Worst Vacation Spot Ever
Gather round our round table of truthiness, where the Donnybrook Elite debate who wins the title of Worst Vacation Spot Ever. I think we were all trying to be a bit clever, because almost all of our answers are, how shall I say, otherworldly. But it’s not surprising, coming from universal time-and-space jetsetters such as ourselves. Just one of the perks of being a Donnybrookite – you can go wherever you want! But you shouldn’t. Here’s where and why.
I don’t mean to be a bother, braggart or uncouth individual of any sort, but traveling to the Hamptons has all of the appeal of sojourning at a mobile and likely urine-soaked RV/B&B that may or may not be the property of a bevy of feral raccoons. It’s just an unseemly and seedy sort of place that gets me all hot under the cravat, if you know what I mean.
You’ve likely read my excerpts and thoughts of the sporting events likely-celebrated by the base, new money inhabitants of the Hamptons, ‘Croquet and Lesser Sports.’ You may not be surprised to find out that while a fantastically gifted writer (and orator, for a humble fee worthy of my grandness!), I am also quite the adroit athlete. While my steps are not what they used to be, rest assured they are still mighty. However, you would not believe the horse latrines these people maintain as their abodes! Sure, their grass is greenish, but did you know it could be pulled right up from the ground? These divot things, they’re dreadful. And they taste dreadful. Give me the Kinglandshurry blades, so fine yet so strong you think you were walking on sand that massaged your feet right through your driving shoes, if it’s not too much trouble (and at $4.4M per yard, I greatly doubt its unavailability [GUFFAW!]).
Not only are the grounds insufficient, but those people and their pastimes, GOOD GOOSE GRAVY. I understand that the small “recession” that occurred a while back may have hit some people in their particulars a bit harder than others, but this is no excuse to be throwing these GHASTLY discuses around as if we were dogs in a kennel. Rarely have I seen so many Caucasian knee caps outside of a Larry Who Is A Cable Guy speaking engagement, whom I assume to be a Congressional candidate of theirs. They toss around these egg-shaped things, “footballs,” with all of the grunting oafishness of a caveman digging his way out of a tar pit with his trusty spork. And sadly, there were none of our treasured pastimes: No Bittle Tending. No Squinters. Not even a whiff of the delectable meats consumed during the fair matches of Abbledrawsers. None of the great games that have made us, I dare say, great.
Simply put: I hate rubbing knee caps with these poor, derelict people, and if I must do so on a regular basis, then the Rapture has come and I have been placed on the wrong list.
Excelsior and Screw the Poor,
- J. Erstmill Chabbleshanks, Esq.
The planet Mercury is the biggest hunk of space flotsam cluttering up our otherwise esteemed solar system. Frankly, it’s bringing down the real estate of the area. Ugly, grey, and riddled with craters, Mercury is like that half-lame soldier you shove to the front lines in a battle. It’s why we put it closest to the sun. I can practically sense its ugly presence when I step out on the front porch for my daily breath of fresh air.
You make me so angry, Mercury! You are the smallest planet in the solar system. You rotate slower than all other planets in our solar system besides Venus, but Venus makes up for it by being the shit. Your temperatures range from −183 °C to 427 °C. What the shit?! What on god’s Earth am I supposed to wear when I’m summering there?
You could have rings, gorgeous blue atmospheres, you could be almost-livable like Mars, you could be totally livable like Earth, or you could be like the best planet ever, Venus! Venus is totally glam and rife with drama – volcanos, lightning, raining sulferic acid, and it’s even hotter than you, even though you’re closer to the sun. WTF? Can’t you do anything right? No, you just sit there being the punching bag of the solar system, getting riddled with sunlight and asteroids. You don’t even have an atmosphere. Every once in a while you go into retrograde and wreak havoc on our world, causing problems to happen, or causing crazy astrologists to say that you cause problems to happen, which makes it hard to live here regardless. No matter how much you pay me, sir, I will never be vacationing on the shittiest of places in the solar system, Mercury. No, sir.
- Angora Holly Polo
Who wants to party with these bitches?!
They say Heaven is paradise, but I say you have to consider the source. No one who has ever gotten black-out drunk on tequila or put their hands up in the air while riding a rollercoaster or shot a man just to watch him die hangs out in heaven. All the cool people are in Hell; Heaven’s just for the stiffs. It’s like an entire nation populated by the Ned Flanderses of the world.
Everything up there is white (I suspect they’re unwitting racists despite all of their good intentions), which admittedly is kind of a cool effect for a while, like a really mod soundstage. But after a few hours, you would probably begin to have wild, color deprivation induced hallucinations where you start to see Toucan Sam everywhere and rainbows on the insides of your eyelids when you shut them. (“Wasn’t one of these dudes supposed to have a coat of many colors?” you’ll wonder to yourself.)
And don’t get me started on the food there. It’s all under-seasoned and the meat is always cooked well-done–”Just to be safe,” they’ll inform you. I know they tell you there will be wine, but it’s all really watery. It’s hard to describe but trust me: you won’t enjoy it.
Yes, there are virgins everywhere. I mean EVERYWHERE. But you can’t fuck any of them.
(And don’t even think about going anal or working on some of that kink you saw on the web–there is no internet in Heaven and the closest you’ll get to having someone come all over your face is having a winged angel hand you a Kleenex when you sneeze.)
Heaven is a horrible place to live, but it’s an even worse place to visit. Take a tip from me and just go to Six Flags instead.
- Professor Honeydew
Worst vacation spot ever? Probably London. Or maybe Paris. I mean, why shell out $800 of your hard earned inheritance to go to Europe? Heard it. Every one has.
Besides, who needs to fool with customs when there are so many other Londons and Paris’ (yes, both!) to choose from on this continent?
Now I’ve not yet been to London, Kentucky, but I’m certain it is delightful. I’m sure it just oozes Southern charm. What’s not to love? And to boot, you’re a short distance from Daniel Boone National Park. There is also a Paris, Kentucky up the way, so you can knock out both in one visit. C’est manifique!
If your grand plans for Kentucky fail, there’s still London, Ohio, California, or Arkansas. And, barring complication, Paris, Idaho. Or, knock out another supposedly fab city by going to Paris, New York.
I have, however, been to Paris, Texas. I do not recommend it.
- Belle von Bonaventure de Bacon
There is a reason no one smiles in old-timey photographs
The worst vacation spot is not a ‘where’ but a ‘when.’ Imagine you procure a badass time machine that will take you anywhere in the past you want. Seems awesome, right? Think again.
Have you ever realized how much the past sucks? If it isn’t dysentery on the Oregon Trail, it’s being oppressed because of your skin color or religious views. That’s right Hitler, I’m talking about you! It takes forever to travel anywhere (when was the last time you were even on a boat?), and your clothes are itchy and probably infested with small pox. You also have to watch out for your ancestors, because if the movies have taught us anything, they will probably try to sex you up and thus alter the course of history.
The past is cold, and made primarily out of hay and wool-based products. Good luck trying to do anything in a world where you have to have a skill to survive…what do you mean you’ve never had to milk a cow before?
I mean, sure, having the ability to go back and change stuff up would be a fun adventure, but what happens when you finally make your trip back and find that you’ve changed the world as you know it. I mean, God forbid you change something, and the world never gets to hear the angelic voice of the Prince of Pop, Justin Bieber. The results would be cataclysmic in nature and are something I’d rather not even joke about.
So, if Doc Brown ever shows up on your door step and is like, “If my calculations are correct, when this baby hits eighty-eight miles per hour… you’re gonna see some serious shit,” tell him to shove off and maybe buy a more reliable car than a DeLorean. I’m only going to say this once…don’t fuck with the past, it’s not fun and it doesn’t make you cool. (I’m talking to you, Marty.)
-Ace Wellington The Third
Kent Island, MD
Don’t Go Back to Rockville. Definitely Don’t Go Back to Kent Island, MD.
I planned the worst vacation my family ever took. We chose one specific cottage in Chesapeake Bay because it had a shallow beach that was appropriate for my kids and the children of a friend. Before we even arrived the friend in question got her dates confused and planned a trip to visit her husband’s family in Maine. She remains the luckiest person in this story.
Maybe I’d over planned. We were in Kent Island, MD because it was close enough to DC that we could see some friends and my brother-in-law and his girlfriend without having to sleep on anyone’s floor. Someone told us Dick Cheney had a place on Kent Island, but after seeing it for myself, I don’t believe he’d ever set a boat shoe-clad foot within miles of the place.
We arrived to find our cottage situated in a residential, lower middle class neighborhood. Next to the cottage was a small, public docking area. A metal shelter covered a couple of picnic tables strewn with garbage. As we would soon learn, this shelter was ground zero for the local teen pick up scene.
The cottage had been built, about 40 years ago, by the hand of a now deceased, and much beloved father of the two adult sisters who owned the place. Do not ever rent a place owned by family that the family still thinks of as “theirs.” You can sense their unease through every sandy floor board and their poutiness at having to share their special home with you, a paying interloper.
My kids were still happy to be out of the car after our eight hour trek, so we changed into our suits and headed down to our beach. We did have a small section of beach that we did not have to share. With humans. Unfortunately, we had to share it with jellyfish. The appearance of the jellyfish soon put an end to our swimming. I realize that more intrepid travelers might have braved the water anyway, but in my family, we are the type of folk to run screaming from the room after the first appearance of a moth. The jellyfish were just too much for us.
After we swam, it was time for some dinner. We’d heard about Maryland crabs, and we were excited to try some local food. We headed out to a nearby restaurant where they covered the tables with kraft paper, and brought shakers of Old Bay and lots of butter with the crabs. Here, I will admit, the failure is totally ours. Crabs are a lot of work to eat! And some of the parts inside them are kind of disgusting. Maybe it was the dehydration, the fatigue, or the knowlege that we were facing several more days of vacation without a viable swimming option, but I do not remember that meal fondly. Neither I nor my husband will ever touch a crab again.
I couldn’t sleep that first night. Probably something about the last moments of my youth fading. That or The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo was keeping me up. I got up to stare at the stars across the river. Pretty, right? The next thing I knew recalcitrant teens from the lot next door were running scattershot through our yard, mere feet from where I sat in the darkness. A cop with a flashlight was close on their heels, the door of his cruiser hanging open, headlights cast across the water.
So that was day one. By day three things had begun to improve. My brother-in-law and his girlfriend were visiting, along with a college pal, with her husband and kid. We swam in jellyfish-free water, drank beer, and played cards. The kids had a blast climbing the narrow stairwell to the tiny crow’s nest at the top of the cottage. Then it began to rain.
We’d caught the edge of a hurricane. Within two hours, water began to pour in through the back door. My brother-in-law climbed up and started cleaning out the gutters of this rented hellhole, pulling handfuls of dried brush that looked like moss from a Live Oak while our other guests tried to train the water away from the back door. I was on the phone with one of the owners who had the nerve to suggest I go next door, borrow a wet vac, and use it to clean up the carpets in my kid’s rooms.
Even though our friends were up to their shins in floodwater as they walked to their brand new convertible, they still made it back to DC. Somehow we got the mess cleaned up. I fell asleep that night to the sound of my husband, and his brother drinking wine and playing boggle. I was so happy it was almost time to go home.
- Ms. Tansy Maude Peregrine
I and my beloved recently travelled to Maui for a wedding of some friends, and let me tell ya, AGH, what a terrible vacation spot. Between the perfect medium balmy weather and the color-filled sunsets over the ocean, my beloved and I could not find a single thing to complain about. Even the food was delicious! And there were cute whales and dolphins everywhere! How dare they not allow us our favorite vacation past-time of hating everything!
- Ivyy Goldberg, Esq.