Beach Week 4ever

The kids worship me. They even call me "Beachweek." and I've been preparing all winter. I've got cases of Natural Light stacked to the rafters in my garage, and I've been making fake ID's, and they're pretty good. Of course, when the kids just can't procure any beer, it's me who they call.
I'm kind of a legend in parts in and around Ocean City, MD. For those of you not from the DC area, Beach Week is like a slightly smaller Spring Break for graduating high school seniors. Some still call it Senior Week, though many who come are not high school seniors. Nonetheless, I've been a fixture around here for about 20 years. The Beach Boys have an album called "Endless Summer." For me, though, it's endless Beach Week.
"Hey, Beachweek, can you get us some Brewsky?" Of course, I say, like a wise and loving Socrates. "How about some weed?" Been growing my own in the basement all winter.
Sometimes I get tired of all the demands, and try and get some sleep. The kids then show a teen girl, legal or not, into my bedroom, where she "convinces" me to go on one last beer run that night.
What do I ask for in return, as well? Well, they need to make or buy their own beer bong. I can still chug with the best of them. There's nothing I like better than showing up some jock by putting that cool brewski down my throat in half the time he does. There's nobody on the beach here who has my experience, my savior-faire and deft chugging technique. I don't know why I'm not on X games.
Sometimes they get out of hand and dis the wrong person, namely me. A couple of meatheads on the beach last year asked whether or not I had any brew. I lied and said no, because there was something obnoxious about them. Sure enough, one guy calls me an "old loser." As they were walking away, I grabbed the sixer I was hiding and poured it all over the guy's head. His friends could do nothing except gape in utter awe.
"Beachweek," they said, lying prostrate, "we are not worthy!"
But let's talk about chicks. They mob me, and who am I to turn them down when they want a pot-bellied,balding, semi-unemployed man to teach them a lesson they won't forget, little minxes.
One time that entrapment show, "to chatch a predater" tried to bust in on me. I showed the cameraman my new carpet up close, real close. I also told the kids that if anyone said anything, well that's the last six-pack they'll see for another three years.
But let's get back to the true spirit of Beach Week. I tell you, there are few things as beautiful as watching a high-schooler get face down in the toilet and spew chunks for the first time. You'd be surprised at the inexperience of some of these 21st century teens. Sometimes I have to hold them down until they've shotgunned an entire six. No wimps allowed in me casa, comprende?
So come on down, and tell them Beachweek sent you. Whooo!

Apologize to those outside the DC area, and wimps who never made it to the real action,
Tourguide
Posted by Sigmund at 12:10 PM 0 comments
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