Whatever they can do, I can do better

Dig has left me and flown to Brazil. He says he has that other job.

I have my suspicions. That it is not as claimed, but that his secret occupation there is pimp and racketeer.

What else could it be?

I submit evidence. He arranges these trips in short notice, departs in haste, and returns with any one of the following: a pimp shirt; a crumpled envelope stuffed with used Brazilian banknotes; a photograph of himself wearing snorkeling gear while surrounded by bikini clad women; and the statement, 'I always feel a sense of place with the first Caipirinha'.

Well, I'm sure I can match anything the bikini-clad babes of Brazil can offer. After all, I am a woman of not inconsiderable talents and resources.

I can do the bikini, if I take off my glasses and you peer through half-closed eyes; I can do the big bosom if I shove under my bra top something to wedge them up a bit - I don't know, I have a couple of Parmesan pots here, they should do the trick; and I could even have a go at that trendy vajazelling business with the stick-on jewels from the kiddy craft box. The Caipirinha in my hand I cannot do, but I have an old gin bottle and can fill it with vinegar, which might pass, no? And I am sure we have some reais in the drawer; I could strap those to my thigh and the image would be complete.

Now what sane man would chose a tour of Brazil, compared to me?