BEHOLD! Senor Tropicano.

Ungrateful readers: Warning. If you are reading this without a mustache you do not have proper protection.

Now you may be scratching your goatee sans mustache asking yourself how Senor Tropicano managed to jet off to foreign lands and achieve pretirement status while you took recession-era job offers at banks that bought your neighbors mortgage, bought a credit swap and then went meltdown status. The answer is simple: Options.

As I flick a mosquito filled with my alcohol and nicotine tinged sangre, I also flick 10 Lempira bills at a pool boy/servant carrying a chocolate milkshake and a box of Raisinettes. The raisins are for my pet parrot, Eddiverto, and the milkshake is to look at. For you see, when not scuba diving with whale sharks and sea turtles, I run my body on a refined mix of alcoholic beverages.

Reader, I am in the Bay Islands of Honduras, sipping cocktails like a hummingbird sips nectar - vigorously. Much to your chagrin, I am within ten steps of a pool and twenty from a bar. On Thursday, I will fly from this rock, proceeding to the Laguna de Apoyo (Google it). There I will throw my pretirement Delorian into full throttle, racking up credits for international expeditions yet unplanned.

And do I need insurance for such risky endeavors. Sorry, Johnny B, but no. I am scorching the sun burning the rocket fuel that comes out of my ass. Its entirely sanctioned by the FAA.

Dear Reader, I invite you to come visit as soon as you get your vacation time.

Until then farewell,
Senor Tropicano