Julie, be kind with yourself.
---
Let me share with you all a disturbing occurrence:
The moment you realize that the gentleman who is wearing the ittybitty flame-emblazoned speedo and standing on the deck of the pool doing post-swim hip rolls and thrusts (and yes, as lewd looking as it sounds,) is a coworker. Not one you've worked with, but still.
Now magnify this terrible reality with the dawning realization that without the benefit of foggy googles, it is also evident that his speedo has hit a vaguely translucent stage in full illumination of the setting sun.
I hope I
NEVER
have to work with him. My first words might be " you need a new swimsuit!"
The Translucent Speedos would however be an excellent name for a college rock band.
The Foggy Googles would be an excellent name for
any
band.
Sorry for the aftershocks, Juliebird.
FLAME. EMBLAZONED. TRANSLUCENT. SPEEDOS?
it is also evident that his speedo has hit a vaguely translucent stage in full illumination of the setting sun.
I'm cackling uncontrollably at this rancid Maraschino cherry atop a Nope Nope Nope! sundae.
That's not making it better, shrift.
Turn that into a single sentence, sarameg, and you've got a Bulwer-Lytton contender.
Turn that into a single sentence, sarameg, and you've got a Bulwer-Lytton contender.
I'm impressed that this guy apparently thinks the message "My crotch is on fire" is more likely to score him some woman's phone number rather than directions to the nearest clinic.
I suspect it is more he just doesn't give a shit. Audience was largely swim lesson kids and people doing laps. Just no self awareness. (Color me shocked, from my workplace.)
