Visitors from the world over flock to view Bermuda’s signature grass
And now let us adjourn to the idyllic isle of Bermuda. Named for the Triangle that ate inspirational aviator Amelia Earhart,* this birthplace of the shorts that gave meaning to the lives of countless East coast preppies during the late 70’s is an oasis of idyllicity in an ocean desert.
Life here moves at a slower, more idyllic pace. For example, the newspaper is called, idyllically, The Royal Gazette. The climate is relentlessly and idyllically mild. With the possible exception of bubble-and-squeak, was there ever a more idyllically named local dish than wahoo steak? And rapists are referred to, idyllically, as "culprits" and "prowlers."
Culprits? Prowlers? Surely not in Bermuda, the cradle of one of the South’s most idyllic lawn and hay grasses?
Mais oui! No fewer than six sexual assaults, wherein the "culprit" gained access to sleeping Bermudian women via carelessly unlocked doors, have taken place in the last few months. Police (reports The Royal Gazette), confronted with public outrage over a reluctance to disseminate to an increasingly bummed out citizenry useful information about this "spate of worrying attacks on women," declined to either apprehend or give a description of the "prowler," but finally consented to give the concerned gals some "safety tips."
"You should make sure your house is secure," reassured Sgt. Alex MacDonald, staggering slightly under the weight of this sudden insight. Idyllically, he advised locking windows, leaving on an outside light, and installing "peep holes" in doors.
The Bermudians heaved a sigh of relief upon discovering that controlling rapists is just a matter of lighting and peep-holing.
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*UPDATE: Reader Carol astutely points out that Amelia Earhart actually disappeared in the Pacific. But we note, stubbornly, that she flew through the Bermuda Triangle en route to her doom, which Triangle is almost certainly where she contracted the bad juju.
Didn’t Amelia Earhart crash somewhere in the Pacific?
Not to mention that, really, you should stop wearing those enticing Bermuda shorts. I mean really, you’re just asking for it in those.
Harrumph. If you ladies just keep a stiff upper lip, penetration would be impossible.
Who’s wearing the shorts here anyway?
This prompted a memory from when I worked in the city.
The concierge called a meeting to inform us that a naughty man was assaulting women in the lifts and that they should make sure that they travelled with men in the lifts until the assaulter had been found.
You couldn’t hear the finish of his address for the din made by half of the womans rolling around laughing.
I used to work in the area of Boston where Charles Stuart brought his pregnant wife, aborted both of them with a handgun, and then blamed it on a black man and spurring a veritable lynch mob of cops to illegally search and harass the neighborhood.
When a friend warned me about being at work in that part of town after dark, I simply replied “I’ll be okay - I don’t bring my husband along”.
Of course, husbands and lovers are our greatest risk, statistically.