At the end of a weekend all I can ever muster the energy to do is lay on the floor, beer in hand, and scream incoherent babble, laced with obscenities, at the ceiling. At least that's all I want to do.
You see, I work in tourism. It's my "real job" except that it's not a "real job" according to most "real job" standards. It's what I do to make money while I pretend to be an artist. One day it will be the other way around. Anyway, the point of all this is that working in tourism in August in the south SUCKS.
So as we launch into another weekend, please play nice and tip your guide, for the sake of my sanity.