I Don’t Care What You Did Last Summer

I hate summer. I hate summer with the heat of a thousand suns. I hate heat. I hate humidity. I hate mowing grass. I hate all summer holidays because they require fake patriotism and the ingestion of various bland, disgusting mayonnaise-based salads. I hate hearing about how your mother makes HER potato salad. I don’t give a rat’s ass. Unless it involves distilling those potatoes down to a smooth, clear liquid that goes well with tonic and lime, I have heard it. You boil the potatoes in their jackets? Heard it. Marinate them in dill pickle juice. Done. Oh, you use yogurt and ranch dressing? DID I ASK YOU?

And while I’m on the subject of things I did not ask you about, I do not want to see your goddamn vacation photographs. That’s what The Facebook is for. You put them up online and I either ignore them or flip through them and silently mock your walking shoes. If I had to choose between seeing your vacation photos and hearing about the really wild dream you had last night, I’ll choose a spike through the eyeballs every time, hoss.

You just checked in on Foursquare at the Trevi Fountain with 56 other people? You know what that tells me? I’m going to have to endure two weeks of hearing how the Romans really don’t eat pizza and how fresh your cheese course was every night.  Really? Your hotel had complimentary continental breakfast? Oh, and you had kwassonts and jam, European-style, every morning? Fanfuckingtastic. So does the Radisson at the airport.

No, really, I’d LOVE to hear about every meal you had for the last twelve days. In detail. SHOW ME THE FUCKING PICTURES OF THAT BEAUTIFUL FUCKING FRUIT SALAD YOU HAD IN BEMIDJI! Do I know the story of Paul Bunyon, you ask? Does Babe the Blue Ox eat a big bushel of nuclear waste-contaminated hay, turn zombie, and eat Paul while while he watches Real Housewives of New Jersey? No? Then why don’t you move on to telling me how well you slept on those beds at the Westin so we can get that part over with and I can move on with giving myself an appendectomy with a pair of tweezers and some grain alcohol because that’s going to be a welcome relief after hearing about how the soda machines only had Pepsi and were $1.75. EACH.

You want to know why I drink? I drink so I can endure summer vacation stories. I drink rather than wrap my hands around your neck and squeeze you until your eyes pop out so that you’ll stop telling me about how you were on the plane to Orlando with Hoda Kotb, and you said to her, you said, hey, Hoda! Where’s your drink?! And all of coach class thought that was just RICH that you said that to her.

I drink so that I can sit there with a smile plastered to my face while you describe the china at the Hungarian restaurant you loved and, what’s that? You say you have the menu? Has heaven just unleashed a storm of a million tiny unicorns and marshmallows?! Sit your happy ass down because I am DYING to know why you chose the chicken paprikash over the stuffed cabbage.

You’re going to The Big Apple for Thanksgiving? Sweet fancy Moses! I can’t wait to hear how expensive the cab to the hotel was and how the driver had no vowels in his name!!


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