Let me start by saying that I had fully intended on coming home from vacation and giving a play-by-play account of the entire week (no, but seriously, I have a detailed itinerary of every event in my paper journal – the one that some refer to as my “creepy little journal” because I can often be found sitting in a corner furiously writing while making shifty eye motions and visibly judging those around me). I am choosing not to do this for one main reason: the trip was perfect. It would be smug of me to sit here and describe the weather, the food, the beaches, the sunsets, etc. to you, especially the unfortunate souls who were stuck in Boston’s freak heat wave last week. More importantly, I’d probably lose your attention if I gave a full recap because that kind of peacefulness is inherently uneventful and less than dramatic. If you’re actually interested in my series of 20,000 dolphin pictures from the Maritime Museum you are more than welcome to visit my flickr album which I promise to update tonight, Bologna, so please stop calling and leaving breathy messages on my voicemail. I know it’s you.
Instead, I will regale you with one of my usual stories of foolishness, since my magnetism for trouble operates just as well in Bermuda as it does here at home. After our first day of sightseeing, we returned to port and decided to have a snack at the Tavern by the Sea in St. George’s before boarding the ship. Ordering went something like this:
Waiter: And madam what can I get for you?
Dangerous K: Could we get the nachos? And also a rumndietcoke?
Beau: Beer.
Waiter: Black rum, madam?
Dangerous K: Yes, please.
Beau: BEEEEEERRRRRR.
Waiter: Anything else, madam?
Dangerous K: No, thank you.
Beau: BEEEEEEEEERRRRRRRRRR!!!!!
Black rum is the uber-rum. It’s aged longer, tastes stronger, and is essentially as lethal as Schwarzenegger circa the first Terminator would be if we dropped him in the Iraq. Pretty much, it is anti-terrorism in a jar. So, I wasn’t terribly surprised that it didn’t go down as easy as my first love, Bacardi. I was only halfway through my drink when Beau finished the last of his beer – an unprecedented occurrence. I am not one to hold up the next round. As I began to take bigger swigs, I noticed that the drink was going straight to my head, though, to the best of my knowledge, the Bermudian variety is not a higher proof than Ol’ Faithful. As the reigning Queen of Rum Consumption, the idea of a single cocktail taking me down is downright embarrassing. Beau gave me a funny look when I voiced this out loud. Then he felt my forehead. Then he took a sip. Then he said, “Honey, I think that’s straight rum.” Phew. Chug chug chug giggle.
Sure enough, the bill corroborated his opinion. My drink was listed only as black rum. No -ndietcoke. Which I believe officially makes me a pirate. Give me your booty.
Heh heh heh. Booty.
2 comments:
Arrrrrrggggh. Yer name be offically Cap'n SlapHappy of the SS BlackRumBooty. Thar she blows!
Good god. You could have pickled yourself.
Oh, and seriously? How freaking AWESOME would it be if we dropped the Terminator down in the middle of Iraq and he started blowing those terrorist fucker types to smithereens? And they they'd be all "Allah save me" and stuff but they would NOT be able to destroy him.
Why?
Because HE IS THE TERMINATOR.
Oh how I wish.
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