texts: Expensive hangover.
labels: A gift.  Courtesy of our courteous hotel manager, Mr. Daniels.  We, dear brother, are a fucking smash.  Yup.  They want us back.  Easter.  It seems they have this egg hunt every year.  Only not for kids. Adults.  They stuff these plastic eggs with Timexes and little certificates for free Mai Tais and everyone has a grand time crawling around on the front lawn.  Then afterwards, they have a dance.  An egg dance.  Everyone comes dressed in a different colored shell and at the end of the evening they crack themselves open.  It's our job to separate the yolks from the whites. Slippery business.