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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Letters to Corporate: Anheuser Busch

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Coming at your senses sideways.
Coming at your senses sideways.

I have been a legal, and ethical, user of your products for almost fifteen years.  Despite the recent surge of new craft beers in the marketplace, I have remained loyal to your products for their mass produced, consistent, and predictable flavor.

Normally, when I enter the liquor aisle of the grocery store, I quickly grab your flagship product and head to the check out.  Over the past weekend, I noticed a case of “New; Bud Light Lime Straw-ber-Rita; Margarita with a Twist.”  Could it be possible that my favorite, formerly US owned, alcohol manufacture had somehow bottled the classic island drink most appreciated while sitting at a swim-up bar in an all-inclusive resort?  Without hesitation, I tossed the case of Straw-ber-Rita in my cart and headed to the register.

For legal reasons, I had to wait until I was home before tearing into the case of Straw-ber-Rita.  On the drive home, I prepared myself for the mental escape to a place where buffets and palm trees dominate the landscape.  I cracked open the top of the small eight ounce container and tasted the beverage.  My throat convulsed due to the carbonation level of the beverage.  Out of respect for your company, I won a battle against my gag reflex triggered by the horrid drink I had just consumed.  Would Adolphus Busch and Eberhard Anheuser have approved of this vile concoction?

Upon regaining my composure, I reexamined the can and box of the Straw-ber-Rita for any indications of the high carbonation level contained in this product.  I wanted to blame myself for my lapse in preparation for this cocktail, but I could not find any signs that the company that brought tasty products such as Bud Light, Bud Ice, and Bud Light Platinum to market had mutilated the staple vacation drink.  My mind raced with options:  Do I force myself to consume the rest of the case out of deference to your company or throw the rest of the case out with Monday’s trash?

This letter is not written to antagonize your company.  It is written so that Anheuser-Busch is aware that you have an unsatisfied consumer.  I will continue to enjoy your flagship product, but I will be leery of trying new products from your company with sales dependent on allusions spawned from brilliant marketing.

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Shave One Hour Off Your Morning Routine

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I wish I could go back to the simpler time when men considered a scotch a better way to start your morning routine than slapping on a pair of spandex and running four miles only to end up at the same place they started.  Breakfast did not consist of a low-carb meal, chugging twelve ounces of pure, organic coconut juice out of a biodegradable bottle, and laboriously recording all the ultra-healthy food inhaled into a Weight Watchers notebook.

Take me back to an era when a rusty nail was an acceptable toothpick and spittoons lined the walls of every restaurant and bar.  Smoking was encouraged.  Society didn’t worry about dying from lung cancer, because there was a better chance that the runs would kill you long before the black lung did.

Going to bed was the simple action of collapsing on any flat surface that had a low probability of a subsequent bear attack.  There were no alarm clocks commanding when it was time to wake, and pajamas were something that wouldn’t be invented for a hundred years.  Night creams for wrinkles were something only Vanderbilt, Rockefeller, and Carnegie bothered with using.

Let me help you get back to that era with this guide on how to reduce complexity in your life by cutting down your morning routine to the essentials.  Dump your shower bag out on the counter and we will go through it item by item.

The Morning Routine Checklist

Deodorant- Matthew McConaughey doesn’t wear it, neither should you.

Showering-Showering only once a week is satisfactory; any more than that is just a waste of time.  Most people of the world bath in rivers and they smell good enough.  Remember, there is a cure for cholera.

Aftershave- If you’re afraid to light up a cigarette after applying, you’ve overdone it.

Hair Gel- Since you are not a founding member of Guns N’ Roses, your hair should sport a respectable high and tight haircut that doesn’t require industrial grade petroleum jelly to retain its shape.

Manscaping – Hey Mr. Miyagi, no trimming the bonsai tree.  Let your forest grow.

Shaving-Unless you’re a government worker, sport it like homeless guy, or at a minimum, like Joaquin Phoenix when he went crazy

Shower sandals- Since every other clean freak in the gym is wearing them, don’t worry about warts, MRSA, and other viruses that supposedly live in shower stalls.  You have indirect protection.  Barefoot it like a firewalker.

Luffa – If I need to google it to spell it correctly, you don’t need it.  The same goes for wash clothes.

Eye cream – I know a guy who had a $4,000 a year eye cream habit.  Don’t be that guy.

Toothpaste – When Congress passed the Safe Drinking Water Act in 1974, fluoride was injected into our public water.  Brushing your teeth became as essential as a trophy case at Wrigley Field.

Taking these simple steps to make your morning routine quicker and will ensure you get more dates, a better job, a nicer car, and a second home.  Next time you see a Bath and Body Works, keep walking.  Yeah, you’re welcome; your life just got better.

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Harold’s Movie Review: Draft Day

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Editor’s Note:  I am extremely busy with monetizing the site, SEO, dinners with famous F-list celebrities, and dedicating a majority of my waking hours to producing the content that you desire.  I have decided to hire an additional writer to provide a new perspective to

Harold Somailitz, age 75, was discovered at McDonald’s as he was downing his 8th cup of coffee that morning.  He was busy looking up the closing prices of his stocks in the newspaper [for all you kids under 30, a newspaper was popular form used for communicating current events in the 20th century.  Although, they are still produced today, most of the time, they provide kindling for fireplaces or lining the bottom of birdcages]. 

Harold will be contributing to a new feature called “Harold’s Movie Reviews.”  We are paying him below minimum wage, so we do not anticipate him to add much value to this blog or to contribute anything that anyone would consider worthwhile.  As the saying goes in the Internet world, “Content is King.”  Let it rip Harold.

Harold’s Movie Review:  Draft Day

Draft Day is a good movie.  I remember when I got drafted into my fraternity.  Now days, kids call it “pledging”, but back then we called it “drafting” because it took work to join.  Kids today are a bunch of panty wastes.  Back in my day, you got drafted, because you were tough enough to get take a hundred licks with the draft paddle on your keister then sit down and watch the next guy take his paddling.  Today, kids are running home to mommy for a Band-Aid because they cut themselves with a butter knife when they were trying to dice a hot dog so they don’t choke.

Shortly after I was drafted, I started working on building some biceps to get the girls.  In 2014, you guys try to talk to girls to get in touch with her emotions.  Back when America still had guys working the line in Detroit’s auto factories, the only thing that mattered when getting the girl was being able to beat up her current boyfriend.  If you wanted a girl, you just took her.  Man, I took down some skirts in my day with my 26” biceps.  Yeah, the girls loved my pipes.

This is what I'm talking about
This is what I’m talking about

Speaking of Detroit, what’s with the whipper snappers today and their eco-friendly, green cars that get 75 miles per gallon?  What’s so hip about a car that you can fit in your pocket after you get done driving?  I’ll tell you what a real car was, a 1970 Chevy Chevelle SS.  No, not a Chevette, those cars sucked.  A Chevelle. 450 horses, a 0-60 time of 6 seconds, four speed transmission, and more curb appeal than James Dean when he was plowing Elizabeth Taylor.  Those cars would get any dame to look your way.

That’s all I got to say about Draft Day.  My score for Draft Day is 14 Catheters.

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Leverage: It’s for Everyone

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In the 1980’s, an era of the Cold War, the A-Team, “Greed is good” (leverage) and Hyper-Color, my crew…

SIDEBAR:  It was more like me and a buddy, not really a whole crew.  For this story, let us just say there were twenty of us who were trained as lethal killers alongside Johnny at the Cobra Kai.

… patrolled the neighborhood on our bikes (banana seat optional; tassels not allowed).  We came across a brand new Ferrari Testarossa getting gassed up at the Citgo.  I was nominated to approach the suburban Mr. T who had more Soul-Glo in his hair than Vanilla Ice.  Think Vanilla Ice in 1990 when there was that nanosecond where people thought he might actually be a real singer with a Lifetime Achieve Award in his future.  Not the 1990’s rip-off of Elvis attempting to dance his way on to M.C. Hammer’s turf.  Yes, Vanilla would later face bankruptcy like that href=”″ target=”_blank”> kid from Small Wonder who claimed he was robbed by a stripper, but I digress.

I came at Mr. “If-I-Didn’t-Drive-A-Ferrari-I-Would-Be-Driving-A-1977-Trans-AM-With-T-Tops” with the question on behalf of every kid who attended Fieldcrest Junior High.  “Sir, did you pay cash for this car?”  The guy laughed at me, “Kid, I own a car dealership so it is basically free; I run it through my inventory.”

I now had the answer to life’s big question.  And this crazy guy with a car that averaged nine miles to the gallon had shown me the answer:  It wasn’t “work hard and you will succeed someday.”  The message I got from this guy was:  Leverage up and go big.

As I got older, my world expanded.  I read great literature and found that even Jenna Jameson was tricked by the teetering seesaw of leverage.  #1 on her “not-to-do list:  Thou shalt not drive a Porsche and then take me back to your studio apartment in Valencia” (Jameson:  How to Make Love Like a Porn Star, page 24).  Yeah, I just cited Jenna’s autobiography.

Do you want to be that guy who plays it safe with a 10 year-0% CD at Citibank or do you want to be the guy chasing on-again/off-again over-the-hill porn stars while dodging the water shut-off guy and that Boy Scout who sold you overpriced popcorn two years ago because you said “I’m good for it”?

Its time to leverage up to the life you can’t afford.

Debt as a tool, leverage
This is what it is all about

As I sign off, I would like to pay homage to some of my heroes who have leveraged themselves like no other:  Please pay this music in the background (start at 0:42) as you read off these names:

AIG, Ivan Krueger, The No-Money-Down Home Buyer (circa 2006), the person who makes one large wager on a single number at roulette, and anyone who has bought a lottery ticket.  Go forth and leverage.

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Just Got Dumped? Here’s How to Avoid Being a Loser

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You had the perfect relationship.  It was you and your soulmate against the world.  One day things changed.  He dumped you.  You were blindsided.  You attempted to reconcile, but you knew it was final the day you saw the sign “Welcome to Dumpsville.  Population:  You” taped to your car window.  Yes, you were officially canned.  Keep reading to find out how you can recover from your failure and come back bigger and stronger like Tiger Woods after he was caught with his hand in a Perkins waitress.  Apparently, Swedish supermodels just can’t serve up two eggs over easy like the pros.

This is your world
This is your world

As much as you would like to say to yourself that it wasn’t your fault you got dumped, look at that facts:  You lost at the game of love.  Final score:  Your Ex-1, You -0.  That’s cool.  You don’t see A-Rod crying in his steroids because he was booted out of baseball.  He is elbow deep in hookers living in a multi-million dollar condo in NY.  Feel bad for him?  Didn’t think so.

How to respond to being dumped:

1) Stop being a pathetic, emotional basketcase.  No one wants to hear you whine about how your life is over, how you will never do better than your ex, how you didn’t see the break up coming, or how you invested so much time in the relationship.  That is loser talk.  From this point, you are to tell people the following when discussing your ex.

  • “He is a bum.  I only dated him because I felt sorry for him because he still thinks Pearl Jam will return to mainstream one day.”  Make it clear to everyone that you ran the relationship from start to finish.
  • “I dumped her.”  You are never to admit you were fired out of your relationship.  Winners fire people.  Losers get busted for drag racing rented Lamborghinis in Miami because they know their career is falling apart faster than Deutsche Mark in the Weimar Republic.  Everything that ends, always ends badly, so you might as well tell people you ended it on your terms.
  • “Yeah, we dated for ‘X’ years, but I was seeing other people on the side.”  You are a wild mustang tearing up the free range of the Wild West.  No one can hold you down.  Even if the two of you spent your weekends cuddled around a space heater watching your VHS of The Notebook until you wore out the tape, you don’t need to share that with anyone now.  Tell people that you are the Sal Paradise of your generation and respect will rain upon you.

2)  Maybe you got dumped because you let yourself get fat.  I’m not going to put it gently and say something like “you let yourself go”, “you are ‘X’ years older than when you met her”, or “everyone gets flabby when they are in a long-term relationship”.  Here at, we may self-promote, but we never beat around the bush.  Your BMI has skyrocketed, you are constantly sweating like that old naked guy who lives in the sauna at your gym, and you are carrying around the equivalent of a small toddler in the form of fat around your waist and butt.  Yeah, you got fat.

Hit the gym, start running, and get lean.  It is simple stuff.  Once you start dating again, you will quickly realize that no one really cares about your personality until you are far enough into a relationship to get dumped again.

3)  Start dating again.  This step is strictly optional.  Since you will get dumped again which will require another six month supply of Zoloft, a year of therapy sessions and thousands of hours of self-loathing, you might as well just accept your previous relationship as your last shot at a meaningful, exclusive relationship.

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Samples in the Grocery Store? Yes, Please!

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Who doesn’t like spending a lazy Saturday afternoon in a grocery store casually checking out the fresh fruit, smelling bread still warm from the oven, and perusing the processed cheese aisle in search of the perfect combination of sweet yellow dye #5, various hydrogenated oils, and dairy by-products?

As you wander the store, maybe you make eye contact with a girl who you swear you saw on Tinder the other day, but going over and saying “Hi.  I’m Jimmy.  Can you buy me a drink?” would just be too much work.  You decided you to stalk her online when you get home.  Later, at home, you tell yourself how you should have just gone over and talked to her when you saw her in person.  The lesson here:  Why do something today when you can procrastinate indefinitely?

Even with the Tinder disaster, the day is going well until you hit the sample aisle.  It’s like Russia before the Wall came down.  Chaos is the norm here; mothers trampled by their own children, screams of hunger fill the cavern, and shopping carts strategically stacked providing roadblocks for advancing samplers.  This field of weekend warriors makes the annual “rush the superstore near you on Thanskgiving for a $25-TV after waiting three days in freezing temperatures hence effectively valuing your time at $2.76/hour” riot look like a line of children receiving their First Communion.  Amid the craziness, you find solace in knowing that the Greek goddess Eris still haunts the souls of man.

At least these guys have a chance of escaping alive.
At least these guys have a chance of escaping alive.

Before you freak out and forgo your claim on free food, read this simple guide to understanding those who inhabit the sample aisle so you can understand their motives, beat out their weaknesses, and satisfying the base level of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs.

The Looker:

This person silently stalks the serving table attempting to play coy, but strikes quickly when either a straight shot at the samples present themselves or the food service employee turns away from the display to tend to other duties.

How to strike first:  Due to The Looker’s attempt to slow-play the samples, do not hesitate to jut in front of The Looker and make the first move at your prize.  Your ability to act without fear or hesitation will give you the upper hand.

The Over-Sampler (AKA:  The Meal Maker): 

The Over-Sampler is the reason the food service employees assembles their product behind a bullet-proof shield before laying it out for the masses.  The Over-Sampler deftly drives in towards their objective taking as many samples as they can carry without remorse to their fellow man who may go hungry until the next tray is brought out.

How to strike first:  The Over-Sampler is one of the more difficult creatures to combat and you should not attempt to take these people head-on unless you are armed with a stack of 2 for 1 unexpired coupons which can be carpet bombed in front of them or a personal body odor problem.

The Hounder:

An Over-Sampler protégé, these soldiers are far less aggressive than their mentors in terms of following their directive and claiming their booty.  They tend to linger closely near the food service employee and use their body or shopping cart to block out their competitors.

How to strike first:  Unlike the disciplined Over-Sampler, the Hounder is much more sympathetic to the aged of society as well as mothers bearing children.  He will look at his peers as a direct challenge and is prone to outbursts inclusive of grunting, extreme salivating, and possibly even a death stare.  Proceed with caution, but do not hesitate to confront directly.  Often times, the threat of a showdown is enough to make The Hounder back away from the baked, breaded spinach and head towards samples are easier to acquire.

As long as grocery stores hand out free food, it is your duty as a store patron to eat what you can get your hands on.  Nothing says “full-course dinner” like a handful of hot dog weenies and crustless PB and J sandwiches fresh out of the package washed down with an orange flavored water served in a Dixie cup.  Get out there and justify your trip to the grocery store by eating your way through it.

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Why I Don’t Want to Get Punched by Kayne West, Even for $250K

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It takes a special kind of guy to torment a B-level celebrity who once compared himself to Jesus Christ on the cover of Rolling Stone.  A couple of punches later, Kayne and the “victim” are national headlines.  Yes, Kayne West might spend eternity in the 6th Circle of Dante’s version of Hell (Heresy), however America’s newest plaintiff has gone through a major decision in choosing to extort $250k from the star.  I’m guessing he didn’t do an in-depth analysis of what he should do after getting the world’s most expensive shiner, so I did one for him.

First, a definition:  What is fame?

Fame is an alluring concept draws us all in.  For four straight years, you are taking tackles from guys three times your size in practice only to be spontaneously put in a real game in front of 80,000 people at Notre Dame Stadium.  The crowd, pumped up with an average BAC level of .18, chants your name with monotone enthusiasm,  “Rudy. Rudy. Rudy.”  This is it.  You have four years of concussions, bruised forearms and enough weight room time to make Arnold gag.  Now your only objective:  Don’t embarrass yourself too much.

With the ball snapped, the Georgia Tech lineman who should be covering you abandons the play so he can chase down that smoke show from chemistry class that he saw in the stands.  He knows no team has ever overcome a 21-point deficit with 15 seconds left in a game so why not go for a win elsewhere in the stadium.  The quarterback, now uncovered, is tackled by another lineman, but you get credit for the sack because the official score keeper has been doing jager bombs with the recently divorced 1945 Delta Gamma Kappa sorority house sweetheart.  After a series of chest bumps and ass pats on the sideline, you go back to be being an unknown 5’ 6” college senior, only to settle SEC charges for running a  ‘Pump and Dump’ stock scheme thirty-five years later.

The Upside of Kayne’s Uppercut:

Before we dig into the downside of a right hook from the guy who put Taylor Swift on the map, here is what $250,000 could get you:

1 ½ Bentleys

500 houses in Detroit

100,000 fold-up chairs


2,500,000 double stuff Oreos

If the Great Recession taught us anything, we learned that security of your financial assets is paramount and all wealth is fleeting.  Clearly, the correct choice for your $250k is the Oreos.  Bentleys depreciate, they had to release a new version of Robocop on Detroit this year, and life is too short to sit.  Oreos have an infinite shelf life and are part of the glorious diet fade that is sweeping our nation known as the “Sugar.”

Although it might be cool to tell your friends you were punched with a Kayne right, the cost of maintaining your image can be a physically and mentally draining.

Now the downside:


In order to keep up appearances, you are required to NOT wash the left side of your face.  Any type of soap, and possibly water, would deface with the purity and authenticity of the haymaker’s mark.  Inevitably, this lack of personal hygiene will eventually cross the equilibrium point between your friends refering to you as “cooler than Freddie Prinze, Jr” in She’s All That to your face resembling a Petri dish stacked with MRSA.  Remember, no one, not even your mom, likes you when you’re packing MRSA.


It is cool that a world famous celebrity punched you.  At this moment, you are as cool as him.  Time is not your friend when you are a celebrity- go ask Kato Kaelin if you have any doubts about this statement.

What happens in five years after the punch?  You will deal with the pain of being broke again.  What happens in ten years?  Maybe VH1 will run a two-minute excerpt on you in an episode of “Kayne West:  Where is he now?”  What happens in twenty years?  People will say “Who is Kayne West?” the same way people today say “Who is Leif Garrett?”

The Big Summary:

On the initial pass, most people would gladly take one on the kisser from superstar who is as big as Pee-Wee Herman was at his peak.  After further review, and weighing the positives/negatives, the choice is clear:  No one likes a cry baby who is paid for getting beat up.

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Leave the Scooters to the Kids

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Scooters became popular when Marty McFly tore one in half in Hill Valley in 1955 and turned it into a skateboard.  Soon after that day, a couple of bike mechanics at Dino’s Chain on Cherry Street attached a spare chainsaw engine to the scooter and the self-powered scooter was born.  The popularity of the scooter took off like Menudo after it picked up Ricky Martin in the 1980’s.  However, in a recent survey, nine out of ten inmates on death row would take a pack of Marlboro’s over a scooter.  Let’s take a moment to dissect the current evolutions of the scooter and try to answer the question:  What happened to the basic child scooter?


“Taste great.  Less Filling.”  That pretty much sums up these road nightmares.  If you want the worst of both worlds, horsepower and style, head down to small engine shop and pick up one of these glorified ride-on lawnmowers.  Sure, you get to park in the fuel-efficient spaces at Whole Foods, but you forgo any chance of landing a date ever again.  Here’s a little known fact:  When Motley Crue was shooting the music video for “Girls Girls Girls”, the production assistant nervously approached the band and explained “Nikki, Vince, Tommy, and Mick, I’m sorry the rental store was out of Vespas, do you think these loud, overbearing Harley’s will work or should we wait for the scooters?”

Motley Crue and Vespas
What could have been.

Scooters at Disney World

Who wants to walk the park when you can glide through it on a scooter?  There are so many scooters driving around the place people walking on their own two feet stick out like a Harvard Business grad selling gently used socks on the exit ramp of an expressway.  Standing in the middle of Main Street, you feel like you are in the final lap of the Indy 500 except the racecars all have severally restricted speed governors.

Train commuters

After dragging a collapsible version of their kid’s scooter onto a packed train, these people cruise to work down the same crowded streets as angry bus drivers, over-worked cabbies and tourists circling the block looking for available street parking that doesn’t exist.  Nothing says “I have abandonment issues” like riding on a toy to your job as a corporate attorney while wearing a suit, tie, and helicopter beanie.  We get it; you’re saving time and money by cutting through rush hour downtown traffic on your kid’s weekend toy, but save yourself your last bit of dignity and walk or take a cab.

Gopeds/Sedgways/Mopeds/Other Scooters

“Go Small and Stay Less Than Mediocre.”  These are like the marathon runner who spent the last six months training only to quit 3.1 miles into the race and say “I’m good.  I’ll just settle for the 5k”.  Five year olds never wake up and say “when I grow up I want to be the fourth string left tackle for Tampa Bay Storm arena football team”.  Why would you want to settle for the Ryan Leaf of scooter world?  Man up and get a motorcycle that can exceed 35 mph at full throttle.


Don’t succumb to the world of fly boy glasses, scarves blowing in the wind and the Mary Poppins world of the mini-motorcycle.  You’re better than that.  You need to believe in yourself and you too can avoid the trap of the scooters.

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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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