July 25, 2011
I send you today’s scuttlebutt from the very mouth of the Mediterranean, upon which converge Spain, Morocco and...England? Yes, sir. Or hath ye not heard of Gibraltar, also known as the Rock? For those of you who flunked History—go on, raise your hand—Gibraltar, like much of Spain, was ruled for 700 years by the Moors. Recaptured by the Spanish in1462 and Britain got its paws on it in 1704, where they remain today.
And now to discuss matters more pressing: my personal appearance! O, I’m vain! Vain, I tell ye! I can’t help it; I come from a long line of female beauties, whose continuation now so delicately rests on my volcanically erupting waistline. See, when I was told that the food on the ship was “good,” apparently that meant intolerably fattening! Truly, no matter the breakfasts I skip, miles I run, salads I substitute for heaping Tower of Babel portions of the flesh of every animal known to man, desserts from which I avert my eyes, etc. I’m still kept awake nights pinching mine stomach, thinking, “OMG! I’m getting fat!” Which is why I’ve replaced my impossibly handsome, slimming, pinching size-31-waist khaki trousers with this delightfully oversized white boiler suit! Indeed, I can now accumulate the collective blubber of some fourscore whales.