I’m in Antarctica, on the yacht Rollit, which used to belong to the son of a corrupt South Pacific politician. (His father was his country’s Minister of Education.) Years ago I helped the son load it with sacks of Buddha sticks, under the watchful bribed eyes of Customs officials. Then it sailed to South Africa. Where it competed with Durban Poison, the local product.
Now I’m on the same yacht, which is under new ownership and management, and has no particular unlawful purpose. Or none I’m aware of.
Anyway, there’s more to be said about Antarctica, but when I finally managed to get a connection for my Internet dongle thing, I started getting messages telling me that hot women in Antarctica are dying to meet me. “Hi,” says Sarah, who sends a naked pic of herself though I never asked for one, and who lives a few miles from me (which means she’s in the mid-Southern Ocean), “wanna chat?”
I don’t think I do. I suspect that guys who’ve been here for longer than I have, though, would would not only want to chat to a female bot program, they’d be prepared to dig up a dead penguin and bum it.