small brown men are paid to take care of, and that's all he wanted to know about it. He said he would do his part on the production side, and let the trickle down effect take care of the rest. He's a Republican, you know, and that's their perspective on things like that. Well, of course you do. I thought that was a healthy attitude, but I was stuck with the thoughts and he wasn't very helpful. He also said that he didn't want to hear any more about it. Ever. I thought he had a very narrow, shortsighted view of a potentially catastrophic situation. I was disappointed to find that Auntie and Howard shared John's feelings on the subject. I never tried to discuss the matter with anyone else, not wanting to alienate anyone who wasn't already that way. Possibly I could have approached the guy who had told the joke in the dining room about the two guys eating shit, but I hadn't seen him around for a couple of days. Unfortunately, I'll have more to say on this later. Right now, for some reason, I need to go to the bathroom.
Ps. Yay Leland Stanford Junior University
Pps. Pacific, too. They're in lovely Stockton, you know. Well, of course you knew that.

 

[pop_54]

Jesus Christ woman, you'll drive that bloke insane Happy marriage dear, have a nice life, as they say in your part of the world I believe.

pops..xxxxxxxxx and they're all for you, I'm not kissing him, it's just a vicious rumour about me being a bit of a brown hatter on the quiet.

PS: Don't use all the paper, I'm waiting to go as well.

 

[shereads]

Re: Keto-enol tautomerism

Dear S: K-E tautomerism is just one of those thing one may think about while on a boat.
Helpfully,
MG
Ps. Thanks, everyone, for the nice sentiments, particularly Perdita who, as she said, kept it to herself. Blush
Pps. I guess people actually do read these things. Good grief! Haven't you got anything better to do?

Better?

What's better?

You got married? Really? Is this a story? I'm so confused.

Congratulations, probably.

No, definitely.

Congratulations on your marriage if it's true, or your credibility if it's part of the story.

 

[MathGirl]

Awww, shit!

Well, there we were, still on that big white boat and still, hopefully, heading towards Mexico. Thank God the boat was making better progress than these letters are. I was sitting in the shade and thinking about waste disposal. I know that's hardly an appropriate subject for cogitation on a romantic tropical cruise, but I had it in my head, so I needed to bring it to some kind of resolution. I'm like that, you know. Of course you do. As I mentioned last time, that boat produced approximately five tons or 1200 gallons of human shit every 24 hours. Not the boat, as such, of course. Boat propulsion systems produce hydrocarbons, carbon di- and monoxides, oxides of nitrogen, particulate matter, and other stuff. To my knowledge, though, they produce no solid or semisolid waste that could be classified as shit, even in the broadest possible application of the word. The passengers and hired help on the boat produce the BM, and that is the subject under consideration here. The material was essentially one hundred percent human, because I never saw a nonhuman creature on the boat. Well, the odd insect, but that doesn't count. Even if here was a cat, goldfish, or hamster, their BM wouldn't get flushed down a toilet, so it wouldn't materially add to the total production figures. I decided my output estimates may have been somewhat conservative, because people were having the thin dirties sometimes. This was especially common after shore excursions. Rather large amounts can be produced under those conditions, you know. Well, of course you do. If you don't, just ask those poor people who took that bus to St Joe, Costa Rica. I'd rather err on the side of conservatism, though, so the figures stand. Five tons and 1200 gallons. Per day, that is, of course. But you knew that, didn't you? Of course you did. Now back to the question of what to do with it. As I mentioned before, one option is to hold on to it and get rid of the stuff when we got back to home port. In this case, Los Angeles. By the time the cruise was over, the boat would be carrying about fifty tons or twelve thousand gallons of human excrement. Now that's a lot of shit in anyone's book. I'm sure you agree. Of course you do. That means that the boat had some sort of holding tank to contain the stuff, and just thinking about that sort of diminished my appetite for lunch. The thought of a tank containing twelve thousand gallons of shit is rather awesome, don't you think? Of course you do. I decided it had to be a tank with some sort of lid on it, because any other type of container would be open to the air and would carry the danger of sloshing over. There would have to be some sort of pressure relief mechanism, because of the fermentation and pressure buildup. I don't want to think where or how the pressure would be vented. Just the thought of a heavy gauge stainless steel tank is bad enough. Fermentation and the resultant overpressure can be positively frightening in a closed container. Especially in one containing twelve thousand gallons of you know what. Shudder Personally, I can't help but think of weld integrity and burst strength. I mean, what if the thing sprung a leak? How about a seam flaw that caused a sudden catastrophic deconstruction? What about a collision with another boat that caused the thing to rupture? In addition to the imminent danger of the boat sinking and everyone drowning, there would be twelve thousand gallons of pure human shit running amok. I don't know about you, but the mental picture that evokes is quite disturbing to me. Like the final scenes from Titanic, but floating up to your chin in you know what. You do know what, don't you? Of course you do. I'm not going to consider the burst problem right now, because the situation is bad enough when the stuff is properly contained in an intact holding tank. Okay, now we theoretically (and possibly actually) arrive in LA with what could accurately be termed a boatload of shit. Now what? Well, I assume they'd let the passengers and hired help with weak stomachs and white uniforms get off the boat and well clear of the area before anything would be done with the shit. Then, I assume that there's a procedure somewhat like pumping a septic tank, except on a much grander scale and with stuff that hasn't been treated in a septic tank. We're talking pure, unadulterated feces here. I somehow envision a six inch steel reinforced hose. Anything smaller in diameter might have something caught sideways and get clogged. Since the stuff would be semisolid, rather powerful pumps would be needed. I have a mental picture of it being pumped into some sort of thing that would function as the world's largest toilet. After taking on the twelve thousand gallons of raw shit, the device would be flushed, and the LA sewer system would receive the largest one time effluent in the history of semisolid sewage disposal. The whole thing is on such a grand scale, that it made me sort of proud that I'd made a contrubition to it. Anyway, the LA sewer system would probably be sent some sort of red alert that it was coming, and they would magically make it go away, like sewage systems do. As far as I'm concerned, it's LA's problem then, and I don't have to deal with it. I'm only concerned with boat life and the effects of a daily production of five tons of shit thereon. The technical details are almost endless. I mean, how do they clean the holding tank or do they bother? Whose hose is it that's used to pump? Is it stored on the boat, and, if so, where? I want to know that so I don't go there. Is it ... rinsed after use? If so, what happens to the rinsate? The cleanliness of that holding tank is bothersome to me. Oh, I know, cleanliness is a very relative term when it comes to vessels used to store human shit on the heroic scale we're talking about. I suppose it must be rinsed or cleaned in some way, but there again is the problem that the rinsate would have to be disposed of. I doubt that they send hired help in there with scrub brushes to tidy up the inside of the tank. I know they wouldn't send me if I was hired help. No way, Jose. Another disturbing factor is the pumping process. As mentioned earlier, high pressure would be required to move material of that consistency over distance. What if the hose burst? Can you imagine the effect something like that might have on the port of San Pedro? You can? Me, too. A high pressure hose rupture would probably send a spray of BM hundreds of feet into the air. Now that, in itself would be bad enough, but the main problem is that it would also have to come back down somewhere. We're talking gravity here, you know. Well, of course you did. That somewhere being mainly all over the place. It would almost certainly coat the nice white boat with a brown film. No, probably much thicker than a film. More like a laminate, I think. Also, hundreds of dock workers and boat people would be affected. Unpleasantly. Well, of course it would be unpleasant, because I can't think of a single pleasant aspect of the high pressure release of up to twelve thousand gallons of human BM into the atmosphere. Can you? I think not. If you can, you're deranged and I don't want to hear it. It would, I suppose, provide work for dozens of people wearing rubber boots, disposable clothing, and respirators for several weeks. It would certainly make the folks at the EPA shit their pants, adding to the general unpleasantness. Depending on the aperture of the hose rupture, turds might be hurled in a radius of a quarter mile from ground zero. Think of the effects on freeway traffic if human BM about the size of potatoes started arriving on windshields at high velocity. How would you like to be out in your backyard, minding your own business, gazing openmouthed at a passing bird or aircraft when the shitstorm arrived? Not much, I think. Of course not. No, perhaps it's best not to think of that. The only positive thing I can think of is that the whole thing would happen in LA, and they deserve it. The Dodgers are there, you know, and I have little sympathy for them. Well, I think that fairly well covers the first possibility. I mean that the boat holds the shit and gets rid of it at the end of the voyage. I realize that it's unpleasant, but almost anything that involves the handling of shit is, by definition, shitty. As I mentioned earlier, the second possiblity is that the twelve thousand gallons of BM is discharged along the way. I'll bet I hear from Perdita on this. As unpleasant as it may sound, this is probably the less nasty of two very disgusting options. This would eliminate the necessity of hauling around up to five tons of excrement and all the attendant problems. I believe I've mentioned those sufficiently already. I expect that the stuff accumulates while the ship is in port or otherwise standing still. After all, you don't want to have a few hundred gallons of fresh shit discharged into the water and just stay there and smell it. Also, in some ports, little boats come out the kids dive for money you throw overboard. Think about some poor ten year old diving after a quarter when maybe five hundred gallons of fresh shit is discharged into his path. Well, it certainly would be an extra inducement for him to hold his breath. Where was I? Oh, yes. Shit discharge while boat isn't moving. To say nothing of it being pumped back aboard and used to fill the swimming pool. No, I expect it's held until the boat is in the open sea and doing about thirty knots, then they let 'er rip. Underwater, most likely. Of course some would float to the surface, but at thirty knots the boat would be well away and upwind. I doubt that the effluent would be sanitized, because the EPA would again shit their collective pants about toxic chemicals being discharged into the ocean. Shit, on the other hand, is natural and organic, therefore it's good for you and the environment. Rabid environmentalists are great fans of natural stuff. If it's organic, it's good. They would undoubtedly be in favor of strychnine. After all, it's natural. I doubt that there would be active discharge while going through that canal thing, because it would sort of hang around and be an embarrassment. It would also probably irritate the canal workers. It would certainly irritate me if I was a canal worker and some damn boat cut loose a few hundred gallons of shit in my workplace. No, I think the boat is just a traveling stream of shit, wherever it goes. After all, the poor creatures down there are used to swimming around in BM anyway, and what's a few more tons? I think that explains why boats never stay in one place very long. They need to keep moving to outrun the shit they discharge. It's also the answer to why you never see a boat following behind another boat. They don't want to drive through the sea and airborne shit that the lead boat leaves behind it. I've come to the conclusion that a large percentage of what those cruise boats do and where they go is determined by shit. Well, I think I've covered the subject of cruise ship BM about as thoroughly as it needs to be. That's enough about that. End of subject. Finito. If you require more information, I suggest you contact some marine engineers. There may even be marine shit disposal experts. I expect that there probably are, because now we both know what a huge and ongoing problem it can be. I doubt that there are many in your hometown, so you may need to get onto the INet. No, I'm not going to look them up for you. I'm helpful, but only to a certain extent. Possibly I will come up with a similar problem to discuss in the next letter, but it would also be nice to get the hell on with things and arrive on Mexico. Fat chance, Moosebreath, but you can always hope.
Ps. )(*(^%^$#! the (*&^*&^&^#! NCCAA tournament.

 

[Rumple Foreskin]

Ps. )(*(^%^$#! the (*&^*&^&^#! NCCAA tournament.

Sorry about the number one seeded Stanford men losing to 8th seeded Alabama. At least Tara VanDerveer and the Lady Cardinal are still in the women's tournament, at least until Monday night when they play Oklahoma.

Rumple Foreskin

 

[MathGirl]

)(*^&^%*$! basketball!

Mazatpulco, here I come ....

Well, there we were on that same big white boat chugging along towards Mexico. Actually, we weren't chugging, because the motors were turbines. They are not known for chugging. Turbines, that is, you know. Well, of course you do. Diesels and steamers chug, turbines just ... sort of ... ummm ... turbine. There hasn't been much progress made lately in these letters, because larger issues keep popping up, so the bogging down has not really been my fault. These things must be dealt with. Safes and possible contents thereof, ethnic and cultural makeup of the people on the boat, sewage issues, grazing, etc. Anyway, that was a big day on the boat for me. For you, too, because it took four or five installments to get us this far, and it still isn't over. Well, I again availed myself of the midnight buffet and bounced perilously close to the edge of making a pig of myself once again. I used good table manners, though. I discovered hot German potato salad with vinegar and without celery. It went very nicely with BBQ ribs, big cold shrimp, champagne, and patty de four grasses on dark rye bread with raw onion on top umm. I wore a roomier dress, so there were no seam bursting problems. The little black dress was having its seams repaired and reinforced. I decided that I wouldn't be wearing it until the weight came off after the trip. My evening ended with a good ... John made me happy, and I had a nice sleep while the boat motored on. There, that day is finally over. Whew. There were two things I immediately noticed when I awakened the next morning. First, there was morning thunder going on in the bathroom. John's bowels were apparently in excellent working order, and they were letting the world know about it. Sort of the intestinal equivalent of Tarzan beating on his chest and hollering like a gorilla. They're like that, you know. Thunderous. Healthy bowels, I mean. Well, gorillas, too, I suppose. If the thunder coming from the bathroom was any indication, John has world class bowels that should be good for many more years of thundering. I'm sure glad he isn't one of those men who fart out loud and make comments about it. In company, I mean. Say things like Oops I must have stepped on a frog or I thought I heard a buck snort. My dad does that, and I think it's gross. So does Mom. Ummm, let me clarify that. Mom doesn't fart out loud and make comments. I was refering to her thinking that my father doing it is gross. In the aye emm, at least. John's bowels, I'm talking about. Once again, I was thankful for that precious can of Glade Floral Bouquet Aerosol Room Air Freshener and that he had the social grace to use it. Absolutely essential for boat trips when two people must share a single sanitary facility. There's always a lifeboat and flotation vest orientation at the start of a cruise. That's true, and it's mandatory for everybody. You could look it up, but it would be a complete waste of time because I'm right. Anyway, it's my firm opinion that the aforementioned mandatory drill should include a lecture and practical demonstration of the use of Glade Floral Bouquet Aerosol Room Air Freshener. If all passengers were well versed in the use of that stuff, it would save a lot of heartbreak and probably a few marriages. I also think it should be sprayed by crop dusters all over that area of the world on a regular basis. At least at the times when a cruise boat was coming to town. The second thing that got my attention that morning was that the boat was not moving. I sat up, pulled the curtain aside, and looked out the little round window of the bedroom. That's what they call those things on boats, you know. Little round windows. Well, of course you know that, what with all the seafaring and nautical lore you have picked up lately. I was quite surprised to see that the boat was attached to a concrete dock sort of thing which, in turn, seemed to be attached to Mexico. Well, I assumed it was Mexico, because that's where had been heading for all that time. I'm sure Lago and his boys upstairs would have been shocked if we got all tied up to the concrete thing and found that were in, say, Singapore or Oslo. Also, the signs were in Spanish, and that's a clue. Of course, all signs in that part of the world are in Spanish, but I was pretty sure we were in Mexico. Oops, I mean ON Mexico. We've been over that already, so please refer to the earlier narrative if your memory needs refreshing. We had apparently arrived in Mazatlan. Lago and his boys had brought us into town and gotten us attached to that dock thing without even waking up the paying passengers. That was very thoughtful of them, I thought. Well, after a shower so nobody would get lonely, going back to bed again, and another shower, I made my contribution to what I discussed in the last letter and felt much better. About three pounds lighter, too, and felt proud that I had exceeded my expected daily contribution of two pounds. Again thankful to the Glade Company. Then I was ready to meet the day. At least ready to meet breakfast. Ah, Mazatlan at last. Wasn't I surprised when I came out on deck and saw a big sign saying Welcome To Acauplco! Well, yes I was. I'm like that, you know. I mean surprised when I'm suddenly hundreds of miles from where I thought I was going to be. Apparently I'd skipped over a rather significant portion of the itinerary. I thought about going back to bed and staying there until we got to Mazatlan, but I decided that Acapulco would just have to do, for now at least. I was hungry, too, and I wasn't about to wait until Mazatlan to take care of that. No way, Jose. Besides, I thought there was probably a good lunch to be had in Acapulco. After a five Kcal breakfast of eggs, huevos Benedictos, hash browns, toast, OJ, blackberries in cream, waffles, sausage, ham, bacon, more eggs, and kippers, I thought I would be able to make it until lunch. We went onto dry land for the first time in several days, and it didn't feel much different than I remembered it. It's like that, you know. Terra firma, I mean. Dependable. Auntie and Howard attached themselves to us, and we went into town. Acapulco is a lovely place, as long as you stay near the waterfront where the luxury hotels and things like that are. If you walk inland a couple of blocks, it's full of not recently washed Mexicans who have a somewhat unenlightened approach to personal hygiene, sanitation, and waste disposal. A woman was roasting something on a spit over a fire in her yard, and it looked like that something had recently been called Roverito or possibly Senor Whiskers. We went back to where the gringos were and where it smelled better. I don't know why they allow those small brown people in nice places like Acapulco. They just clutter up the place and make it smell bad. Well, we hired a car driven by a nice man named Raphael. He spoke fairly good English, so you might say that we were speaking to Ralph for most of the day. It wasn't on a big white phone, though. It was also quite refreshing to have Ralph reply when spoken to. The Ralph to whom one speaks on the big white phone seldom does that, you know. Well, of course you do. He drove us all around the city, and we saw a lot of zillion dollar mansions and also lots of people living in shacks and cooking more or less in the street. I don't think they should allow that. Living that way, I mean. It just isn't sanitary. The old Chevy sedan Ralph drove had thirty year old shocks, so it was sort of a continuous bounce. The condition of most of the streets did nothing to alleviate the situation. Aunty complained of motion sickness, and Howard said if she got sick to do it in her purse rather than in Raphael's car. Then we would just leave her at the nearest corner and pick her up in a couple of hours. That had a remarkable antinauseant effect on her. No more complaints. At least not about that. Auntie always has something to complain about. She really wasn't in very good complaining company, though, because I'm family and don't pay much attention to her. I'm like that, you know. Of course you do. John mostly ignores her, and Howard tells her to shut the fuck up. I think that's good for her. The people who work for her at home are ass kissers and part of what they get paid for is to listen to her complain. We weren't on her payroll, so we felt free to mainly not pay attention to what she said if it involved a complaint. She tried complaining to Ralph, but he pretended not to hablo no Ingles when she started on that. After we got that established, Louise settled down and shut up. She had decided to be grumpy, but nobody gave a shit, so at least she kept quiet about it. Oh, Raphael had inflammable breath, and he kept a little bottle of whiskey in his shirt pocket at all times. They appeared to be about half pint bottles. When one bottle got empty, it went out the window, and another one appeared from under the seat. Raphael seemed to just maintain a happy blood alcohol concentration (mg/dL) all the time. It didn't seem to affect his driving, because everyone there drove like they were drunk and/or crazy. It may be required to get a drivers license down there. Raphael passed his little bottle around, and John and Howard both had a swig. There was no way I was going to drink any, and Louise wouldn't even touch the bottle. Acapulco is really a beautiful place. It's just too bad they allow all those small brown people with questionable personal habits to infest the place. Raphael's breath was enough for me to get drunk on. I was sitting in the back seat, and he was facing forward, but it was still overpowering. After John took a hit on that bottle, I decided he wasn't going to get any kisses until his mouth had been brushed and disinfected. We went to lunch at a restaurant overlooking the part of the ocean where those guys climb up on this huge cliff and jump off into the ocean. They took quite a fall and got all wet at the end of it. I didn't really see much sense in the whole thing. I don't know if they got paid to do that, but they were too far away for us to give them anything. Maybe they just did it to show off. It seems like they could have had elevators or some ski lift sort of thing to get them back up to the top so they could jump again. I guess they don't have sophisticated stuff like that in Mexico, though, so the jumpers had to climb up the rock. Barefoot, I think. It seemed silly, but the dives were very graceful and good lunchtime entertainment. The whole thing. Silly, I mean. Lunch wasn't that great, and there wasn't enough of it. I'd gotten used to the great and abundant five star grub on the boat, and I'm afraid I was a bit hard to please, feeding wise. I'm like that about my chow, you know. Demanding. It was enough to tide me over until we got back to the boat, though, and I planned on hitting the pizzeria as soon as we got there. We left Ralph in the car while we had lunch. John invited him, but he declined. I don't think they allow Mexicans in there. He was hard to wake up when we got back to the car. A good slug of whiskey revived him, though. Raphael took us to a sort of crummy Mexican bar, and I had to pee very badly. One look at the toilet seat, though, and I decided to hold it. It's amazing what a sight like that can do for bladder control. John, Howard, and Auntie had several shots of tequila with salt and lime. I don't understand why people drink things that take all that work just to get them down without gagging. I had a very nice strawberry marguerita. Something they make for tourists, I suppose. I got the idea that Mexicans are not basically strawberry marguerita people. We had to help Auntie back to the car, help her back onto the boat, and Howard put her to bed. Ralph had driven us around for most of the day, and all he wanted was twenty bucks. Howard gave him fifty. That should keep Raphael in those little bottles of whiskey for a while. Maybe he could even get new shocks for his Chevy, but I didn't care, since I was never going to ride in it again. I know that's not a very humanitarian feeling on my part, but I never claimed to be Mother Theresa, so piss off. As soon as we got to the boat, I made a bee line for the nearest restroom, then the pizzaria. I took my medium everything but anchovies double cheese, sausage, olives and pepperoni and met John at our little bar where Haysoos seemed glad to see us. I ate the whole pizza, then it was nap time. My, what an exhausting day, and I hadn't even gotten to Mazatlan yet. Three hours and two showers later, I was all dressed up to go out and eat. That pizza really didn't stay with me very long. I didn't mean to imply that I lost it. No way, Jose. Our naptime exercise just worked up another appetite. I'm a person within whom an appetite is easily worked up. I had ribeye steak, charcoal broiled, medium rare to perfection for dinner. Lots of sauteed mushrooms on and around the steak. Big salad with lots of tomatos and roquefort, baked potato with both sour cream and butter, warm French bread, and some really good squash of some kind with cheese on it. I only had one, steak that is. John asked me if I was feeling okay, and I assured him I was; just looking ahead to the midnight buffet. Auntie never made it to dinner. Howard said she was seeing Ralph back at their room downstairs. Not the Ralph who drove us around that day, mind you. I'm referring to the figurative Ralph to whom persons in gastric distress speak on a big white phone. Or, of course, a big aluminum ashtray if no other means of Ralphic communication is available. I don't know why Auntie got sick and nobody else in the group did, but if we had to lose one of us for the evening, she would have been my pick. Howard's and John's too, I bet, if a vote were taken. An older lady who was traveling alone attached herself to Howard, and they seemed to have a great time. Did I tell you that they have men who get free cruises just to be there for single women who are paying passengers? No, I don't think I did. Well, they do. Didn't Jack Lemmon and Walter Matthayeoux do somthing like that in one of those Grumpy movies? Probably not. One of those guys struck up a conversation with Howard at a bar, and Howard told us about it. There are about 6 or 8 middle aged or older guys whose only function is to go to dinner and dance with the older single women in the evening. They have to be available for dancing until one aye emm for whoever wants to dance with them. Other than that, they do as they please. I guess what they do with the women other than dance was not vouchsafed to Howard in his barroom conversation with one of those guys, and I really wasn't interested. They had a name for them, but I forgot it. I guess if they were women they'd be called whores. I don't think there are similar arrangements for single men on the cruise. I guess a man who can afford one of those cruises either doesn't have any trouble getting someone to come along, or he wants to be alone. Well, single women could, too, I suppose. There were two middle aged women who didn't need the services of those guys. They danced together. The one with the real short haircut looked sort of mannish, and she led. When they danced, I mean. They also shared a room and walked around holding hands a lot. Maybe they were sisters. I think I'd get damn tired of that after about 3 or 4 cruises without a break. Being one of those guys, I mean. I'd also weigh about two fifty, and that's something I don't even want to think about. Well, at least I got us to Mexico this time. It isn't the part of Mexico I promised, but I found the country. By the way, do you know how men's hat sizes are determined? I didn't think so. I do. Well, enough of that. End of subject. Finito.

 

[MathGirl]

End of subject. Finito.

Well, there we were, on that big white boat tied up to that dock thing in Maza .. Acapulco. Acapulco is a Spanish word meaning 'creamed chipped beef on toast." But I suppose you knew that. Since I only had one steak that night, I really hit the midnight buffet hard. The ice carving looked like some sort of mutated hippo. I don't know why they bother with those things. Some poor Portagee probably spends all day freezing his hairy ass off just so people with more money than is good for them can cast dispersions on it and watch it melt at a midnight buffet. I wasn't surprised that the quality of the ice carvings was so poor. After all, you're highly unlikely to get a Rodin doing that kind of work. I wore a dress I'd bought just for the trip. John insisted that I get something special, so I shopped for two weeks with friends and Auntie until I found the right thing. It was blue, strapless, form fitting, full length, had a slit up to my hip on the side, and cost a lot. I mean a LOT. It did not come from Ross, Target, Wal-Mart, or even Pick n' Save. Especially after it had to be taken apart and put back together smaller to fit me. I looked pretty great, but I'm probably not going to send you a picture. John looked very nice in his tuxedo which was black. Howard looked very nice, too, for a skinny, balding, uggh urologist Jewboy. There was a guy wearing a shiny blue tuxedo, and I was embarrassed for him. I think his wife was, too. I'm surprised she let him buy such a thing, let alone be seen in public with him. Howard said the guy looked like a pimp. After he told me what that meant, I couldn't help but agree. I don't know how Auntie looked, she was unwell and probably didn't look too great. She had spent quite a bit of time seeing Ralph, then that passed. She got the thin dirties, instead. I think it started with that stupid tequila in that bar Raphael took us to, but something else took over after that wore off. Somwehere along in the evening, her condition stabalized into half and half. Both at the same time. That must have presented a logistical problem that I don't want to think about. Maybe sitting on the throne, holding a bucket. Howard was seriously considering moving in with his new friend, Jeanette. She had big hair. She didn't have big boobs, though, Auntie has those. Howard and Jeanette got along famously, but I don't know if he ever got a chance to see if he could get it up. He sometimes has trouble with that, you know. Getting it up, I mean. Well, you knew that. Of course you did. I'm sure Louise would have loved to have us all be there in her room downstairs and be miserable with her, but we left her to suffer alone. Howard went down several times, but she was always in the bathroom. I sure hope they had some Glade Floral Bouquet Aerosol Room Air Freshener. I wasn't about to let them have my can, though. After John's morning thunder, I decided I'd better go shopping for some more while we were in Mazatpulco. You don't want to run out of that stuff on a cruise, you know. Of course you do. Know that, I mean. No way, Jose. Anyway, Howard would go visit Auntie, then he would report back on what she was doing. I thought his reports were unnecessarily detailed. Of course, Howard's a doctor, and they seem to thrive on that sort of thing. Yuck. We all had a good time, and even danced some. Jeanette was a very good dancer and used Howard as someone to dance with. I suppose she could have used some of those guys who were there for that purpose, but she would have had to share them. She had Howard to herself, at least as long as Auntie was indisposed. They make one night on each cruise like New Year's Eve at the danding place. I suspect it's because they sell more champagne. The booze isn't included in the ticket price, and I'm sure they make a lot on it. When they kissed at midnight, Howard and Jeanette, I mean, I'll bet there was some tongue involved. We had a table at the dancing place, and Howard kept the champagne coming. I took it easy on the stuff, because I don't have much tolerance. It doesn't take much to keep me happy and giggly. I stayed that way most of the evening. John, Howard, and Jeanette all got comfortably sloshed, and we had a lot of fun. On a trip to the restroom, I was feeling frisky, so I removed my pantyhose and panties. With that slit up the side of my skirt, I was .... bare. I wasn't wearing a bra, because the dress is made to be worn without one. It was and is backless, and a bra strap out there in the middle of nowhere would look pretty ridiculous. Of course, I saw more outlandish outfits than that on that cruist. The fat woman with tapioca tree trunk thighs who had an entire wardrobe of short spandex shorts was a daily case in point. Then the geezers with the bermuda shorts, black socks, and Birkenstock sandals. Mr Blackwell would have had fodder for a decade. Now... Oh... That meant I was wearing nothing but a dress, and that was low cut on top and slit almost up to my waist. Well, I had shoes on, too. I put the underwear in one of those sanitary napkin disposal bags and handed it to John when I got back to the dancing place. I asked him to put it in his pocket. I'd already tried something like that on the flight from DFW to Miami, and it didn't work out very well. For some reason I decided to give it another shot. He just put the bag in his pocket without looking inside or asking what it was. I finally had to take his hand under the table and put it through the slit in my dress. Under the table, of course. That got his attention. He gave me one of those looks with a raised eyebrow that says wait until I get you home, little girl. Maybe I had just a teeny bit too much champagne, but it was fun. I didn't get back out on the dance floor like that, though. I mean, when that slit was open, you could see everything. Not that there's that much to see on a woman, but you know what I mean. It would have been much more obvious on a woman who had lots of black pubic hair from her belly button to her knees, like Mrs Vermicelli. I'm not like that, you know. Of course you do. Know what I mean, I mean. At midnight, after all the kissing and horn blowing was finished, we went to the midnight buffet. Except for what happened when we got back to the room later, the buffet was the high point of the evening. At least it was for me. Most of the people had concentrated on getting drunk, so I didn't have to elbow my way to the buffet. Well, to make a long story short, I ate a lot. Even for me. I stuffed myself. It was really fun. I woke up at about four aye emm, having to pee. I was in bed, but I was still wearing the dress. Sort of. At least the dress was still attached to me, after a fashion. The top was pulled down, the skirt was pulled up, and the whole dress was a band about four inches wide around my waist. I was awake just long enough to yank the dress off and pee. After a trip to the on board dry cleaners, the dress was as good as new, and I wore it another time. I kept my underwear on that time, though. For some reason, John got up very early that day, but he was considerate enough to just get dressed and quietly leave the room. I mean like six aye emm, and only had about four hours sleep. I woke up for about two minutes, and that was long enough to know that I didn't want to be awake. I assume that he had morning thunder, but he did it somewhere else. Probably someplace where they didn't have Glade Floral Bouquet Aerosol Room Freshener. Poor people. Public restrooms are like that, you know. Just do your worst and get the hell out of there, acting like you just went in to wash your hands. Nobody you care about has to share the results of your morning thunder. Of course you are also faced with the clear and present danger of having to share the results of someone else's aye emm bee emm and thunder resulting therefrom. Ronald knocked on the door as usual at seven thirty aye emm with OJ and coffee, and I yelled at him to go away and leave me alone. The next time I woke up, it was eight aye emm, and John was taking his clothes off. He told me to go get my teeth brushed and get back to bed, pronto. Well, I don't have to be told twice about that. He never gets an argument from me. I'm like that, you know. The affectionate type, I mean. Of course you do. I was just a tiny bit sore, but I never let that stop me. In fact, I like it that way. A little sore, that is. It was that way most of the trip, and that suited me just fine. Me being the affectionate type, of course. Well, one thing led to another and that led to a little nap. We didn't get up until ten thirty aye emm. I may have had just a bit more champagne that I thought, because I didn't remember much about getting back to the room the night before and my dress getting in the aforementioned condition. John assured me that I had a good time getting that way, so I took his word for it. By the time we had a shower so nobody got lonely and our Ronald served OJ and coffee, it was after eleven. By far the latest I'd ever surfaced from the room on that trip. And what a pisser that was! I missed breakfast! They stopped serving breakfast at ten thirty aye emm, and they didn't start serving the buffet lunch until eleven thirty, also aye emm, of course. As soon as the breakfast was over, they cleared everything off and started setting up for lunch, but I had to wait about twenty minutes for something to eat. I knew how those poor people in the Nazi concentration camps must have felt. Maybe it was all for the best, though, because I had to return to the room for my own version of morning thunder. Higher pitched and more feminine than John's, but thunder nonetheless. Ronald was cleaning our room when I got there, but I explained the situation, and he was nice enough to beat it for a few minutes. I made sure I used sufficient Glade Floral Bouquet Aerosol Room Freshener so that poor Ronald didn't have to face the results of my dainty but nonetheless pungent BM. It isn't a good idea to piss off your room steward. They might poison your OJ or short sheet your bed if you do. Well, of course you knew that. Sure you did. Having made room at the bottom so I could add more to the top, we went through the buffet line for lunch. That last sentence was in reference to my guts, you know. Of course you do. There were quite a few late risers that day, so they had a nice selection of breakfast foods along with the usual lunchie grub. It was actually two meals in one for me, so I had a large plateful to start, then I went back twice for more. I finished everything off with a monstrous french dip sammige with lots of awe joos. The guy just piled on the beef until I said stop, and I didn't say stop until that baby was about ten centimeters thick. Yum. Auntie and Howard surfaced at about the time we finished eating, and she looked terrible. Well, Louise never looks terrible, because she's actually quite an attractive woman although she has a lantern jaw and freckles on her freckles. That day, though, she hadn't put on any makeup, and she looked her age. She still had a very impressive set of boobies, though. That's pretty much a constant with Auntie. Impressive boobies, I mean. They don't need makeup, and she wears them well. She looked like someone who had spend about sixteen hours having a prolonged conversation with Ralph and punctuated her sentences with the thin dirties. Howard looked a little haggard, probably because he had to spend the night with Auntie. If she's in distress, she makes sure everyone around her is also in distress. She's a sharing person, Auntie. Well, that's about all I have to say about the trip. Oh, we finally did arrive in Mazatlan. John caught a huge fish with about a four foot pointy thing on the anterior end. When they were about to hook it with a gaff, he made them cut the line and let it go. Said he has nothing against fish and might want to catch it again sometime. I really wanted to go to Cabo San Lucas so I could see the Cabo Wabo from the old Van Halen song. I threatened to pitch a real fit if John didn't make Lago and his boys turn in there for the afternoon, but he gave me that look and I decided I didn't want to go to Cabo all that much after all. Then we went to LA, got on a plane, and flew to San Francisco. Planes do that, you know. Fly. Well, enough about that. End of subject. Finito.

Ps. Whew

 

[sailorm72003]

Whew is right, you deserve at least 2 Whews

Sailor

PS- "...I looked pretty great, but I'm probably not going to send you a picture..."

New AV instead?

S

 

[Rumple Foreskin]

It's the end of an era. Sigh.

Rumple Foreskin

 

[MathGirl]

Thank God that's over!

I would like to thank all ... well, both readers who managed to stick with this thing until the end. It took an iron will and a strong stomach. I suggest you refrain from soul searching as to why you did so.
MG
Ps. We're going to Australia soon, and I'll be sure to tell you all about it. It's about a twelve hour plane ride from LA to down there, so think what fun we'll have writing and reading about all the great stuff that's bound to happen on such a long ride. Maybe Mr Stool Sample will be on the same plane.

 

[lucky-E-leven]

Re: Thank God that's over!

Maybe Mr Stool Sample will be on the same plane.

One can only hope.....

~lucky

Have fun down under!

 

[Guest]

 

[Rumple Foreskin]

It's about a twelve hour plane ride from LA to down there, so think what fun we'll have writing and reading about all the great stuff that's bound to happen on such a long ride.

My mind, what little is left of the tiny original, boggles at the possibilities. Two questions: will Auntie be going along, and have the Aussie authorities been alerted?

Rumple Foreskin

 

[NoJo]

You're going to love it down under. Nicest people in the world. And beer is the national drink.

Stay away from the salt water crocs, the box jellyfish and the 7 of the 10 most deadly snakes.

Warning -- don't say "I'd like to buy a ticket" down there -- it's slang for "I like coprophagia". I made an arse of myself a few times with the lingo. Also, a car is a referred to as as a "metal cunt", even in the Herz rental booth at airports.

 

[Guest]

Rump, imagine Aussie- and Auntie-speak combined.

Perdita

p.s. Have fun, Maths.

 

[Rumple Foreskin]

Rump, imagine Aussie- and Auntie-speak combined.

Oh, the horror. That might be the greatest assault on the English language since Hee Haw first showed up on television.

Rumple Foreskin

 

[MathGirl]

Originally posted by perdita Rump, imagine Aussie- and Auntie-speak combined.

Dear Perdita,
No, Louise will be left home. I had a serious conversation with John about inviting her along on future journeys and threatened to stamp my foot and foam at the mouth if she were.
MG
Ps. I feel sort of a vacuum in my life, now that my daily narratives are finished. No, not a Hoover.
Pps. SubJ, Your new AV is disgusting, and I don't even know what it is.

 

[SpellCheckBuddy]

Re: Thank God that's over!

I would like to thank all ... well, both readers who managed to stick with this thing until the end. It took an iron will and a strong stomach. I suggest you refrain from soul searching as to why you did so.
MG
Ps. We're going to Australia soon, and I'll be sure to tell you all about it. It's about a twelve hour plane ride from LA to down there, so think what fun we'll have writing and reading about all the great stuff that's bound to happen on such a long ride. Maybe Mr Stool Sample will be on the same plane.

Dear MathGirl,

Hopefully you will study the science of paragraphing before your trip Down Under.

Most Respectfully,
SpellCheckBuddy

 

[MathGirl]

Harumph!

Dear MathGirl,
Hopefully you will study the science of paragraphing before your trip Down Under.
Most Respectfully,
SpellCheckBuddy

Dear SCB,
Look, Buster, you write your way, and I'll write Auntie's.
MG

 

[sailorm72003]

Re: Thank God that's over!

I would like to thank all ... well, both readers who managed to stick with this thing until the end. It took an iron will and a strong stomach. I suggest you refrain from soul searching as to why you did so.
MG
Ps. We're going to Australia soon, and I'll be sure to tell you all about it. It's about a twelve hour plane ride from LA to down there, so think what fun we'll have writing and reading about all the great stuff that's bound to happen on such a long ride. Maybe Mr Stool Sample will be on the same plane.

Don't forget the glade air freshener

 

[A7inchPhildo]

Re: Harumph!

Dear SCB,
Look, Buster, you write your way, and I'll write Auntie's.
MG

You tell em' Maths. Besides Auntie has big boobs don't you know if you didn't know then you need to go back to the beginning and read it again.

Ok and the rest of you there will be a 10 question quiz on Friday so study up! This will not be an open thread quiz.

Don't worry it will be questions like:
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
What color was the bus going to the airport?

Name ten items you can put in a safe on a cruise?

Acapulco is a Spanish word meaning?

Largo Vermicelli what do we know about his wife that could identify her?

Central America is full of what kind of people?

What name brand air freshner do we hope other people have their own?

Name two species that should be allowed to excrete in the ocean water?

When refering to ethnic groups maths was considerd to be?

The plane MD80 the MD stands for?

And of course what was the name of the highway to the airport?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Say Maths,

When you go down under (giggle), do you think you could take the Concord?

Thanks for sharing your trip with us dear,
Phildo

Post Scribus, Especially the getting married part.