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.)
Since I missed much of the pumpkin conversation, I'd like to report that I am currently drinking an Ichabod pumpkin ale.
oh. dear. sarameg. There is no turning back.
That's not making it better, shrift.
Based on his flame-emblazoned Speedo, I didn't think he'd be a good candidate for a "look at your life, look at your choices" intervention.
I didn't think he'd be a good candidate for a "look at your life, look at your choices" intervention.
He'd probably puff out his chest and say "Yeah, my choices rock!" I admire that kind of chutzpah.
As long as it's just his chest he's puffing out, you're getting off lightly.
That thought occurred to me.
So my flight got cancelled last night. They're putting us on a plane at 11 this AM. I am now 2 for 3 with redeyes to London being cancelled. Blargh.
Wow, that's a drag. I hope this is the last hiccup in your trip!