Not As Advertised

I always laugh when I see someone’s normal reaction to a pic like this:

“Ooooh,” they coo, “that looks so relaxing.”

Really?

If you have that reaction, then you’ve never actually been in one.  Getting into it is fraught with danger — it usually takes three or four attempts the first time — and if you just jump into the thing, there’s always the chance that the whole apparatus will detach itself from the ceiling or beam and you’ll come crashing to the floor.

Once you’re in, assuming you eventually manage it, there are still more dangers.  You can’t roll over, because the balance changes and you’ll be swinging around until motion sickness sets in.  Basically, all you can do is read or sleep.  Good luck trying to reach for a drink if you get thirsty, because most likely you’ll either knock the side table over or spill the icy beverage all over yourself, or both.

I know;  you’re thinking about sex with your squeeze in that thing, aren’t you?

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Amateur Drunk Day Warning

Tomorrow is St. Patrick’s Day, wherein all people with Irish blood more diluted than a ripoff bar’s house gin can get together and get shitfaced.

Also, there are the traditional parades in Irish ghettos like Boston, New York and Chicago to contend with.

I’m not “Irish” in any way, shape or form except on occasion that I have been known to enjoy blowing things up.  I hate corned beef and cabbage, Irish stew (just the mention of which makes me want to gag), their soda bread is inedible and I don’t care much for Guinness either.

Don’t even get me started on unpronounceable names like Aisling, Saoirse, Eoin, Eoghan, Líadain, Aoibheann, Aoife, Meadhbh, Caoimhe, and Tadhg.

Mr. Free Market has been known to opine that if ever there’s a 1,000-ft tsunami heading east from the mid-Atlantic Ocean, at least the doomed English will get to live a half-hour longer than the Irish.

Which says it all, really.

And that goes for their poxy holiday as well.