YOUR TROPICAL DEPRESSION

Ten days ago the weather was tropical in its intensity, and a huge number of tourists and San Franciscans ponced around in shorts and very indecent tops, shocking the horses and little old ladies. To the dismay of this blogger, because I care about horses and little old ladies.
What is this world coming to?

So I am rather glad that it is currently fifty six degrees Fahrenheit. When it gets significantly over seventy five, my right leg feels like it was attacked with a hammer. The left leg is better, though not by much. Over ninety, and I can barely walk. At present I feel full of piss and vinegar, beans, and all kinds of good stuff. Why, I am alive, and vigorous!
Hell will freeze over before I wear shorts and an indecent top.
And I would rather you didn't either.
I'm a bit of a prude.

I should clarify that, by stating that while I happily imagine nudity and all manner of salacious visuals, I much prefer those to be in my mind, and not on the public thoroughfare. There is a difference between seeing cleavages at home versus in the marketplace. Home: ooh, nice!
In public: good lord why are you exposing yourself?!? No one wants to see that!

For some reason many Europeans and not a few Americans head to the tropics on vacation. Inconveniently forgetting about rainstorms. The first typhoons already hit in parts of South East Asia. There have been floods. And landslides.

That is, in fact, perfect weather for white tourists to swan around indecently in scanty clothes and flip-flops. Which I encourage. Over there. Give the locals something to look at.
And glow in the dark. As you do. You scandalous beasts.

Meanwhile, I'm wondering which sweater to wear.



AFTERTHOUGHT

Ya know, whenever I see tattoos, especially on fellow Caucasoids, I can't help thinking that they're racists and petty criminals, potentially violent and mentally unstable.
As well as frequently drunk and hepped on drugs.
I'm probably not alone in this.



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