The Vacation, Episode 4: Home, And One Last Act Of Ass-Hattery

Well, I wish I could say it was fun while it lasted, but it wasn't. Only my family is capable of making a week spent lying in a bed with Jack Daniels into an unbearable hellhole. But it's over now, and if the experience has taught me anything, it's that family vacations are, at best, overrated.

Saturday night, Dad took us to a cabaret show, where he got drunk, hit on one of the dancers, then ditched the two younger ones for an hour so he could gamble. If the fact that he was drunk surprises you, I invite you to put on the Dunce Hat and sit in the corner until you learn to stop being such a fucking idiot. I ended up spending all of five minutes in the brightly coloured clusterfuck before heading downstairs to wait it out with the two younger ones.

Yesterday, we boarded up and went back to the airport so we could finally, blissfully go home. Unfortunately, Dad's bag was five pounds to heavy, and since my bag was the lightest, he went through his bag and unloaded some if it into mine. Not that I mind, but anything that would get us home faster was all good.

One thing I didn't count on was that he would put every conceivable liquid/gel/banned substance into my bag for no reason. When they called me up to ask about my bag, he instead dutifully decided to handle it himself. As you can expect, he fucked this up just as badly as you would think. What really happened was that my bag got denied by customs and that they would have to just try to pass it through again. The story I got was that they found a banned substance in my bag, that I would need to be questioned, and that there was a possibility that I would be held in the terminal.

Naturally, this sets off my neurosis like a six year old pulling the fire alarm. Would they put me on the No-Fly List? Would I be fined? Was someone going to stick their finger in my funspot? Come to think of it, did I really care about that last one?

Well, this was all for naught, since I eventually found out that this was resolved twenty minutes later, but my Dad didn't bother coming back to tell me for half an hour after the fact because he was to busy chatting with the flight attendents.

The plane ride home was pretty uneventful: I finished off Sex, Drugs And Cocoa Puffs, I drank tiny cups of complimentary Coke, and we passed over Boston, where I waved to HotAndy. At least I think that was him. It's a bit difficult to spot someone in the middle of the night from 40,000 feet in the air.

Of course, it wouldn't be a vacation if my Dad didn't find one final way to be a colossal asshole. I wanted to get some cigars for two of my friends, so I convinced Dad to buy a couple boxes as my souvenire. But of course, when we finally get home, Dad changes his mind and decides that he suddenly HAS to have a box. Which leaves me with the decision as to to who gets cigars and who gets fuck all. Though to be fair, I should have seen this coming. Last time we came back from vacation, Dad told my entire family that I had Bulimia (which, for the record, I didn't), and my mom tried to put me in rehab.

However, I managed to get him back by going through his wallet while we were unpacking and stealing $58 american from him. Yeah, fun fact for the day: Like smoking, I occasionally shoplift and steal small, usless items because I am consciously aware of the fact that nothing would piss them off more. Well, that and the fact that while my Dad is rich, I'm poor as fuck. To be fair, though, it's usually nothing big. Think pairs of socks and keychains. Nothing I can actually use. I really just do it as a bg fuck you to them. So needless to say, this made me happy.

So in conclusion, never fucking again. No more family vacations. Ever.

P.S. from now on, I will refer to my Dad as Bitchtits. So basically, if I say something like "Bitchtits was a fucking dillhole this past week", I'm talking about Dad.

The Vacation, Episode 3: Are You There Godtopus? It’s Me, Jeremy

All I can say right now is please, for the love of Godtopus, let me be adopted. More on this later. But for now, let’s do some recapping

Thursday, we went to the aquarium to ogle some us some fish...or fishes. Yeah, does anyone know what the plural of fish is? Anyways, the rest of the family went swimming with dolphins, while I stood by taking pictures. I’m sure Dolphin Diving is fun, but (A) swimming with anything resembling a shark will likely result in me freaking my shit out, and (B) Dolphins have been known to gang rape and beat other dolphins for shits and giggles. As much as I would love to swim with the natures fratboys, pass.

After that, we went to go see shows involving trained Sea Lions and Nurse Shark feeding. The latter actually had trainers who went into the water, picked up a fucking shark and brought it out into the audience. I’m fairly surprised that they still had all their digits, especially since they had a part of the show where they picked up the sharks, displayed their hoo-has and kissed them on the snouts. I’m just saying, if some asshole slapped my vajooter in front of an audience, then tried to get second base with me, they’d be missing some toes.

Friday, I spent most of the day poolside, trying different drinks off the menu. I tried a Brandy Alexander, since both Feist and Ron Sexsmith wrote a song about it. It’s not bad, actually. It tastes like chocolate milk with a kick. I also tried a Zombie, thanks to Matt’s suggestion. It’s pretty good, but holy jeebus does it ever sneak up on you.

I was actually having a pretty good day until I passed by one of the pool workers leading some guests in a dance number. I was just passing through when all of a sudden, the guy has my limp ass wrist in a death grip, trying to get me to join. Two things are wrong with this scenario:

1: I do not dance.

2: You do not grab any part of me without my say so. Unless you’re hot, in which case, hey, all yours.

Since being assaulted by The Dominican Fun Nazi wasn’t exactly high on my list of things to do, I just told him I left something behind, and took the long route around. Honestly, I’m pretty sure I heard him screaming “YOU VEEL HEF FUN!” at the others.

After that, we went out to dinner, and once again, he got drunk. Then he decided to drive the golf cart. I’m not sure if you can get a DUI in one of those, but I decided to walk back, rather than risk seeing my Dad pulled over for Drunk Driving. The fact that when I got home none of them were dead, on fire or incarcerated (or any combination thereof) was both a surprise and kind of a disappointment. To be honest with you, they all act like this all the time. I’m really starting to think that I’m adopted, although this may just be wishful thinking.

Anyways, for now, they’re all out getting lunch, and I’m back at the pool, sampling new drinks and tanning. I’m a little darker now, in case you’re wondering, although I’m thinking of buying some minutes at a tanning salon when I get back. Depends on how I feel, really.

Anyways, talk to you later!

The Vacation, Episode 2: We Will Vacation, You Can Be My Parasol

Once again, I’m sitting by the pool with my nouveau boyfriend Jack Daniels. It’s probably not a good sign that I consider a drink to be a suitable replacement for commitment, but hey, different strokes.

I spent Monday and Tuesday here on the beach in a desperate attempt to upgrade my skin tone from “Borderline Translucent” to “Something Actually Resembling Flesh”. Unfortunately, I tan like an albino in the center of the friggin’ sun. My back is now a delicious shade of pink. Super.

Tuesday night, my Dad decided to go out to an Italian restaurant. A good idea, but I would be remiss not to mention that he would need a reservation. Of course, he didn’t listen, but then again he’s footing the bill, so who am I to complain?

In order to actually get there, we took a golf cart. Yup, I get to spend a week driving around in a motherfucking* golf cart. Bitchin’! Or it would be, if I didn’t have three back seat drivers bossing me around. I’m a competent enough driver I think. I’ve never hit someone or gotten a DUI (knock on wood), and the only time I’ve ever been pulled over was the first time I drove my car, and even then, it was because I couldn’t figure out how to turn on my lights. I’m a fucking idiot, I know.

However, they took every opportunity to throw in their two cents. At one point, I was approaching a fork in the road, only to have them shout out “LEFT!!!! RIGHT!!!!” Apparently, they never bothered asking for directions, so they figured they would just wing it. Needless to say, my first stop once we got to the restaurant was straight to the bar for some alone time with my lover. No wonder my mother drinks. Hell, she’d have a problem if she didn’t drink.

As big of a bitch as I am sober, I’m really quite friendly drunk. I also have the limit of a twelve year old, as numerous family members, friends and gay porn stars will attest to. So within five minutes of arriving, I was best friends with the kinda cute fratboy sitting beside me. His friend just died, so I stuck it out and gave him as much comfort as I could, considering my Blood Alcohol Content.

He was charming, and somehow managed to figure out I was gay after all of ten minutes, which means I’m either a complete stereotype, or he has one of the most accurate gaydars ever. He said he wasn’t homophobic, although after the eighth time he said this without any solicitation, I had to wonder exactly where the fuck he was going with that. I’m just saying, he invited me back to HIS place for a beer. What can I say, I’m very good at turning out drunk straight boys. Consider this your warning.

If it wasn’t for the fact that I was supposed to be having dinner with the family, I probably would have had a drink with him, but instead, I decided to clean up the broken beer bottle he kicked over on the floor, bandage his foot up, and put him to bed on his side, so he wouldn’t pull a Bob Marley and choke on his own puke. As you can see, I have experience with this sort of thing.

Apparently, Dad wasn’t too happy with the fact that I helped a total stranger. According to him, if you help someone in need, you’re ‘Naive’. I hate to say it, but if given the choice between being naive and being an asshole, I will gladly take naivety any day of the week.

I ended up going back to the room about midway through the dinner, as my Dad was drunk (I know, shocker) and I had no desire to go through that again. I left the golf kart for one of my brothers to drive and walked back instead, since it was only fifteen minutes away, and I figured I would just work off dinner instead of throwing it back up.

Of course, I’m the only person in the world stupid enough to fuck up walking. I stubbed my toe against the sidewalk, and earned myself a blood blister the size and colour of a grape. All things considered, I think I handled it pretty well, assuming you consider grabbing my toe, bunny-hopping the length of a football field and screaming “HOLY MOTHER OF GOD THAT HURT” over and over as ‘pretty well’.

Then there was New Years, and anyone who knows me knows that I hate New Years. Hate hate hate hate hate hate hate it. What can I say about it? Dad got drunk, a fake U2 cover band played, and I entered 2009 the same way I entered 2008: Praying for the sweet, icy embrace of death. Yup, not much changed, really. Auld Lang Syne, motherfuckers.

That’s the vacation up to New Years. More to come tomorrow. For now, I have to gouge out my eyes due to the elderly woman three beds down from me. She has purple hair, and for reasons beyond me, she has decided to wander around the pool without her bikini straps off. Her boobs look like two runny eggs fighting their way out of a candywrapper. It also doesn’t help that she’s looking after her screamy-little grandchild. Incidentally, I just googled the word “vasectomy”.

*Did you know that Microsoft Word considers ‘motherfucking’ to be a word? ‘Bitchin’’, however, is not in the dictionary. It suggests Birchen up instead. Go fig.

The Vacation, Episode 1: Taking Flight (Part 1)

Hey y'all! I'm currently blogging from sunny DR, drinking a Jack and Coke and trying to get a tan so that I no longer look like I grew up in Chernobyl. So, I guess an update is called for, isn't it?

So, Sunday I woke up at 5:30 in the morning, Made my way over to the car with my bags, and slept for 15 minutes in the car there. So We got to the airport, go over to check our bags, and realise that all the books I had bought for the trip were still in THE FUCKING CAR.

Thankfully, our plane was delayed for an hour and a half, so I called my brother to come back with the car so I could get my books. A little petty, yes, but hey, If I didn't bring a distraction, I could very well have ended up trying to stangle myself with the seatbelt.

One thing you should know about me right now is that I expect the worse in every circumstance. Mostly because experience has taught me that it'll probably happen anyways. So you can expect how well I handled flying 500 miles per hour through the air in a metal tube. The fact that I didn't die in a horrible, firey explosion 40,000 feet in the air I consider to be a huge plus.

Thankfully, the in-flight movie was The Dark Knight, but having recently recieved it on DVD, I was a little tapped out, so I decided instead to finish off my copy of Sarah Vowell's The Wordy Shipmates. A bit of a dry read, but informative none the less.

Anyways, my battery is gonna die soon, so I'll post more as I go along. Talk to you later!