Don’t get me wrong; time with you’re family isn’t awful—they’re no Manson family, Jim Jones’ “Rainbow Family,” or that unfunny bunch from the Family Circus comics. No, they don’t quite rage at your speed, but even you can admit their alcohol-fueled racial tirades and personal attacks do have a certain charm to them. Unfortunately, this trip isn’t just another christening brunch that you can simply drink and giggle your way through; nope, you’re either going to need a handful of Xanax or the company of few loose ladies to maintain your sanity through this nine-day perpetual screaming match.
The Xanax option is always there—pop enough of those with your morning whiskey and nine days, or even nine months, can slip right by with nothing to show for the time but a few paper-towel sheets full of scribbles in which the only legible words written are “The Memoir.” The other plan, the one where you ditch your family to scoop beach bitches, that’s the one that going to be able to fill those paper-towel memoir pages with much better, comprehensible, erotic non-fiction, or, at the very least, a collection of coital stains.
The easiest way to accomplish this is to fabricate a web of lies to tell your family to cover for your absence. Operate on your own if possible; if group projects or piss-poor wingmen have taught us anything it’s that more often than not others will inevitably disappoint us, say something creepy that makes everyone uncomfortable, or audibly fart. Three can keep a secret if two are dead, but, unless you’re trying to turn this beach trip into a Burn Notice episode, it’s best just not to tell anyone in the first place.
However, in an ideal scenario, there will be another family member concocting an alibi network to cover their disappearances as well. It doesn’t matter if Grandma’s gambling with Grandpa’s pension or if Uncle Ralph is yet again hunting for a “blizzard” in eighty-five degree weather. This totally plays into your plan; now you two can corroborate each other’s stories and enjoy your now-validated absences. Most families are grounded in foundations of mistruths and false beliefs; why should yours be any different?
Once your time is freed up, start searching for potential. Grasp that the dime piece with her family at the water park is likely not going to share your enthusiasm for her ditching said family to go “get sucking, sweaty, and sticky in that order” with you in the unisex changing room. Frankly, you need to be realistic with this. Now what about that nickel piece with the obvious spray tan, the lone beaded hair braid, and the henna tramp stamp who’s begging for someone to notice her? She’s looking for a story that proves to her friends that yes, she can too be fun and spontaneous while you’re merely seeking a consenting vagina to go skeet shooting into—truly, you’ve found your moist match.
There always is the wildcard of grinding un-tanned bathing-suit areas with a local. Just recognize that you’re not special and she probably does this every week of summer with a different tourist. Always remember to use that latex love glove or a pseudo-sandwich-bag female condom. And definitely give her the phone number to a Planned Parenthood in lieu of your cell when you’re leaving town next Saturday.
In the chance that that solid five isn’t down to clown on Day One, you can either move on, there’s plenty of holes to stick you dipstick in on this beach, or play up the impulsiveness that complements the ticking clock of your time here together. Build up the magnitude of your departure like you’re going off to fight overseas in a war on Saturday instead of just driving home to continue your monotonous summer internship where you count widgets in warehouse and JO and BM in the office bathroom every two hours. Coffee and coitus is only for closers.
Excuses are the name of the game on a family trip—devise them to get out of anything you don’t want to do with your relatives or the individual attached to that vacation vagina.
May the holes you jam your appendages on your trip into be wet, accommodating, and not too full of crabs or sand.
Justin Gawel is an adult baby from Michigan. Look for more of his writing, his BroBible.com archive (which is underconstruction), and his updates at www.justingawel.com or @justingawel on Twitter.
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