Bobby D'Angelo
It’s 10:49 AM, and you’re urgently wiping lotion off of your penis because a car just rolled in the driveway, and Mom is about to start yelling for you to help her get the groceries out of her car because she has pickleball, a made-up sport for white people whose children fled the nest. After the most uncomfortable shuffle down the stairs of your life, you unload what’s now four-million-dollars worth of groceries into the fridge and begin to mentally prepare to start drinking because your body needs conditioning before Game Days come fall, and your rich friend owns a boat. In fifteen minutes, a friend from a group chat that’s more incriminating than Hunter Biden’s laptop will pick you up. You haven’t been going to the gym as much as you would like, so you bust out twenty pushups in hopes of securing a Tinder profile picture that says if I didn’t drink beer as much as I do, I would be hot.
As the boat leaves the dock, the female passengers start hounding the guy who brought his speaker for one of their playlists appropriately titled “summmaa” like a non-gendered person from Portland asking a cop for his badge number. Over the last few weeks, you’ve seen some suspect videos on Tik Tok about kids’ lungs collapsing, and you have a bad feeling that America is dealing with a bad batch of vapes, so forgive you, lord, you’re a Zyner. Because your nicotine tolerance is so high, you have to take a Rosemary Kennedy lobotomy-sized chunk with your fingers and hope for the best. Everyone is having a great time, The Business by Tiesto has asses shaking like it’s a Michael J. Fox philanthropy event, and you’re two-thirds through a RustyRanks portion of beer. The vibes are Interstellar. When all the sudden, one of the girls on board your ship starts freaking out. For a few seconds, you genuinely believe that the President is dead, not just in the metaphorical sense like he is, but actually dead. As it turns out, it’s time for her to “b-real.”
Like anything with social media, these two pictures will turn out anything but real- it feels like the version of Martin Scorsese with a UTI is directing this photo. Matt look like your having more fun, Jess stay right there, Cam rub in your sunscreen. Once that little episode comes to an end, it’s time to STIMULATE the conversation, so you guys do just that. The boat is a good time, a great time even. The Tinder profile picture didn’t come out, but you had thirteen beers, and you can’t wait to go to bed. When the sober driver of your group drops you back off at your house, you walk in arms up because your sunburnt has you feeling like the chronically injured guy from SpongeBob only to find your grandparents watching Fox news in your living room. You’re so fucked.
