I got my swim trunks and my flippy-floppies

We took one on the chin this Saturday, losing 28-20, but the bigger story was the continuing saga of Thoughts from a Fat White Guy authors being photographed in Euro-trunks, embarrassing their parents and making finding gainful employment a bit more of a challenge.

The photo in question is at a spa on a Viking cruise line, which was hardly the Bacchanalian free-for-all that I was expecting and dreading. The spa was clutch for post-game decompression with our Swedish cruise master and defensive lineman, Mexican quarterback, and my little brother visiting. Although being hit on by a guy who would have looked a bit more at home in the Raider black hole was an interesting twist. No, I do not 'need any help' in a tiny cold tub, thank you very much. I don't even know what that help would entail, and I would prefer to not think about it.

The cruise experience provided a small sample of the interesting Swedish dichotomy of not talking to anyone outside your particular group while boarding, the first hour, then talking to everyone after everyone had ample time to frequent the tax-free shop. Then the following morning going back to pretending that your group is the only one on the boat. The Swedes are fantastic at pretending that there is nothing going on around them. Until you talk to them, then they are occasionally too friendly. Relate back to above incident.

I did my best to shake off the doldrums the following morning by karaoke-ing {Is that a verb? Is now.} 'Bust a Move'. My brother added to the performance as an unplanned back up dancer and saved me from the rookie mistake of trying to read the words instead of just ignoring the damn teleprompter and letting it fly. The fisherman dance during the intermission may have helped. Or the older Swedish lady trying to slap his ass. Whichever. At least we were fully clothed.