AnonymousCoworker

Are your eyes all cried out? Had you given up on the world? Were you ready to stuff your head in the oven and float away to sweet oblivion on the sulphuric fumes that would eventually asphyxiate your brain? Well put down that noose, for I have returned.

I was at the beach this past week, and lest there be any confusion as to what type of beach I feel compelled to mention that it was Ocean City (Maryland, of course. The one, the only, the original, the true Ocean City. Any other Ocean City, particularly in New Jersey, are only notable in their blatant disregard for coming up with original names and the staggering volume of used prophylactics and fat wannabe teenage Mafiosos that litter their shore.). If you’re not familiar with Ocean City, let me paint you a picture. You’ll need these images in mind for the rest of the posts this week.

By day: The dumbest people you could ever possibly imagine plop themselves down on the beach. Then they go to sleep with their radio blaring horrible top 40 music, let their kids run wild, and cook themselves in the sun. When the scent of old-bacon being fried reaches its effervescent peak, the idiots usually wake, wander to the water while stepping on your blanket, using your chair to keep themselves upright, and knocking over your umbrella. Then they proceed to drown, or play on the rocks, or swim out so far that they can’t swim back. The lifeguards dutifully pull them back to shore before having to save another person, that in all fairness, should be left to snuff themselves out of our gene pool. The lifeguards are Darwin’s greatest enemy. Once the sputtering idiot reaches dry land they immediately gorge themselves on innumerable amounts of fried food. Once finished with all but the scraps of their deep-fried funnel-cake, french-fry, ice-cream, fried chicken, pizza, hamburger, and cotton candy sandwich, the laziest of them disposes of the remains in the nearest possible trashcan: the sand. The rest instead feed the scraps to the flying rats seagulls, literally fueling an airborne shit-factory that will rain down upon the beach a globby, beige salvo of runny poo. Once shat-upon, they vacate the beach until the following day.

By night: The dumbest people you could ever possibly imagine meander down the boardwalk complaining of sunburn and bird-shit. Their children scamper about, be-mulleted and screaming. They walk as slowly as possible so as not to miss the complicated layout of the Ocean City boardwalk: crap store, ice-cream store, bar/restaurant, funnel-cake shop, repeat. Happening upon a crap store that provides henna tattoos they send their screaming children into the establishment to return $20 dollars poorer with a shockingly accurate washable tattoo that will foretell the future. (It was not at all uncommon to see girls prostitots as young as nine with tattoos on their lower backs that said “Hottie” or “Sexy” or “When I grow up I will charge you an extra 10 bucks if you want to put it in my ass”. Their parents were, of course, visibly prouder of their daughters now that their new accoutrement readily indicated that they were whores.) Upon returning with the tattoo, the family will spread out across the width of the boardwalk, blocking people who are walking in both directions as they point and guffaw at this year’s newest wrestling and redneck t-shirts before nodding seriously at the shirts with a confederate flag on them that read “Welcome to America Now Speak English” and “If this shirt offends you, you need a history lesson.” Then they look at each other and say things like, “Me an’ Cooter should get us some shirts like them kind is.”

This is where my family goes to relax.