Can't be arsed

Can't Be Arsed, by Richard Wilson, is an excellent read. I bought it once, but promptly lost it at a bar. I wasn't arsed enough, I suppose. The book is a rant against "tossers" with bucket lists and a serious case of one-upmanship. He particularly hates "travelers", of which I sadly believe am one, as defined by him - scouring the earth looking for new places, people and adventures, waiting for a chance to bestow the ultimate appellation, "awesome".

His simple point is that we might as well enjoy just where we are instead of chasing one list after another. I am contemplating agreeing with him, whiling away my time on an easy-chair and satisfying myself with watching Globetrotter Ian Wright.

Also, this all reminded me that one day I might keel over dead and they will find inside my chest an emaciated heart, thanks to chagas disease. It was bad enough that I was in the dreaded Amazon without malarone - promptly losing them after ingesting just the first pill, exposing myself to malaria.  Now I find out I might have been exposed to other annoying - and it turns out deadly - bugs. Luckily, I had several cans of Deet with which I sprayed myself liberally. Liberally enough, I hope. Whoa, did my heart just skip a beat?

Speaking of the dreaded Amazon, I did get down and dirty in the Rio Negro at a sandy beach at one point, largely to ogle the girl in the black bikini. Now I belatedly find out it is the favorite stomping ground (water?) in the fucking Amazon for the candiru fish. At least on this count, I can safely, ahem, say that I was not a victim of its shenanigans. The very thought makes a man's crown jewels want to seek asylum somewhere way up in thoracic country.

Maybe Wilson has a point about all these zany "travel" crap that people - including me - get up to.