BUGS.

Okay, okay, there does seem to be a lot of them around here. I got guys coming in every month to spray the apartment for the little hairy insectivoids. And they are pretty big. I almost get the feeling that the bugs are of the opinion that since they were here first, I'm on their turf. (But then I smack them with a newspaper and then they shut up.) The one good thing is that since it never gets cold outside, the bugs aren't as inclined to leave the garbage-laden dumpsters for the meager crumbs of food inside afforded by the average, tidy apartment dweller. However, as many of you know, I am hardly the average, tidy apartment dweller. I buy a lot of Raid®.

WAR.

They call it Paintball, or Splatball. I call it just plain stupid. For those who have no idea what I'm talking about--it's this; You drive out into the boonies, dressed like Rambo., then arm up with a compressed air pellet gun that shoots gumball-sized plastic balls with paint in them. Then you split up into teams and play Capture The Flag. The idea being, if you shoot someone with a paintball, it will, upon impact, break and stain his clothes, "killing" him. This is where it gets messy. While your team is trying to go through the woods to their camp and back with flag in tow, they are trying to do likewise. Herein lies the potential for conflict. The opposing team gathers, and right quickly I might add, that if they shoot everyone on your team, it will make their journey all that much less stressful. (And they're right.) Thus ensues the most unsavory act of war.

In the first skirmish, I did quite well, taking to the idea of "kill or be killed" like a trooper. I agreed to defend our fort from the interlopers--a plan I thought would be relatively safe, as I often confuse being brave with being really foolhardy. Unfortunately, after a quick 5 minutes of crouching behind a (no doubt naturally occurring) growth of forklift pallets, my comrade-in-arms whispered. "Go for the flag." My response was immediate as if I had practiced it in Boot Camp. "Who, me?" This guy's trying to get me killed, I thought. Dead. While this was a prospect that did not thrill me, it wasn't real life, and those weren't real bullets, so I figured what the hell. I then did my best Auddy Murphy impersonation and--rifle in hand--ran tree to tree around the left flank towards the enemies camp. Immediately, I was set upon from behind. A few well aimed shots later (by the other guys on my team) and I continued on my bloody way. Soon I noticed one of my own who was still alive, but trapped behind a tree by enemy forces. Instantly, I crawled into action. (It's amazing the things you will walk in to avoid even a fictitious death.) Raining down a deadly hail of paintballs, I took out one guy and then occupied the other, who shortly exposed his posterior to my comrade who promptly popped it. Victory would soon be ours, we thought silently. He grabbed the flag and asked me, "How fast can you run?" I replied "Pretty darn fast!" So we ran. Back through the woods. Without warning, a shot rang out and the guy with the flag fell. I dove behind a tree and returned fire. One shot hooked around the tree and caught him in the leg. He protested wildly, but the referee ruled it was good, and he was dead. Now, I thought, it's just me. I scooped up the flag near where my fallen pal had dropped it and headed for the camp. As I ran, his words "How fast can you run?" echoed in my head. Abruptly, however, it was joined by paint. Four feet from the fort, the last remaining member of those commie scumbags lie in wait and (with an incredibly lucky), pointblank head shot, split my lip and filled my mouth with nontoxic blue paint. I don't remember much after that, what with being dead and all. But they told me later that the other team had won. This was the beginning of an unfortunate trend. In fact our side (the good guys), only won once. We later found out that the other team was composed of mostly regulars, and that our team was mostly boneheads who thought alcohol would be involved more.

FOOD.

Yes, they serve it here. Not too bad either. In fact, I can order a steak sandwich and get a shaved steak sandwich like at normal restaurants. (Oh, but not in Indiana, where a steak sandwich is a 1" sirloin between bread.) Lots of Italian restaurants and Mexican as well as Spanish and Cuban (kind of a combination of Italian and Mexican). I went to my first Thai restaurant, located in a renovated house, aptly named The Thai-House. (I don't think many people would go to the Thai-Condo. Say, isn't that one of the Martial Arts?)

WOMEN.

Oh, they've got a few of these, too. Very nice-looking, narcissistic, ones. They seem to grow in the wild here. Most plentiful in the sandy, beach areas. Clad in their ritual mating garb, the T-Back bikini. Intended to attract the male of the species while, at the same time, turning a majority of the body's skin to a dark, leathery texture by age 30.

I mentioned this strange wear in the last CR, and as the name suggests, it consists of a normal bikini top and a bottom that exposes the rear end of a female, taking care to fully cover the "cleft" of the buttocks. In some areas of Hillsborough County, women served hot dogs on the roadsides in this attire. Suffice to say, it became somewhat of a traffic hazard. No accidents, just a lot of rubbernecking delays. But, in keeping with the far-right, reactionary mentality of Florida, it has been banned as offensive. Personally, I find 80 year old people in anything less than long pants and a sweater, a bit more offensive. Fortunately, the only decent beach around here, Clearwater, still allows it. I hardly think adults need a legally enforceable dress code. Frankly, I think the older members of the community are more in need of one.

WHITE.

There are very few Brothers down here. I was quite surprised, although I probably shouldn't have been. After all, who's gonna hang around a place still populated by people old enough to have personally lobbied against the Emancipation Proclamation. Gotta love that progressive, open-minded older set. I'm surprised they're not out picketing NASA.

TAN.

Sure, the sun is always out. But, hey, we have jobs down here. Why just the other day, I was out at a bar on the beach working on an ad (and a Corona) saying, "I'll bet my friends think this is just one big vacation for me down here. Uh, hey pal, could you move? You're in my sun. Thanks". But it's really not. I'm at the office most nights until 7:00pm. (Yeah, I know, boo-hoo.) always out. But, hey, we have jobs down here. Why just the other day, I was out at a bar on the beach working on an ad (and a Corona) saying, "I'll bet my friends think this is just one big vacation for me down here. Uh, hey pal, could you move? You're in my sun. Thanks". But it's really not. I'm at the office most nights until 7:00pm. (Yeah, I know, boo-hoo.)