I deem my Mister to be a capital classy gentleman…

Except when clad for aquatics.  He pinches his pennies particularly tight within the category of recreational raiment.  In common colloquy, the man needs some swim trunks.  I refuse him the liberty to don his pineapple hued, inappropriately printed monstrosities in one more of my vacation memories.  For the last decade, exotic beaches all over the world have been haunted by the image of tropical orchids collaged with silhouettes of mud flap girls (which he failed to notice when he fished this suit from the bottom of a clearance bin).  I must protect humanity.

Serendipitously, Andrew’s dire demand is aligned with retail’s over abundant supply.  Portside of your favorite retail establishment is likely to be cozied with chunky pullovers and lush corduroys. But those who wish to stock closets without emptying wallets, need only journey to the aft of the store where the lonely summer swimmers have been cast overboard to be washed against an orphaned sales rack.

The end of the summer season has arrived, and it is time to acquire maximum caliber swim shorts at minimum coinage.  With all the money to be saved, we can shop for our own nautical needs, and engage in imaginary vacation planning. 

(*Although any proper imaginary vacation would feature both Mister and Missus and quite possibly Mini-ster and Mini-uss, all imaginary vacation planning will feature only Mrs. Reachel, for Mister Andrew would be mortified were I to publish his bare nipples for public viewing-even if they are hypothetically imaginary.)

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