…get absolutely destroyed.
By alcohol. By the sun. By an oncoming jet-ski that I didn’t see because I was too drunk, too sunburn and too dehydrated to notice. It’s vacation time. The rules of society no longer matter to me. I am the last outlaw on the frontier and the world is my domain.
Everything is a bathroom now. I have no time to “use a bathroom” or even “wash my hands.” I am immune to germs, so therefore showers are out the window, too. The lake will be my shower. It will also be my bathroom for No. 1 (or No. 2, YOU’RE NOT THE BOSS OF ME!).
Life is what you make it and I’m about to make mine a Busch heavy infused whirlwind of barbecue, chips and late night trips to the fridge where I will use my hand like a crane and serve myself handfuls of whipped cream of whatever’s left of the blueberry-strawberry American flag thing everyone recreates from Pinterest. The berries are mushy as hell but I will need their precious vitamins as I am completely living off beer, ground beef and hotdogs.
Every meal is served from the plastic grocery store container it was bought in. Every piece of bread is either burnt from the barbecue pit or soggy from people’s wet hands.
What’s vacation without a night on the town? I can dress professionally when I’m at home. It’s vacation dress-code from here on out. That’s swim trunks, beach ponchos and an enormous sun hat. While the rest of my body shrivels up like a raisin from the sun’s stinging UV poison, my face is perfectly protected by a whicker basket in the shape of a stir fry pan.
I’ll be gone for a week. If you need me, I don’t care. If it’s an emergency, please call SHADY GATORS and ask for Topo Gigio, my vacation name and the name I use when crank calling the one radio show I hate.