HEAT AND DUST

Imagine beefy frat-boys from the Mid-West. And there you have our sales department. They are big and very white.

Now imagine these wholesome chaps engaged in a spirited soft-ball game. In three digits of heat. And there you have our company picnic.


YESTERDAY, SEVERAL MILES NORTH

The city was very nice, probably around eighty degrees. The picnic was at a park in Marin county, however, where it is twice as hot. Maybe three times. Quite miserable.

As I do not play sports of any kind (too old, too pudgy, too lazy, too grumpy, and far too sensible), I was one of the very few males not to be reeking of beer by three in the afternoon.
I do not wish to suggest that these men are all alcoholics -- despite my having to fiercely drink them under the table the last time they were in town -- but it is remarkable that none of them reached for the bottled water, fruit juices, or soft drinks.
Coors, Michelob, Corona, Becks, Fat Tire, Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, Boddingtons, Stella Artois, Amstel, Heineken, Anchor Steam, Pabst Blue Ribbon, Budweiser, St. Pauli Girl, Fat Tire, Old Peculiar, Dos Equis, Undsoweisser, ...........

I stayed in the shade of the trees, far from the game, and very close to the garlic hummus. Most of the time the people nearby were women.
I cannot for the life of me understand why anyone would chose to play sports, instead of staying close to the hummus and the women.

At one point I lost a debate with a four year old boy, the son of the CFO. You do not need to know what the subject was, but that kid will go far. He has the vocabulary of someone twice his age, and is remarkably mature.

[He too was NOT enthralled by big pink men running around in the heat.]

I have an entire year to prepare for my next debate with the little fellow.
This time I'm gonna win.