Why the funk do we go to the beach?

I live in Connecticut. Connecticut is not known for its beaches. Connecticut is not known for its beaches because its beaches are crap. Literally, they are made out of feces. Feces, broken Heineken bottles, and merman cum. Our “ocean” is actually the toxic sludge of the Long Island Sound. If you step into the Sound, your foot is guaranteed to land on something sharp, or something slimy. Anybody brave or stupid enough to fully submerge in its murky, frigid water either dies instantly of hypothermia, or gets swarmed by jellyfish, and then dies.

This is a photograph of a typical Connecticut Beach, taken July 2012. Uploaded to Instagram @ #whatthefuckdoes#mean, #fuckinstagram, #lolz

It’s a sad truth, the Connecticut coastline will never be a tourist destination. Even so, I can’t make it through a single day during the summer without having some douchey turd burglar, usually a stranger who has no business speaking to me in the first place, come up to me and announce their plans to go to the beach, like it’s some epic pilgrimage to paradise.

It’s not. No matter who you are, it’s always the same experience. Even though there is a beach 10 minutes away from your house, you can’t ever just go there. Instead you have to drive 4 hours out of your way to go to the “secret good beach”, and once you finally get to the “secret good beach”, if you arrived any time after ass-crack-o’clock in the morning it’s impossible to find parking, because every other asshole in the hemisphere wanted to go to the “secret good beach” too, and ultimately you need to murder an amiable German man named Klaus and push his rental Kia off of a bridge so that you get a parking spot closer than your own driveway.

If you’re lucky enough to ever actually get onto the sand you’re then required to dragon kick a few dozen other people in order to get enough space to spread out your towel, and then…you sit.

That’s it. You just drove 4 hours and killed a man for the opportunity to sit on the ground. I suppose you could throw a football or frisbee exactly 1.6 times before getting screamed at by a stranger, or you could commit suicide by going in the water, but ultimately you’ll probably just end up sitting, or laying down and doing nothing. If you were smart, you brought booze, in which case you drink until you can’t think thoughts. If you didn’t bring booze, you either read a book, sleep, or stare mindelessly into the sun until your retinas explode and your brain boils and leaks out your ears. You’re doing nothing, but it’s special because you’re doing that nothing at the beach.

Sure, you could always do nothing in the comfort and convenience of your own home, surrounded by all your wonderful treasures, but then you would miss out on having sand caked under your eyelids and in your anus.

Besides there being nothing to do at the beach, there is really also nothing to see. The ocean is impressive to look at…for a second. Then you realize you’re sitting in an oversized sand box, staring at water for no reason, and you die a little inside. While it is true that there are also people to look at on the beach, that’s really nothing to write home about either. Significantly less than 1 in 6 million of the people on any beach are attractive, and 90% of the attractive ones are 15 year old girls and now you’re going to hell. The vast majority of beach denizens are whiny children, or people you might see in Walmart, but with less clothes on. The problem with beaches is that they’ll let anybody on. Even poor people. Gross.

I know that exclusive private beaches exist. Realistically though, if you’ve got enough money to have access to a private beach, you’re probably not wasting your time sitting on the beach. You’re using all your wonderful money to actually do things, like horseback riding or coke snorting.

When thought about objectively, beaches are really the worst place on earth. They’re boring, inconvenient, uncomfortable, and boring.

Even so….it is the summer. Not going to the beach just wouldn’t feel right.

Advertisements

About Max T Kramer

Max has been better than you at writing since the third grade. He currently lives in Connecticut, but will someday return to the desert.
This entry was posted in Max's Journal and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s