When a vacation rental doesn’t live up to expectations, when that “charming cottage hideaway” turns out to be a shed, one family’s solution is passive-aggressive guestbook commentary.
My husband, sons, and I thoroughly enjoyed a wonderful vacation and all the nearby restaurants where we ate every meal because your cottage’s kitchen offers no pots, pans, drinking glasses, dishes, knives, forks, or spoons.—The Homer Family, Windsor, Conn.
Vineyard Haven was as charming as your listing promised. It’s also wonderful that you’ve been able to preserve your home’s antebellum charm, especially the mattresses which appear original to the property, complete with traumatic-birth stains. Maybe mention those next time, too.—Kathy Homer, Windsor, Conn.
Sorry about all those phone calls regarding the refrigerator. We now understand that it’s more of a thought experiment than a functional appliance. Kind of like the Schrodinger’s cat paradox, except replace “cat” with “beer.” Is the beer inside the refrigerator warm or cold? Who knows? It cannot be directly observed, so is unknowable. At any given time, the beer inside this refrigerator may be cold and refreshing, but when you open the ice box it will surely be warm as horse piss. So what’s the solution? Go to a bar for a beer instead! Thank you for helping teach my kids about quantum physics. I’d appreciate a credit for the cost of spoiled cold cuts.—Pete Homer, Windsor, Conn.
I duct-taped the fuck out of your Ladder Toss because that shit was falling to pieces every time I wrapped my balls around it. You’re welcome.—Andy Homer, Windsor, Conn.
Loved Cape Cod. Really appreciated all the beach toys provided. Though maybe consider changing the name of this cottage from “Whispering Sands” to “Cacophony of Bodily Sounds.” Or fix the walls so they extend all the way up to the ceilings???—Kathy Homer, Windsor, Conn.
Clam neks look like peniseses—Timmy
This place has more exposed knob and tube than the uncut version of “Magic Mike.”—Pete Homer, Windsor, Conn.
Thanks for a lovely stay. Your cottage may be modest but hey, it’s more affordable than a cruise! And more hygienic, too! To my knowledge, no one in our family contracted norovirus or Legionnaire’s disease during our stay here. Thanks again.—Kathy Homer, Windsor, Conn.
Dear Lawrence Family: Truly a unique house you’ve got. Your bedroom décor was a little too “snuff film” for our tastes, but don’t worry – we all slept comfortably on the dining room floor, amid the charming bug husks. I will follow up by email re: the deposit refund.—Kathy Homer, Windsor, Conn.
Thanks to all the mildew in your ancient washing machine, we spent our vacation smelling like ass.—Andy of Ass
To other guests at this cabin who may be reading this: Our 15 year-old awoke in the middle of the night with a troupe of wolf spiders reenacting the Red Wedding scene from “Game of Thrones” on his pillow. Kind of a spoiler, actually, since we’re only on season two.—Pete Homer, Winslow, Conn.
Discovering your East Hampton home on this visit was a truly unexpected gift. The way the six mildewed shower curtain liners surrounding your old-fashioned claw foot tub clung to my body brought me back to my early childhood. Like, “birth canal” early. Now having relived and conquered that trauma, I feel completely rejuvenated and ready to return to work on Monday.—Kathy Homer, Windsor, Conn.
This article was originally published by The Morning News
“If you like making love at midnight, in the dunes of the Cape/ You’re the love that I’ve looked for, come with me and escape” – Rupert Holmes, Escape (The Pina Colada Song)
Beach sex is one of those things that sounds great in theory, and looks terrifically appealing when performed by carefully trained professionals under strict OSHA guidelines, but in the unpracticed hands of randy amateurs it is absolutely fraught with danger.
Before you and your partner drop your bathing suits on some remote spit of sand and start getting it on, consider the following:
Chafing – risk degree: High
There’s a good reason 99% of intercourse happens on a bed or the kitchen table or the hood of a Mustang: no abrasives!
If you’re beach sex-curious and a newcomer to the scene, first try this: go to your local hardware store and buy a pack of the coarsest grit sandpaper you can find. Then take it home and rub it vigorously on your bits.
Note – this practice can only approximate the wildly unpleasant sensation of beach sex. Actual sand grain size will vary, depending on your geographic region. Beaches of the Caribbean are fine and soft, albeit crowded with tourists and a challenge to privacy. Beaches in Maine are more remote, but very rocky. If you’re conditioning for sex on a Maine beach, forgo the sandpaper and smash your bits with a large boulder instead.
Sunburn – risk degree: High
Do not fuck with the sun. It is bigger than one million Earths and 10,000 degrees and just a hop skip away, astronomically speaking, and it will toast your lilywhite nether regions faster than a marshmallow on a campfire.
And don’t go thinking a dab of sunscreen’s going to help you, either. They do not make an SPF high enough to shield your dainties from this kind of spontaneous combustion. Enjoy the sex while it lasts, because you are going to spend the next three weeks slathered in aloe.
Bug Bites – risk degree: High
I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking “sunburn? I’m not getting a sunburn! I’m having sex on the beach AT NIGHT!” Good plan. Don’t forget the DEET!
After dark, the beach is veritably teeming with blood-suckers: midges, chigoes, no-see-ums, sand flies, mosquitoes, insurance salesmen, vampires named Ray, they all rise up once the sun goes down and will LITERALLY eat you alive. And not in the good, “sex on the beach” kind of way. In the exsanguinating way.
If you’d rather your baby maker didn’t resemble ten miles of rough road the next morning, might want to schedule some sex on the Motel 6 credenza instead.
Nesting Terns – risk degree: Medium
You know that scene at the end of Hitchcock’s The Birds where Tippi Hedren gets mauled by birds? If you end up having the sexy sex too close to that spot on the beach where the terns are nesting, that’ll be you. Except you won’t be wearing a fashionable trench coat and waving a flashlight. You’ll be naked. And sunburnt. And probably covered in bug bites. And you’ll have sand in your hoo-haw. In other words, a real shit show.
And one more thing: If the U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service catches your naked, sunburnt, bug-bitten ass tip-toeing through the nesting reserve of migratory birds, they’ll slap it with a $15,000 fine and throw you in jail for six months for good measure. Then you’ll be having penniless jail sex. Super duper not sexy.
Dog Walkers – risk degree: Medium
If confronted by a dog walker during beach sex, it’s best practice to ignore them. If they linger too long or pull out their smartphones and begin filming, stop having sex and pretend like you’re not naked and strike up a conversation with them about their dog – its breed, age, temperament, vaccination schedule, that sort of thing. They’re likely to be quite gregarious for a while, until it dawns on them that they’re chumming up to a couple (or more) naked, sandy strangers on the beach. Then they’re likely to grow very uncomfortable very quickly and excuse themselves and shuffle away. Though not before they’re dog has eaten a nesting tern.
Drowning – risk degree: Low
Sex in the ocean is highly impractical. First of all, no leverage. Second of all, shrinkage. Third of all, sharks. The list goes on and on. Be real – unless you’re a scuba porn enthusiast, or Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr in From Here to Eternity, rolling in the deep is not for you.
Crustacean Attack – risk degree: Unknown
Probably not an immediate threat, but when the lobsters finally do rise up to take control of the world, you will definitely not want to be caught with your pants down. Having sex. On the beach.
Did I say “scholarship”? It wasn’t actually a scholarship. But I was accepted at West Point.
I never even applied to West Point. Which makes it all the more outstanding that I was accepted at West Point.
Right. Not an acceptance, technically speaking. More like an informal offer.
OK, OK, I never received an informal offer from West Point. I’m not even sure where West Point is. Somewhere west, I’m guessing.
Though I neither received a full scholarship nor an informal offer from West Point, I have seen Saving Private Ryan five times.
My staff has informed me that I have not seen Saving Private Ryan five times. The movie I’ve seen is Shaving Ryan’s Privates. Five times.
I have achieved the level of Prestige Master in Call of Duty: Black Ops II, Xbox 360 edition.
My bad. I don’t own an Xbox, and I’ve never played Call of Duty. What I meant to say was, I own an Atari 2600 and I kick ass at Lunar Lander.
The Atari 2600 is not mine. It belongs to my nephew. I do have the high score on Lunar Lander.
Correction. My nephew has the high score on Lunar Lander.
I did beat my nephew at Stratego one time.
When I was a kid, I constructed elaborate military battle scenes with my G.I. Joes.
Alright, I only had one G.I. Joe. His name was Steve. There were no elaborate military battle sequences.
Unless you count that time G.I. Steve and Barbie were getting it on like horny Yorkshire Terriers and my mom busted into my room.
And she found out I drew pubic hair on G.I. Steve with a brown magic marker.
Did I say Steve? I meant Barbie.
Did I say a brown magic marker? I meant a green magic marker.
Did I say when I was a kid? I meant yesterday.
“After getting caught in the Ashley Madison leak, Josh Duggar has issued three revised statements … and counting.” – People.com, 8/21/15
I have been the biggest hypocrite ever. While espousing faith and family values, I have secretly over the last several years been viewing pornography on the internet and this became a secret addiction and I became unfaithful to my wife.
While this is painful and humiliating to admit, especially coming so soon after my last public apology for sexually abusing children including two of my younger sisters, it is only the tip of the iceberg of my moral transgressions. So in the Christian spirit of contrition, and on the exasperated direction of our family’s publicist, please also accept my apologies for the following:
- I pee in the shower.
- I use the confessional booth dad built in the garage for my own personal vaping den.
- I’m a fiend for Cosmopolitans, the pinker the better.
- That snappy collection of leather belts from the Gap aren’t just for holding my Dockers up; they also come in handy for autoerotic asphyxiation.
- I’m into anal play.
- I’m into model trains.
- I’m into anal play with model trains.
- I herniated a disc while attempting a particularly tricky self-fellation maneuver.
- I have played “hide the salami” with an actual salami.
- I never miss an episode of Fresh Air.
- I regularly diddle Peanut, the family Labradoodle. In my defense, Peanut is the age of consent if you’re counting in dog years. Judging by the waggly tail, he also appears to enjoy it.
- I Snapchat naked selfies to Harry Styles.
- Though I stand accused by my family and have staunchly maintained my innocence, the time has finally come for me to reveal the truth: I did, in fact, fuck the Thanksgiving turkey. And the candied yams.
In short, my depravity knows no bounds.
I am so ashamed of the double life that I have been living and am grieved for the hurt, pain and disgrace my sin has caused my wife and family and Peanut and Jesus, and most of all Harry Styles and all those who profess faith in Him.
The last few years, while publicly stating I was fighting against immorality in our country, I was hiding my own personal failings, along with my Girls Gone Wild DVD collection, and the aforementioned salami.
As I am learning the hard way, we have the freedom to choose our actions, but we do not get to choose our consequences. I deeply regret all hurt I have caused so many by being such a bad example, as well as the cancellation of our family’s television show, which has put a serious crimp in finances and made it so I can no longer afford my weekly sensual massage (ps – I miss you, Sumiko!).
I humbly ask for your forgiveness. Please pray for my precious wife Anna and our family during this time.
Ring and run.
Steal homeowner’s Apple ID, delete their iTunes music library, fill instead with entire collection of 26 Kidz Bop albums.
Toilet paper a tree.
Photoshop homeowner’s face on naked selfies of disgraced New York congressman Anthony Weiner. Snapchat to all area middle school friends, plus local and regional news organizations.
Egging a house.
Hack homeowner’s Facebook. Share Nicki Minaj’s “Anaconda” video repeatedly. Frequently comment on other people’s posts using nothing but stickers. Retroactively “like” every James Franco post ever. Thoroughly alienate family and friends.
Phish homeowner’s online banking password. Launder their life savings through shadowy offshore accounts. Use money to buy a shitload of Xbox games.
Shaving cream attack
Remote-activate homeowner’s webcam. Secretly record hours and hours of video featuring homeowner in embarrassing, unguarded moments. Launch most successful YouTube channel ever.
Flaming bag of poo.
Flaming bag of poo.
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky,
Well, more like early evening actually,
My mom wants me home before nine;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
Upon our Huffys with banana seats,
And bitchin’ ape hanger handlebars;
Streets that lead down to the beach,
To a place called the Wianno Club
Where they’re having a kids’ dance tonight;
There’s a girl there who I want to see…
Oh, do not ask, “Who is it?”
Let us go and pay a visit.
In the room the children come and go
Talking of Mork & Mindy, their favorite show.
The light fog that settles on the ocean,
And curls like smoke over the beach,
Conceals a shark the size of a school bus;
Have you seen the movie Jaws?
Based on a true story, right here on Cape Cod;
There’s a lady skinny dipping on the poster,
About to be eaten by a shark;
You can see her boobs and everything!
I want one for my bedroom.
And indeed there will be time
For the light fog that settles on the ocean,
And the shark that eats the naked lady,
And for me to figure out how to get one of those posters;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
They’ll recognize us, some of them anyway,
The ones from our fifth grade class, for sure;
Time for you and time for me
To put on our disguises,
Our sunglasses and fake moustaches;
What do you mean, you forgot them?!
You are the worst wingman ever.
In the room the children come and go
Talking of Welcome Back, Kotter, their other favorite show
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?”
Do I dare ask her to dance?
What if everybody stares?
(They will say: “Look at his greasy hair!)
My cut-off corduroys, my “Keep on Truckin’” tee,
My tube socks not quite covering the scabs upon my knees,
(They will say: “How can he be so skinny?!”)
Do I dare
Ask her out on a date?
In a minute there is time,
Although maybe we should turn around. It’s getting kind of late.
For I have known them all already, know them all:
Every episode of Gilligan’s Island, and The Monkees, too;
I have measured out my life with Mountain Dew;
Have known the boring summer days on end,
Have driven my bike by her house a thousand times,
Though she never comes out, it’s true,
What else is a sixth grade boy to do?
And how should I presume?
Shall I say things to impress her,
Say I’ve seen Star Wars 27 times, and draw cartoons?
Shall I say I found a diamond ring in a box of Cracker Jacks,
And once I ate three dozen macaroons?
I should have been a hermit crab
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas,
Either that or shark food.
Here we are, Wianno,
Country club for the well-to-do,
Tennis whites and golf caddies, blue blazers in the dining room;
Do you hear that music blaring?
Blondie’s Heart of Glass;
Do you see those boys in chinos and collared shirts,
And girls in bright sundresses?
Do you think they’ll let us past?
(They will say: “Not so fast.”)
Should I, after coming all this way,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
Should I demand they let us in?
I have no idea what I would say;
We would be shunned forever
For our ruinous etiquette;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
I have seen that snotty kid Brad in the tasseled loafers snicker,
And in short, I’m reconsidering.
Let’s stay here for a while on our bikes,
Let’s keep our distance,
You keep watch, see if she comes out,
While I practice popping wheelies.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
If she had met me at the door with a wave and a smile,
And after some small chat,
She called me “Steve”?
That is not my name at all. That is not it at all.
No! I am not Steve, nor was meant to be;
I am Sean; from school,
Quiet, shy, the one they call “four eyes”,
The one who brings his lunch every day
In a greasy paper bag,
The one who cannot climb the rope in gym,
“Sean, Sean, the leprechaun,
Went to school with nothing on,”
At times almost ridiculous –
Almost, at times, a fool.
I grow old…I grow old…
I wear the bottoms of my Toughskins rolled,
Because my mom buys them too long.
Should I wash my hair more frequently?
Should I lose the “Keep on Truckin’” tee?
I could dress in Lacoste and Bermuda shorts, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the rich girls singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
It’s getting late,
The sky above the ocean’s turning red,
If we leave now we can make it home
To catch the end of What’s Happening!!
And then it’s time for bed.
- I am the Lord your God. Thou shall have no other gods before me. Unless it’s Tom Waits.
- Thou shalt not make thyself an idol. Look what happened to poor Taylor Hicks, playing county fairs and weddings at the Elks.
- Do not take the name of the Lord in vain, for chrissakes.
- Remember the Sabbath and keep it holy. Especially Iron Man.
- Honor thy father and thy mother, otherwise they’ll be dicks when you ask them for money.
- Thou shalt not kill or murder, unless it’s a cow, chicken, or other tasty barnyard animal and it represents thy dinner. Free pass if thou art vegetarian. Then you’re just killing plants.
- Thou shalt not commit adultery. Exceptions include extramarital sex with preordained celebrities whose names must appear on a laminated card, notarized by thy spouse and kept in thy purse or wallet at all times.
- Thou shalt not steal. Burning friends’ CDs or downloading from bittorrent sites doesn’t count. That’s called SHARING, a kindly behavior encouraged in kindergartens around the world.
- Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor. Also, don’t bear thy soul or thy private parts to thy neighbor. You’ve got to live next door to that person, for chrissakes.
- Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife. This commandment is no problem for me, since my neighbor’s wife is a horror show.