Let’s review. I am left inside stupefaction’s plastic shell. It cracks and the tourists jump out. We would all love to frolic here. There will be a test. All tourists should be required to know exactly how much carbon footprint if you were Godzilla stomping around and drinking spritzers. What is a spritzer anyway. I know who is in the Godzilla suit. Another slice of paradise transformed into just another tourist toilet. Someone has to die. This time, tuna, too. Godzilla does not stay home. Ever. If you tell American tourists they are the cause of enormous cultural destruction, they will pick you up in Walmart on Isle 2, and throw you into the great machine from which you will emerge in Somalia. Opinion is protected speech. Fire truck pressure hoses and some dogs, to make your vacation memorable. We all know who goes to these places so they might escape. Us. Mykonos anyone. Cozumel. There is one word for this: Status. Recognition you stayed in a hotel in Casablanca. Stay home and read the books. But we are addicted to cars that knock-and-knock and down she goes, rocking down the Vatican steps. I can’t go back to the Vatican because the children begging for food lit my brain on fire juxtaposed against unfathomable, lavish wealth, and the word of god. Tokyo is preparing for war. As is Taiwan. Your perfect spot to be yourself in the South Pacific, you might want to go to Iceland. Did I say Iceland. No. I said: Kickwit, in the DRC has a great streaming showbiz show called Reality.