Fun With Condoms

Since the three tiki bars on this island are packed each night and day right up to their thatched roof rafters, it would seem that the vomit birds are back a bit early this year.  Has it already been twelve months?  Lucky us. . . .

Give Me A Break--In progress now is the annual haj in which hundreds of immature and largely immoral twenty- and thirty-something “kollidge stoonts” swarm seemingly here, and only here, to party, drink, vomit, party, scream, vomit, party, skrew, vomit, and mix and match to the max, then vomit.  It is called “Spring Break.”  And I ask again:  Break from what?  Certainly not from a classroom and a grueling winter of studies.  From my observations, both inside college and out, nine in ten of these so-called students should not even be in so-called "higher education" in the first place and most would not know a text book if it smote them on their empty heads.  

I interviewed a typical Spring Breaker threesome today as they awoke with hangovers at noonish; I wanted to plumb the deep depths of their minds and hear with my own ears their intelligent and considered opinion on the matter:

Me: Why do you take a spring break?

College Stoont A: "Spring Break?  Well, you know, we go through, like, a lot of stress and stuff up in college.  We have these, like, tests and stuff and, like, you know, if we don’t show up every few weeks or whatever . . . or if we, like, sleep during tests, then, you know, like, we may not pass and stuff.  Believe me, that’s a lot of stress."

Me:  “Do you study a lot?”

College Stoont B: "Yeah.  No kidding.  Study is, like, you know, like, really hard and stuff . . .  mostly it's like, you know, like for nerds and . . . ummm . . . you know, like, book worms, or whatever."

Me: “How would you describe stress?”

College Stoont C:   "Dude, like, give me a fuckin’ break!  Like, if you gotta ask about stress you'll never fuckin’ know.  I just need a fuckin' break from school, that’s all . . . .  I mean, dude, it's tough.  I been there, like, maybe ten or twelve years, so I ought to know." 
 

From my own exhaustive and scientific study over the past ten or fifteen minutes it is my learned opinion that the majority of modern college stoonts simply want to party-hardy on their parents’ dime where they can major in drinking and minor in screwing for the next five to ten years. Then, when the chumps'--I mean the parents'--funds run dry, and after getting a $50K government student loan from Uncle Sucker, the party beasts proceed to hang around campus bars for another five or seven years to get an advanced degree in some worthwhile subject like Post-Columbian Central American Indigenous Art Appreciation before finally joining the work force at age forty-five as an entry-level barista at Starbucks.

And so, in conclusion, from my own semi-serious observations, I feel most grade school graduates who simply stay awake in class are more educated and intelligent than ALL so-called college graduates who don’t.   
 

Spring Break?  Give me a Break! 

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On Second Thought: “Don’t Want No Stinkin’ Breaks”—I was hit by a car yesterday.  Unlike my bike accident of last year, which was a mere tap, this was the real deal.

 
The red Mercedes was trying to get out onto busy Hwy 776 and I was trying to slip by.  Foolishly, I was counting on the driver seeing me.  The driver didn’t see me, of course, at least not until I had become her hood ornament.  As eternal optimists say, it could have been much worse.  But though the bike took a beating and is in the cycle hospital this weekend, this jockey is no worse for wear with nothing broken or bloody.  The driver, a forty-something Dutch resident, was terrified that I might be severely injured.  Bless her heart.  She burst from the car in a flash, eyes white with terror, genuinely worried as I pealed myself up off the pavement. 

 
Long story short: As she drove me to the bike shop, then home, we got to know each other over the next hour or so.  Poor woman . . . her child, an only, eighteen-years-old, 140 IQ, big, athletic, manners, kind, good, sweet . . . now deep into drugs, selfish, suspicious, thieving, wild, unpredictable, criminal.  His latest act was selling off some of mom’s family heirlooms for dope yesterday.   Just before she hit me, the distraught mother had gone to the pawn shop to buy back the stuff he sold, thereby, in effect, enabling her child’s habit for the week or more.  While telling this sad tale, the mother burst into tears again.  My problems!  Ha!  I have none.  In the immortal words of Lou Gehrig as he bid adieu to his beloved New York Yankees: “Today, I feel like the luckiest man on the face of the oit.”

 
Funny.  The night before Michelle and I had laughed for the hundredth time when Eric Idle, on his bike, was run over on a London street by the Griswolds in the National Lampoon’s  European Vacation (below).   And, for a while there, as the Dutch lady kept asking if I was hurt and as I kept trying to reassure her that I was not and how the accident was "just as much my fault as hers,” it was during this odd exchange that those silly lines from the movie kept coming back to me: “Oh, not to worry at all, just flesh wounds really.  Think nothing of it,” as the poor idiot stands beside his ruined bike, blood spurting from his wounds.

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Better Never Than Late--Add this as an exclamation mark to the sex sting story I reported on in the last blog: 

Forty-nine-year-old Henry Cavalier of Clearwater, Florida, was arrested for the twentieth or thirtieth time the other day (who's counting?) for yet another sex crime.  This, the most recent, committed by this sorely misnamed perv, was for molesting a 7-year-old girl.  Henry, of course, was running loose free as a pitbull while awaiting trial for a previous molestation charge.  If convicted, reports the reporter, this poor Chester could . . . (cough, clear throat, cough again). . . could face life in prison.  Right.

Bets, anyone?