And the Sun sets over the Pacific

I went to the beach, and for merits graciously permitted a young harlot to accompany. Aren't I kind ?

She had to go barefoot, which should explain the prints. Aren't I lightfooted ?

The other one was in heels. Yes, on the beach. Problem ?

We ended up in Jaco, eventually, but before that we stopped at a little known beach that I'm not going to publicize by name because there are never a whole half dozen people there and I don't mind this situation one bit. Here it is :

Now, this little beach had... little hermit crabs! Like so :

They come out if you bother them, almost all the way in fact, exposing their ridiculous orange globular eyes on their milimeter long stalks, and generally their hairy self.

They'd really much prefer to be left alone, though. If they are, now and again they'll take their peanut-sized shell for a derpy perambulation, because shells totally lumber unwieldily like that on the beach!

Other than minuscule hermit crabs, the elusiveⁱ beach also hosts tiny spider crabs!

Can you spot him in there ?

How about this other guy :

Anyway, an easier shot is also available :

Alongside the truly tiny crabs, there's evolutionarily-evidently very tiny sand pipers (at least I think that's what these guys are) :

I must confess this was my first time observing live crabs in their natural habitat. Also my first time at the Pacific coast, for that matter, as it turns out I am still capable of first times.

Then we got to Jaco, which is a "large"ⁱⁱ seaside resort. The locals tend to badmouth it, but that is strictly because the locals aren't very bright, certainly not bright enough to have over the many centuries found their way out of the paper bag of matriarchate. The occasional prostitute one might encounter there now and again terribly threatens the mule & stramule and their firmly glued-on panties and so... Jaco is dirty dontcha know.

But let's get back to what interests us : the little cancers eating the Pacific beach! Can you spot him ?

Ok, let's try an easier one then.

And with that, the Sun's ready to set on the Pacific.

And now that the Sun has set, we're set to start the second part of our journey. The Hotel Del Rey of Jaco is the Frogs Bar with its Cocalⁱⁱⁱ Casino. The bar itself is a square Spanish style courtyard with a pool in the middle, approximately speaking a scaled up version of my Nicaraguan residence. All around there's modest rooms, inside which the rather unattractive working girls work their charms such as they are.

There's a lot of them, and they're all manifestly subnormal. They huddle around, standing, clad in cheap, not particularily flattering dresses.^iv There's actual pantsuits, literally worn by a few girls, among which this utterly not-even-trying thirty something^v who had no idea why she's there or what she's doing. One look at her made it plainly obvious to me what exactly her value proposition actually is : bitter UStard speaking no languages^vi looks at her and thinks he sees his dumb US-born first wife, Sophia or Patricia or whatever the fuck it was. She cost him a hundred thousand, two hundred thousand, half a million dollars, the intolerable retard. Well, this one'll cost him fifty bucks, and they're really indistinguishable. If he does this one, he brings down his cost basis average to a more psychologically bearable value. She is basically selling half-off retroactive divorce settlements to bitter old men. She has no fucking idea this is what's going on, which is amusing -- the original she's unwittingly copying didn't have anymore of a clue either.

Now and again one or another, vaguely remembering something in the vein of perhaps what this is all about does 4 bars of sort-of dancing. The Romanians are famously bad dancers among my harem, but the Nicaraguan^vii retards pretending to prostitution are horrifyingly worse.

While the girls are at the bar buying drinks one of the braver souls approaches me, to inquire if she can do anything for me. She can't, I say plainly, and for the plain reason. I doubt she actually understands the words, but the rejection makes it through and after pointing out that people don't come there but to look for girls, otherwise there's other bars^viii, she proffers that "attitude is important too". Her meaning is that she may not be much to look at (which she isn't), but supposedly her attitude's going to compensate for these minor details. Because someone probably told her at some point something along these lines, principally as a byproduct of trying to explain to himself why exactly is he paying some ugly orc to do what she wanted to do on his dime.^ix "She's got personality" is a much better explanation than "I'm not even man enough to power a half-decent mouse", don't you find ?

Anyway, the girls come back with the worst coffee I've ever had in this country, with the standard rum, and with no cenicero. Because there's no smoking there, you see. It's open air enough that I can't lay down on the chaise-lounges, which got rained upon and that's ok, nobody has to do anything about it, they'll dry in their own good time and meanwhile the customer can go blow it out his ass. It's however not open air enough so that the guy with the money at the brothel makes his own fucking holes. What, problem ? They have brothels here where you go to pay for them to do what they were going to do anyway, it's a sort of brothel-bus. Considering what it costs...

The stories do continue. For one thing : the place closes at one. For the other thing : they have no proper glasses but use plastic cups, because "they're poor" and also because of the pool. I don't follow the logic, but that doesn't so much matter either because, get this, "the pool closes at 7pm". It's right there, you understand, and none of three dozen unbearable fuckwits pretending unconvincingly to prostitution are IN the water. Because "it's closed". Just like the sour cabagge jar substituting for their brainbox.

So we blow the joint, move over into the casino, which is as sad an affair as you might expect, a coupla dozen old Apple boxes for the morons of a different generation (seriously now, what do you think is the difference between an iPad, a Mac and a pinball machine ?) and a few tables. Roulette, because someone still plays that at a retirement home for the degenerately deathless in Wisconsin somewhere. Blackjack also, and you know, Tute. Which is how you say dumb women in Romanian, and I have come to believe it's for a very good reason.

Then we move on to "Centerfold's", practically speaking the only strip joint in town. The reason for the possessive is never explained, but a poster at the top of the stairs welcomes us to paradise. The paradise consists of comfortable seating, reasonably overpriced liquor^x and the same inept "stripping" as on display everywhere else in this sad republic of the tupperware tubs and tublets. Yes they go bare cunt, but no they're not the sort of women you'd particularily want to see naked in the first place and no they don't do anything even vaguely interesting with it in any case. Every gynecologist and most general practitioners in Costa Rica get about a dozen of these "strip shows" each day through the natural course of their profession. If I were interested in that, I'd have just taken medical school, neh ? Then again, I remember being about ten years old when I first figured that this "Paradise" thing sounds a lot more like being put to pasture than anything, possibly the ideal future of say a goat at the most, but otherwise deathly boring.

The only place in Jaco that's not terrible is this sushi joint up on the second floor of the mall that anchors the further side of the town. Other than that... the people don't add anything. Seriously now, if the whole population took a long walk off a short pier there'd be no notable degradation in the quality of Jaco. We had food in an icebox in the trunk of the car, you understand me ?

~ Fin ~

1. No kidding, we came back to it after midnight, for a Romeo&Juliet (for me) and shorter, thinner clavo de olor cigarillos for the hos + nudity & assorted proceedings. It took three passes back and forth over a length of about 20 kilometers before we finally found the right hole. [↩]
2. By local standards ; in the rest of the world it'd be a negligibly tiny pocket. [↩]
3. The Romanian reader will no doubt smile. Let him, because indeed, there's a Cocal for the local cocalari. Maybe they all come from here ? [↩]
4. They're not wearing jeans, however, which in this country is already an explosion of style & vehement high couture with delicious pork sausage on the side. [↩]
5. There are lots and lots and lots of 40s and 50s working girls here. Well, "working". The reason is that they're all short and universally waistless on one hand, and very very fucking retarded. If someone's willing to fuck a squat tub with nary enough sense to come out of the rain, what the fuck difference does it make how old she is ? What, that's where he draws the line ? Not bloody likely.

   And as to the lapan> lack of sense : while I played a few hands of Tute (not like there's anything else to play anyway) the girls watched the comings and goings. All the whores were dumb enough to come in cabs. All of them. And we're talking dozens upon dozens here. Le sigh. [↩]

6. A man walks down the street. It's a street in a strange world. Maybe it's the third world. Maybe it's his first time around. He speaks no languages. He holds no currencies. He is a foreign man. He is surrounded by the sound, the sound of cattle in the marketplace, scatterlings and orphanages. He looks around, around, he sees cheap chinese plaster and cheaper still corrugated sheet metal, and the tubs, the tubs, the little squat tubs with short ugly legs. [↩]
7. They're about 93% Nicas, for whatever reason, such as that the matriarchate there is poor whereas the gringos have rained enough bezzle here for the local cowsies to think themselves "above such things". [↩]
8. Which is patently untrue, incidentally. There aren't other bars in Jaco, it's a terrifying shithole of copy-pasted "bar & grill"s consisting of someone's cramped garage furnished by Down syndrome carpenters in the most uncomfortable manner possible. [↩]
9. If marriage is all about the gal getting the guy to do what he never knew he wanted to do all along, which is to say help her spawn, then local prostitution is definitely very marital. What, you didn't know you wanted to pay some girl to show you what she thinks should be a good time for one such as yourself ? But who wouldn't!!111 [↩]
10. Ten bux or something. [↩]