girls just want to have fun, it's all they really want.

Well Dr. Martin, yesterday I discovered that the color of one's skin can, in fact, be substance enough for a fair judgement of their person, and especially so of their character's content.

It all started and ended when I went to the Hamptonians with my pal Dan, and his younger brother Michael, who is also my pal. As you may know: for many, a trip to the Hampsters is a symbol of status, which they should flaunt in conversation before and after the journey. For me, it is an opportunity to drink beer outside. This fact is key to the story.


Dan munching on seashells like a damned chikmuk.

Well, we made it to the beach all happy and gay, took a swim, ate some sangwiches; the usual beach routine. Of course, what should happen next involves me drinking beer and falling asleep on the beach. Oh, and when you drink beer, you are invincible to the sun's ruthless rays, so no sunscreen required! Or so my drunken self thought!



Anyways, my legs were lobster-red by the end of the day, and this made my bus and subway rides home simultaneously painful and embarrassing-- the latter because it is obvious to the lay passerby that I am an idiot. People pointed at my lobster legs. People whispered about my lobster legs. So I shuffled my lobster legs off the subway and took a cab.


Lobstorious.