Evil Twins.

The first time I saw Lloyd Davies, I thought that some sneaky bastard had posted a picture of my butt to the Internet. I’m thinking goddamn Pinkle, you got to stop getting drunk and mooning those nasty nuns, because those penguin bitches have gone and got vindictive but then after taking a closer look see, I noticed a finger jammed up in it. Now let me make this perfectly clear, my ass is strictly exit only, nothing goes up in it. Upon closer examination and research I figured out that while a very close resemblance to my butt it was actually the picture of a Virginally Alabama Pizza Delivery Boy with a faggy man on  crush on Tom Baker. It was then I had to rethink my theory of the evil twins. You see I am thinking that everyone in this world has an evil twin. A person who physically looks just like you but is evil in everyway. Now I had actually come up with this theory years before but I thought it was a by product of too much Peruvian flake, Moosehead beer, and watching The Alternative Universe evil Spock Star Trek episode. However, confronted with undisputed visual evidence, Ergo: Lloyd Davies and my butt I could no longer deny it. So, while Pizza boys is sitting behind his computer desk stuffing his fat face with cold two day old Pizza he dug out the dumpster at work, making skid marks in his Dr. Who Panntyroos, and stalking Woger Wiseman, my butt is safely here at home minding it's own damn business. I want to make that perfectly clear.

JLO's Nipples tries to sneak out. Much less interesting than Janet's Super Bowl Wardobe Malfunction

Pinkle Weezel could be the meat in that sandwitch, no doubt about it.

Nimbusters Love Shemales, which only proves that they are faggots

Nimbusters are all little faggots, this is easily proven by the volume of shemale faggots posted upon their shitty little Nimbuster board. There is nothing that can't be fixed on a shemale with a blow torch and a pair of tin snips.

Shemales are bad enough but they are Obama loving Democrats as well.

Pikkel Weezel World Traveler, man about the Sea.

The sea was blue that day. Pinkle Wezel arose at the crack of Noon.

The old groundskeeper was already raking up the dog leavings on the beach and picking up tourist spoor for sale to the less fortunate.

Pinkle Wezel walked up and fired up his Spanish. "Ola, Senor! Como esta?"

The old man glanced up briefly, then went back immediately to raking up soupy-looking dog turds. His voice sounded like a piece of pumice being rubbed on a slate floor, "Muy bien, Gringo, y tu?"

Pinkle Wezel grinned madly for joy at understanding this complicated phrase, "Muy bien, mi Amigo, muchas muchas gracias!"

The old man scowled a little at this frantic assumption of friendship and poked his rake impatiently at a half-dead rock crab that was trying to eat a lump of dog crap.

Pinkle Wezel, being the sensitive tourist that he was, averted his eyes, stretched and scratched his belly.

The old man, in a very obvious attempt to get the ugly American to shove off, silently pointed to a brightly colored plastic boat pulled up above the surf line.

Pinkle Wezel made an eager facial expression and asked, "Por mi?"

The old man nodded solemnly--although Pickle Weasel noticed that his eyes became suddenly shifty and sly.

Pinkle Wezel, with his curious mixture of boldness and lack of intelligence suddenly climaxing, laughed gaily and jogged over to the boat for a look.

It looked good. It was slender and brightly colored and had little molded areas to accommodate a tourists buttocks.

Pinkle Wezel grabbed the short, frayed rope (yes, gentle reader, this is an example of foreshadowing) and dragged the surprisingly light craft down to the edge of the water.

It all seemed so simple in the beneficent morning sunshine. The water was blue and shiny. The waves were small and friendly.

Pinkle Wezel pushed the little kayak into the first line of surf and hopped aboard. He wriggled around until his buttocks settled into their appropriate indentations and grasped the paddle optimistically.

The first thing that happened was no surprise. The receding surf pulled the boat forward into the second line of larger waves. P.W. paddled furiously to keep the nose straight forward (he had once read that this was the proper thing to do and he had also watched The Castaway a couple of times). He was still in the shallows and the rush of water created a powerful eddy effect that bounced him sideways in very unpredictable ways.

Just then a much larger wave swelled up from beneath and tossed the surprised PW into the air. He was caught there, for a shining moment, with the pretty turquoise boat above him, his paddle soaring out into the waves and a rush of sea foam sliding away beneath him. For a split second he caught sight of the old man leaning over his poop-smeared rake and cackling madly. Then the world turned into a jumble of salty sand in his mouth, the kayak smacking his head and a lot of choking water tumbling him over and over onto the beach.

As mentioned previously, the Pinkle Wezel  is bold, enthusiastic and not very intelligent. He repeated the process over and over again until he learned a very basic secret--the Sea will always win. He also learned that it is a far, far better thing to sit on the beach with a cold Pacifico in your hand and watch other foolish tourists turn themselves into sun-burned, beach-scraped idiots.

He also remembered a recent bout with the notorious raicilla and realized that he had much to learn about this mysterious, wonderful place.