Beaches
A wave breaks over the reef and the smell of cocoa butter wafts through the air. As a bodaciously endowed local saunters past in her thong, you order the type of umbrella-laiden fruit flavored cocktail that would get your ass kicked at your local pub. It's your 5th such drink of the afternoon. There exist only two scenarios in which such alterations to the Male Code are allowed: You're either hanging out with David Lee Roth, or you've found your way to the beach.
You barely hear your cell phone ring over the rustle of palm prawns. Someone from the office calls to explain that a blizzard has the latest shipment held up in Topeka and the fax machine just ran out of toner. After you express sincere empathy, you explain that you'd love to talk longer, but you've got to run to an 'appointment': The congo line has just formed around the tiki bar.
