My camera died the first day of spring break, which I think was a sign from the gods that no one wants to see pictures of me eating Taco Bell in a bikini. I road-tripped to Panama City Beach, Fla., which is basically College Park with a beach, complete with the strip-mall-like landscape, Frogger-style roads, and about 75 percent of the former population of Thirsty Turtle.
I brought my Turtle Survivor jersey, which I have now nicknamed “the douche detector” because it reeled in an average of five questionably tattooed gentlemen a day who yelled “MURLUND!” at me. I acknowledge the fact that wearing the jersey makes me the biggest douche in all the land, but that’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make in the name of bringing Terps together in the name of a dirty-ass bar. The bars in Florida were equally dirty, but they were also where former wannabe rock bands came to die. You could practically hear the performers’ idealistic teenage souls dying as they performed covers with talent and finesse. At one point, a naked lady with tassels on her nipples and a rabbit head came out and poured chocolate syrup on the crowd. Um, I don’t know. They had rap battles, though, which soothed all complaints because I like to think my life bears a small resemblance to 8 Mile.
The beaches and ocean were pristine, although on my second day I encountered small children playing beer pong in the sand with great zeal. They were 10 and 11, named Aaron and Carter (which brought me much joy due to the fodder for Aaron Carter jokes), and their parents were on the deck above us, cheering them on. They won nine straight games against adults, which just goes to show how important parental involvement is in a child’s recreational activities, like Little League Baseball and beer pong.
Several bikini contests on the beach hurt my vaguely-feminist sensibilities, but I squashed my feelings the healthy way by bonging a beer and entering into a rousing discussion about who had the best boobies. The “curvy” lady won, which I think shows just how progressive frat boys on spring break have become. They’re practically Betty Friedan in lacrosse pennies. I was asked several times if I was a GDI or not, which led to my being in a fictional sorority, because one of my many charming drunk qualities is rampant lying to strangers. This came in handy when my friend lost his shoes and was refused service at a beer-serving gas station for being too drunk, then pushed over several shopping carts. “He’s had a bad day,” I said to the police officers as I escorted him from the crime scene. “His cat died.”
Road-tripping back, I stopped by Charleston, S.C., which is a beautiful, historic town. I quickly decided I was never leaving the South after being served homemade muffins by men in bow ties at a cookout, whereupon a friend texted me “Don’t be fooled, it’s just the honeymoon period, then shit hits the fan.” Moments later, the sounds of “Free Bird” wafted through the air and two gentlemen in bandanas hung a large American flag above the barbecue. Damn it.
So now I’m back in College Park and it’s 34 degrees. But, in the name of love, friendship and douchery, may you never forget a time when drinking Natty Lite in the ocean was the norm. I’d like to congratulate you all on not killing yourselves or your fellow travelers this spring break. Next year, I’ll tour the Egyptian pyramids, then write a horrifically pious book entitled Eat, Eat Even More, Love. I’ll shotgun a beer to that.
Bethany Wynn is a senior sociology major. She can be reached at wynn at umdbk dot com.
