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“How about me?” she wailed.
“Every man for himself,” was Colin's less than chivalrous response.
I gave their relationship a year, tops.
The Canadian was groaning piteously.
“Oh sweet Jesus, it hurts like hell. Is there anything we can do?”
“Urine helps,” volunteered the waterlogged tour guide who had fished him out of the
bay.
The wife had bobbled her way to the side of the boat and was trying unsuccessfully to
launch herself out of the water. Reluctantly, Michael gave her a hand—actually, two hands.
(He later complained of severe back strain.)
Once on the boat, she rushed with tiresome histrionics to her husband's side.
“Did you say
urine
?” she asked the tour guide.
“Yes, ma'am. It helps with the pain.”
For a heart-stopping moment it appeared as if she might divest herself of her ruffled
swimsuit and squat, for all to see, on her husband's leg. Blessedly she thought better of it
and cried out to one of her pasty sons across the water.
“Jerry! Come pee on your father's leg!”
Young Jerry huffed his way back to the boat and, with remarkable composure, obeyed.
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