Do you recognize this gaggle of nouveau riche long hairs?
If you do, you’re probably trying to dredge their names from a drug-clouded fog that the more prosperous clearly recall was the 1960’s.
If not, it hardly matters. What does matter is the deplorable way in which they are treating this fine sporting yacht.
Their clothing is hardly up to the regulations of the rigorous “Col. Monocle’s Yacht Apparel and Accessory Standards Committee.” Yachting without their approval is tantamount to wearing ivory after Labor Day.
John’s attempt at a jaunty cap might as well say, “I was conceived on an off-shore oil rig,” while Paul’s offensive T-shirt declares, “I can’t afford my final rabies injection.”
George appears to be suffering from more immediate symptoms of said rabies, while Ringo can barely handle the motor functions required to gesture at what is probably a filthy boardwalk dive called McJuggers Ale House. No doubt a location where you can cavort with public school teachers who would like nothing more than to drown their lives in swill and body shots.
And while I will admit that these four acid-addled hippies did indeed generate a sizable amount of money, there is absolutely no reason they need to trash the memory of this fine boating vessel with their unmanicured antics.
I write all of this while my much larger yacht gently weeps.