While Amy and I were driving to Costco to get flowers, I said I wanted to live half the year in the US and half in the UK. She asked why. I said so I could tan both of my arms evenly while I drive.

My chest is so white that if I take my shirt off outside, whatever neighborhood I’m standing in automatically gets the carbon footprint reduction seal of approval, no longer needing to paint their roofs white to reflect the evils of free energy.

The only way I tan is by association with something else I’m doing. Since I’ve considered arm size and food enjoyment more important than leanness and culinary austerity, my waist has increased in circumference these last couple years, meaning shirtless running is out.

It’s not that I think I’m fat. My mid-section is like a tall, thin barrel fresh from the coopers, not one sitting in the backwoods of Kentucky storing 200-year-old moonshine and a dead body. Still, I’ve done some widening of the freeway.

While this may be good for diaphragmatic wall-checking of whoever got into the Starbucks line in front of me and, speaking through three layers of mask and face shield and holding an NFL-worthy stiff-arm pose to either side of her body, has just remembered she spent 20 years in a convent taking a vow of silence and cannot speak louder than the mites killed from the gush of hot water into her cup, it does nothing for believing I can fit through a turnstile without expelling enough air to disrupt the vacuum of space.

Thus, it also does nothing for my uneven tan, so back to my original thesis statement. Who has ever said they want to travel internationally because they want an even redneck farmer’s tan? I may be the first.

I think I’ve hit on something: Redneck Tanning Solutions (RTS), where the only rules are listen up and wear a short-sleeved shirt.

Women, listen to me. Has your man ever come in from yard work complaining of neck pain? If so, he was probably holding the trimmer handle with his left hand and pulling the trigger with his right. Or if he was a lefty, the opposite configuration.

This also means he was standing at a constant angle to the sun, baking the lower part of one arm to a fine apple fritter crisp. This stiff head and neck mean reduced or no swiveling, and a head that doesn’t swivel means a wife that doesn’t giggle.

RTS to the rescue.

A trained RTS specialist will stand in your yard, verbally chastise you, and make rude gestures, if necessary, to remind you to switch hand positions, alter your orientation to the sun, leave you with no neck pain, and ensure your head swivels as easily as an oiled barstool.

Have you ever been afraid to go on the Ferris wheel? Per RTS, did you know that if you sit on the far right of a seat, then the far left, and alternate this every day throughout the summer, you’ll cure your fear? Totally true. Seriously. Look it up. … No, seriously. I’d like to see the research.

Do you have a fear of flying? Follow the same RTS rubric. Pick a seat on the right side of the plane, then the left. Oh, and make sure it’s a sunny day whenever you fly, and pull up the window shade and stick your arm right up against the plexiglass. Your fear will be as ancient as Nany Pelosi is a comedienne.

Finally, are you xenophobic? Do you understand why you feel this way? If not, and if you’d like to be cured of this illogical, inorganic, life-leeching condition, make sure you listen to RTS and take your right-side and left-side planes to the UK and drive along the Thames. Then take your right-side and left-side planes back to the US and drive along the Mississippi.

During all four preceding activities, what have I not mentioned? Tanning. I’ve just given you the keys to an amazing neck swivel with infinite fun-time applications, the cure to fear of heights on carny death traps, the cure to fear of flying, and the cure to a life devoid of enriching world culture.

Oh, and a kick-ass tan.

From the elbows down.

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