Today we met some rednecks on the beach. And when I say "rednecks" I don't mean people who were sitting out in the sun for too long sans sunscreen. No, these were what we in Louisiana would call coon-asses, except they had non-Louisiana accents, and they had none of the fun qualities that most Louisiana coon-asses possess. And let me tell you, if there wasn't a lower class then these people wouldn't have any class at all.
Our new acquaintances were like the four women from Sex and the City, only 40 years older. All they talked about was sex, who was or wasn't gay, how drunk they were/are/want to be, and how much money someone would have to pay them for various sexual favors. I vomited a little in my mouth after hearing that last one. What made matters worse was that there were families with small children all around these four vulgar women, and you could just tell that every father was thinking about how much trouble he would get in if he strangled just a single one of these old hags in the ocean.
"Sorry Officer," a father might say, "but I was just teaching my children how to make a crab trap using only an old, crusty, vulgar woman. See how many crabs we've already caught? The crabs are attracted to the color red, and this woman's red neck just fit the bill."
The sound of the ocean waves must have been interfering with the old women's hearing aids' amplification, because they felt the need to YELL EVERYTHING TO EACH OTHER even though they were only sitting two feet from each other.
"THAT POKEY," one of the old ladies yelled, "HE'S SUCH A COCKSUCKER MOTHERLOVER." I'm cleaning it up a bit, in case you couldn't tell. "BUT I'D SURE LET HIM GIVE IT TO ME UP MY YOOHOO IF HE'D BE ABLE TO GET IT UP."
I couldn't take it anymore. Even though my three month-old daughter was up in our condo being tended to by my parents, I still felt like the protective father who needed to whup someone's ass to make a point. But I didn't want to make any waves with these people by simply asking them to clean it up a bit, because I knew that wouldn't work. So on to Plan B.
While the women were babbling on about their past sexual exploits, I set up shop right in front of them and started building what appeared to be a sand castle. Every few minutes I would run off to the ocean and bring water back to my little sand pile, each time eying the old vultures whenever I made my run back to my encampment. They never noticed me or my castle - apparently their eyesight was as bad as their hearing. I stayed for about twenty minutes and lovingly packed the sand into two small mounds and one banana-shaped, mushroom-tipped protrusion.
As we left I heard someone bitching out the old women, not for their foul language but for the four foot sand penis and balls jutting out of the sand right in front of them. I smiled as I trudged up the shore to the hotel, thinking, "Yeah, that's right, I got you and your evil brethren. Booyah!"
I felt great until I heard, "IF POKEY'S WAS THAT BIG I'D LET HIM DO ANYTHING HE WANTS!" Oh well. If I see them tomorrow I'll just cough on them, assuming I'm still feeling sick tomorrow.
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