Son of Vacation (part one)

   

On our vacation in Mexico​, the all-inclusive resort we stayed at for the first week was located right on the beach. White sand. Blue water. Thonged women. One in particular revealing a roundness that a perfectly proportioned peach would envy. I’ve never seen so many bottoms in my life. Some old, some young, some too young. I made it a point not to look at that last category. You never know if Chris Hansen from To Catch a Predator is hiding in the bushes.

     I don't mean to judge, but I wonder about fathers who let their daughters dress like that. One father at the beach was even taking selfies with two daughters who looked like they had just entered their teens. I wanted to tell him, “Hey, buddy, two thongs don’t make a right.” Sure, that’s a bad pun, but that pun reminded me I needed to go through my youngest daughter’s closet and throw some stuff out. 

     My older and much less attractive brother, whom I sometimes write this column with, when he found out where I was going he told me to send him pictures of all the eye candy. I told him I would, but I had no intention of doing so. I didn’t want to have to call the president to get me out of a Mexican jail. 

     I thought I saw a guy in a thong, but as it turns out he was just wearing brown Speedos. I sent my brother a picture of him instead. You need to be fit to wear Speedos or thongs, which this man wasn’t. Diddly are the only kind of squats he seemed to be familiar with. 

     I don’t understand guys who wear Speedos. When I die, if someone’s eulogy mentions they saw me wearing Speedos, then you can be sure my life took a bad turn. 

     You know what I’ve noticed about the beach? The hot girls are never sunbathing directly in front of you. They’re always off to the side and in the distance. The only women close enough to ogle are my age. Which is no big deal, but if I wanted to see a wrinkly, flabby tush wearing booty floss I’d strap one on myself and look in the mirror. 

     Past a certain point in your life, wearing a thong should be put up to a vote. The only way you’d ever catch me wearing a thong is if my wife found a pair that didn’t belong to her in the glove compartment of my car.

     “You’ve got the wrong idea, honey. That’s what I wear when I want to feel pretty.”

     All this talk about thongs reminds me of a joke:

     

     A guy approaches a young lady wearing a skimpy outfit in a nightclub.

     “Great thong,” he tells her.
     Offended, she throws her drink in his face and storms away. 
     “Gee,” he says, “was it thomething I thaid?”