Trials and Tribulations of the All-Inclusive

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You finally got away from your 9-5 job.  The warm ocean breeze brushes against your face as you saunter up to a grass hut bar, where a Tom Cruise (go to 3:00) looking bartender awaits your arrival.   You exchange non-committal, witty banter laden with major sexual undertones.  He slips you his number.  You rendezvous with him later.  Life is just grand.

Sorry, this isn’t Cocktail; this is a cattle call for US vacationers.  Instead of Tom Cruise, whose career peaked in that classic 80’s movie, you get a guy who makes IBM’s Watson computer seem slow compared to this little drink dispenser.  There is a line of people twenty-five deep and the poor bastard, Jorge, needs to serve all of them before his boss comes back from break and fires him for incompetence.

We will forget Jorge has ten times the productivity of his counterpart in a first-world country.  Since Mrs. McGriddle, who only eats at buffets even back in the States, was served a Rum Runner instead the Strawberry Daiquiri she ordered, the manager sends Jorge back to the village.  Keep eating McGriddle.

After pounding watered-down, bottom-shelf island drinks there is a greater likelihood of a major sugar crash than a room-spinning headache, but now you are ready to get your blood pumping.  You head to the activity shack and hit up some Spanish lessons.  The locals laugh at you behind your back as you butcher words like “cerveza”, “el queso está viejo y pútrido,” and “ponche burro”.  Now that you’ve successfully embarrassed yourself in front of all of Mexico, you’re ready to challenge your mind playing bingo with old ladies wearing one piece bathing suits complete with those frilly dresses that attempt to conceal their FUPA’s.  B-27 sucka.

Unproven fact:  More people develop Type 2 Diabetes after a weeklong all-inclusive trip than years of drinking pop.

The all-inclusive vacation is really a summer camp for adults.  “Hi, I’m Chuck from NY, this is my wife Cindy; Chuck and Cindy or ‘CC’.  Get it, carbon copy?”  Spending a weekend catching falling knives is more fun than fifteen minutes with this power couple.

Try to avoid the stalker couple that clings to you the entire trip.  You can’t shake them.  They pop up all the time, like that butler in the Adam Sandler classic Mr. Deeds.  Just when you think, you’re going to sit down and start that over-due library book, there is the poor man’s ‘Brangelina’ sitting at the edge of your Chaise lounge asking if you want to play Ping-Pong or one of those ridiculously oversized chess games.  I don’t know about you, but I always use a wheelbarrow to move my knight up two and over one.

Everyone at these resorts should be required to take a vow of silence.  It is cruel and misleading to associate with people who you are never going to see again.  After your college years, you don’t make new friends; you have ‘couple’ friends and acquaintances.  Sure, some of people will stick with you until the day you die, but you will not be able to laugh about the time you chased Roger Staninson all over the playground when he confirmed all speculation that he was into Zoophila because he named his cat ‘Squeeze Box’.  Do the overly tanned guy from Hoboken a favor and shoot him down with a stern look of superiority and solitude before he considers naming you the godfather of the kid him and his wife conceived yesterday in cabana that you are currently sitting in.

All-inclusives are great, but so are Thursday nights at TGIF’s sucking down Double Berry Mojito Shakers while gorging yourself on the Endless Appetizer Special.

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How to Escape the Suburbs on a Friday Night

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Models and Bottles How to Escape the Suburbs on a Friday Night
Go Get Some.

He carefully covers himself in the tools of the night:  The Patek Phillippe knock-off watch, 7 jeans-scored at Plato’s Closet with only a minor Kool-Aid stain, and Calvin Klein underwear-simple head nod to the O.G., Marky Mark.  Grabbing the EZ curl bar, he knocks out at least 35 reps, but never over 58; crossing the sweat point yields another hour-long shower and primp session.  Finally the shirt:  a vintage 1998 Girbaud bought at a Kmart Blue Light Special.  He is now ready to leave the suburbs and take on the city this Friday night.

While wearing gloves, the shirt is carefully removed from the dry cleaner bag slowly put on to avoid any unnatural wrinkles in the fabric.  He turns up Tiesto in his room and practices his approach with a mannequin.  The Point.  The Wink.  The Double Wink.  The Point-Double Wink (this one is still in the experimental phase).  If only that mannequin were a real woman like in that movie Mannequin Two:  On the Move, he could work the club circuit strictly as a spectator and not a true player.

He grabs the keys to the Subaru Outback off the counter as his mom yells something inaudible at him.  He drives out of the sub-division only leaving a baby seat on the floor of the garage as any proof that he was there.

With track housing behind him, his transformation into “Stinger” is complete.  Now he is free.

Enter The Thunderdome (good-bye suburbs)

The crowd is starting to build at the door, but Stinger pushes through to the staff and slips the guy a twenty.

Once seated, Stinger leans back in his seat and lights up a clove cigarette.  Several patrons give him a look of disgust, but he waves them off with a twist of his hand.  A waitress walks over to him.  He cuts her off before she can talk to him.

“Bottle of Grey Goose.  Soda, cranberry and a large bowl of cherries,” Stinger says as he sharply looks away to avoid any follow up questions.  The server rolls her eyes in agony as she backs away from the table.

The waitress returns with a middle age man.  He calmly speaks as Stinger looks on, “We do not offer bottle service.  This is Chili’s.  However, we have a fine selection of island drinks.  Would you like to start with an Awesome Blossom to go with a Presidente Margarita?”

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