Stay-cations are for lower middle class dingbats who failed to recognize that gold would be God in the years following 7/11 or whatever we named that catastrophic event that tore my parents’ stock portfolio to pieces.
Pledge to save the world, one overweight whale at a time, by burning less fuel and spending your hard-earned week away from the cubicle at home, lying in bed, lying to yourself that everything is fine. Ignore your passion for trotting down the vastly inferior beaches of Gulf Shores a couple of mornings a year. Instead, you’ll fold laundry, rake invisible leaves, and fix a glass of lemonade all within the confines of your 1,000 sq. ft. home that is losing value for every second that you spend looking morosely at the neglected bird bath.
You
aren’t fooling anyone, especially not me. I’ve already been to Europe this summer, twice. First time was touring the once great country known as Greece. I had no idea riots could generate so much hostility. You wanna know why the Euro is failing? Because brodaddys with creepy, thin mustaches are throwing pebbles at armored cars and buildings that have stood the test of, oh, I don’t know, a thousand years. Guess what, Aristotle, you’re puny attempt to launch a rock the size of my mother’s wedding band isn’t gonna topple a government, especially considering that the only sport you have ever played disallows the use of arms. So, yeah, you’re aim ain’t exactly as straight as a German bank.
Athens was outstanding, though. Greek girls are so accustomed to dudes taking them on dates to soup kitchens, so when I rolled out of my four-star hotel holding actual currency, they flocked. On my third night, I took five girls out at once. It was pretty gnarly except they kept asking if I would also feed their children, husbands, siblings, pets, etc. Crazy thing is; I didn’t even know Greeks owned dogs.
Once I returned to America, I spent a majority of my workdays telling every client I had to remove any hidden assets they had out of Europe. And I’m not even a financial advisor. Each one of them said, “Duh, dude, our financial advisor already told us that months ago.”
The second time I traveled to Europe, I visited Poland and the Ukraine for, you guessed it, the only reason that could ever bring me back to that crumbling continent, their top commodity: Eastern European Women. While frequenting every hotspot, hostel, brothel known to affluent males, I also caught some of the Euro Cup. You wanna know why the Euro is failing? Because everyone takes a month off from work to watch 22 sweaty guys dropkick each other and average .00032 goals per game. In between goals, Greece could have restructured their economy, but nope, the match is on.
After one of the matches, I was feeling a bit randy and decided to ask the next girl I saw out for a romantic evening. From the shadows, a gorgeous brunette with long, luscious hair appeared wearing a towel around her neck. I immediately exclaimed, “Tonight, beautiful, we dine.”
She turned around and to my surprise, it was a Greek footballer. He dropped to his knees and yelled, “Thank you, thank you,” at the top of his lungs. It was the first time he had seen food in days and he had actually forgotten what money looked like. It was obvious, because when I gave him a couple of Euros at dinner, he tried to cut them with his knife. We didn’t hook up but he offered me his sister for a gyro.
Doesn’t that sound like a blast? Completely trumps any lame plans you had. Pretend painting the garage was what you ultimately had in mind. It wasn’t. You wish you were partying with me at some Kiev dance party where the Ecstasy is somehow 135% pure. Instead, day 4 of your uneventful stay-cation tragically carries on.
I once took a stay-cation. It was called the flu and it wasn’t planned. But trust me, I didn’t waste my precious few moments on this earth staring at the ceiling wondering if Mark from IT would steal my leftover chili from the break room. Nope, I took a “trip” of a different kind if you get my drift. So unless you’re being a fun guy with fungi, you’re basically denying yourself a chance to live a little.
I’m not saying you have to travel to Europe to get your rocks off, but don’t spend a week in your sparsely furnished living room explaining to the kids why Santa canceled Summer Vacation. Go somewhere, like a business and apply for the night shift. Cause the dead end job you got now isn’t gonna be sending you to Paris anytime soon. And for goodness sakes, quit being lower middle class.
