Ah, LBI. Thanks to the kind folks who birthed me and put up with my cray, we kept the tradition alive and I’ve got a bitchin’ tan, y’all.
Nothing says sand in your bungus – or rather, a return to LBI – like Linda plopping under her umbrella and exclaiming, “Life’s a beach!” It’s like clockwork. But Linda is wrong. The real Biatch is Kharma, especially since said Kharma Cameleon d-smacked me this past Saturday. HARD. What the deuce am I talking about, you wonder? I’m saying that I believe in that hippy mumbo jumbo about your past bad behavior
hoodcat shit coming back to haunt you. After 13 years and 250k miles of trans-American travel and Feinberg tomfoolery, the trusty ole’ Lex met its maker on the side of I-95 South somewhere near Elkton, Maryland.
It’s like that scene in the Goonies when Chunk confesses to every bad thing he’d ever done.
Except this time, I wasn’t confessing and all the dumb and lowdown dirty nonsense in Bebemuchacha history was manifesting into one epic disaster. I swear; the clouds opened up and God said to me, THIS is for all those walk of shames
strides of prides, now feel my wrath.
It was a clusterfuck to end all hot mess clusterfucks, complete with hysterical crying, uncharged iphones, shame, and a tow truck driver named Todd with a Harley-riding Feral Hog on his sleeveless t-shirt. Simply put, when the Lex gave its last dying breath, chug-a-lugged, and decided to get funky with the accelerator, SNAG pulled a Mother Theresa and zipped on up from DC to rescue me and Muff’s post-beach Wacko Tango soggy, sandy asses. He scooped us up just in time, as Charlize Theron’s character from Monster was probably hanging out in the “Trucker Lounge”, getting her lead pipe ready.
I knew this day would come. You can’t just run around being a baller Slytherin and
speaking in parseltongue hissing at every other girl at the bar without your mischief coming back to bite you in the nether regions.
Speaking of washed up madness, check out my homegirl: