Years ago, my husband and I took a monorail through Busch Gardens in Tampa to see a bunch of wild animals. Another group was with us in our monorail car, with a designated photographer named Marty.
We knew that was his name, because every few seconds, one of the others would say, "Get that giraffe, Marty!" or "Quick, Marty! There's an elephant over here!" or "You missed that one, Marty!"
Marty dashed back and forth, snapping photos hysterically, lunging, sweating, increasingly disheveled, always disappointing his friends or family or whoever those fellow torturers were.
Moral of the story: Leave the damned camera at home. -- Ruth
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Years ago, my husband and I took a monorail through Busch Gardens in Tampa to see a bunch of wild animals. Another group was with us in our monorail car, with a designated photographer named Marty.
We knew that was his name, because every few seconds, one of the others would say, "Get that giraffe, Marty!" or "Quick, Marty! There's an elephant over here!" or "You missed that one, Marty!"
Marty dashed back and forth, snapping photos hysterically, lunging, sweating, increasingly disheveled, always disappointing his friends or family or whoever those fellow torturers were.
Moral of the story: Leave the damned camera at home. -- Ruth
Ha! Yeah, I guess the only thing worse than taking photos for yourself is being the designated photographer.
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