Que Linda!

I suppose it's only fitting that the people of this country match the landscape and cityscape; that is to say, they are all beautiful. I remember I was in Australia, and I thought to myself, 'No wonder there are so many Australian actors...everyone here looks like some bronzed beach god'. Little did I know what awaited me here down south. Simone de Bouvoir, Luce Irigary, Julia Kristiva, please forgive me, but for a moment here, I'm going to have to objectify women.
    The girls here are more beautiful than anything I've ever seen in my entire life. Gorgeous creatures, I often find myself walking around with my jaw hanging well below my chest, dazzled by the beauty of each and every one of them. Tan skin, perfectly formed faces, bodies put together like classical greek statues. If you had asked me a year ago—in my naiveté—where the finest, sexiest, most physically endearing and uplifting women lived, I would have crossed my arms matter-of-factly and said, 'Prague...there is something in the water there that makes all the eastern women have such an indivisible level of beauty that it's staggering; bed-room eyes, perfectly-proportioned bodies, faces that put the works of renaissance painters to shame." Little did I know the true source of amazing-looks lay just a few hundred thousand miles south of my humble abode in California.

    It can't be whatever is in the water here—regularly, aquifers smell like something more rotten than fermented sewage—so I have to assume it's a product of decades of different ethnicities cross-breeding. Only the best and most breathtakingly stunning genes have been passed on from generation to generation to create something ungodly exquisite; if Helen was the face that launched the bloodshed of Troy, I can't even fathom the atrocities that would be committed over the plainest woman in Brazil a couple hundred years ago.

    I'm not that much of a horn-dog, really. I remember once, a couple years ago, I risked ostracization to chastise some friends for whistling at a passing women's behind. Growing up in Berkeley, and taking some feminist-lit classes in college, I've long known that when it comes to women, it's not what's on the outside that counts, but what's on the inside; the outside, in fact, should be actively ignored—even shunned—in order to achieve 'gender equality'. But all that erudition flew out the window the second I touched down here. Every other minute I find myself ready to gladly marry and spend the rest of my life with a complete stranger passing by on the street, even if they are the cruelest, pettiest, most inhumane and toxic person ever to grace the face of this earth. Seriously guys, it's that bad. The women here are on another level gorgeous.

    It's not like people here take it for granted. All the men I talk to freely admit (and with some pride) that Brazilian women are ravishing entities. Resplendent, angelic, they float from breath-taking place to breath-taking place, embellishing the atmosphere with their own distinct charm, not only by looking like minor Aphrodites, but by being fun and talkative and bringing all sorts of color and flavor into the equation. It has become clear to me, at this point, that I will certainly have to wed a Brazilian woman or spend the rest of my life tormented by the idea of what could have been.
    However, to speak highly of women is not to deny the men. All the guys here are also on another level of gorgeous, just look at this knock-out:

 

JK. That's Zach Galifinakiananiaskiosioakis with baby Carlos....but if you guys' want the real baby Carlos:

It was this little guy right here. Superman of Carnival, just waiting to grow up into a lady-killer (or dude-killer). Godbless you, Carnival-Superman-Baby. May our hearts one day grow up to be as bold as yours.
~

-JD