Observations in Miniature: A Day at the Beach II

If you see yourself amongst these people it might be time to change your beach going habits. (Thanks Mark & Bookfraud)

College Punk Throwing Football – Yeah, touchdown, asshole. Did you notice you just ran over my fucking beach towel? Or that you just kicked a cubic foot of fucking sand into my soda? Nice seventy dollar T-shirt. You like Abercrombe & Fitch? How about black & eye? That’s my own personal line and I’d be more than happy to introduce it to you one fist at a time. Sports are great but you don’t play golf on your grandmother’s bed do you? Yes…well, let me think of another analogy…no, fuck it. Just don’t throw a football anywhere near someone lying on the beach because the next person you hit with a football on the side of the head might not be an eighty year old lady with emphysema inhaling on an oxygen tank, it might be me and I won't just writhe around in the sand and spit phlegm and Polygrip up on you. I'll snap you in half like a chow mein noodle. So, if you cherish your future beer bong days you will take that fucking football to a vacant part of the beach now. Get it? Got it? Good.

Annoying Photographer – Did you just do an 8-ball of speed and drink a gallon of coffee? I swear to fucking God if you run by me one more time with those little plastic viewfinders jiggling and making that annoying clacking sound I’m going to strangle you with your camera strap. Would I like you to take a portrait of me and my friends? First of all I don’t have any friends. Second of all you already asked me three times and my answer is still no. Really, it’s only twenty dollars for a picture that’s as big as a postage stamp that I have to look at through a fucking ten cent piece of plastic to see? It would sound like a good deal to me if I were a fucking ant! Oh, that’s original fifteen high school kids stacked on top of each other in a pyramid. That’s a picture they’ll cherish threw their little viewfinders for the next week or two until it falls off their fucking key chains!


Sleazy Thong Guy – Sweet mother of Moses please tell me you’re not wearing a thong. For all that is holy I beg of you to wrap a towel around yourself. It looks like you have a dead rat and two Clementine tangerines stuffed in the front of that thing. What would possess you to wear something like that? You have bigger than average gut and nose hair that is so long a gerbil could swing on it like Tarzan. YOU ARE NOT SEXY! You are disgusting and so greasy I can almost hear the oil oozing from your pores. You have so much fucking cologne on that when you walked by my eyes watered like I had just diced a bag of onions. You need a full body waxing…except of course on your head which by the way is covered with what looks like something my neighbor’s cat barfed up. No! For God’s sake don’t bend over. Let the fat kid pick up his own Frisbee.

Red Fat Guy Drinking Beer and Fishing – Did you just walk out of the core of a nuclear reactor? You are by far the reddest mother fucker I’ve ever seen in my life. Have you ever heard of sunblock? Nice hat with lures all over it. Are you fishing in a swimming area? That’s not a marlin you’re reeling in; it’s a little fat kid. Have you ever heard a marlin cuss like that? See the blood pouring from the wound where the treble hook is lodged under his ribs? Maybe if you weren’t so fucking drunk you’d be able to tell the difference between a fish and a fat kid. Pabst Blue Ribbon? Why do I have the distinct feeling that this beer would never win a fucking blue ribbon in any contest? Maybe because it’s $8 a case and smells like cat urine. So pour out that beer and throw the fat kid back. Someone has to keep McDonald’s in business. And get rid of that bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken. I can hear your arteries wheezing above the din of the breaking waves.

Little Brats and Doting Mothers– Oh look, your sweet children are feeding those fucking filthy seagulls French fries and they are dive bombing me and shitting all over my fucking beach towel. Do you think you could get them to stop? No, not after you take some pictures. Now! Oh, look little Bobby just yanked down his pants and is pissing on the sand. Let me get the camera. No, don’t get the camera. I’ve got a better idea. Take the little bastard to a toilet on the boardwalk. The spray from your kid’s piss speckled the novel I was reading. Bobby is not a cat and the beach is not his personal litter box. And another thing, I’m really sorry little Janie didn’t get her twelfth Jello Pudding Pop but she is screaming so loud that the lenses of my sunglasses just shattered. It’s not child abuse if you smack her ass and tell her to shut the fuck up. I appreciate your sensitivity in child rearing but a timeout isn’t going to work. There is no fucking corner to send her to. YOU”RE ON THE FUCKING BEACH! If need be get out the leg irons and duct tape and make sure those little brats don’t say or do anything. No, of course they can’t swim with the leg irons on…that’s the point isn’t it?

Hot Chick with a Dork – I hope to God that dork you're with was one of the original founders of Microsoft because if he isn’t there is something seriously amiss. I’m not Brad Pitt but the guy rubbing oil on your back looks like a partially shaved Spider monkey with glasses. You are a vision clad in tight swatches of polyester, with legs that are as long and smooth as a southern politician’s inaugural address speech but your sidekick looks like Don Knott’s fat twin brother. Am I missing something here? Personality makes up for a lot? It doesn’t make up for that much. This mother fucker has a deficit in ugly that can’t be made up with personality currency. And another thing, take that fucking tent down. No one uses a tent on the beach…oh, that’s not a tent pole? He’s just lying under his beach towel? Now I understand. Carry on…circus freak.