Friday, March 8, 2013


I just got back from a great vacation in Jamaica.  We’re talking sand, surf, sun, and, of course, boatloads of food and gallons upon gallons of alcohol. 

I’m not sure I understand why there is the all-inclusive resort.  I mean, don’t get me wrong—I love them—you get off the airplane, put your wallet and your passport in the safe in your room and forget about them for a week.  I just think that having a mile of perfect beach, scorching sun and breezy tropical winds should be enough to entice pasty bloated tourists like me each year to leave my frozen wasteland I call home. 

“Hmm, there seems to be an island in the middle of the Carribean.  Let me look it up on the computer.  Beautiful weather... lots of sand and beach... If they have more than twelve pies, I will consider leaving immediately.”

The first and most wonderful thing that you have going for you at the all-inclusive resort is the free food and booze.  I happen to be a skinny guy but, gun to my head, I can pack it away.  People have witnessed my show at the Chinese Buffet and they brag about it.  At least that’s what I am telling myself they are doing as they recount the story to strangers and point in my direction.  Anyway, what is great about the food is that you can stack your plate up high with all sorts of exotic meats, ice cream, pie, pizza, more ice cream, fish, fruit, things you think might be fruit, and bacon.  I’ve come to realize that wherever you are from in this world, if you are visiting a resort, you will place salty meat on top of your plate.  I don’t care if there is ice cream under there.  The bacon is going on the top. 

Hey, if you don’t like it, then don’t eat it!  You aren’t paying any more for a huge plate of waste than if you are trying to be responsible.  Don't worry about making the waiter upset.  They love cleaning up your four half-eaten plates of papaya and pineapple.  You weren't sure if you would like the chocolate cake, so you only took three pieces.  They get it—the resort crowd is not the responsible crowd.  If they were, someone would eventually get out of the pool bar to use the bathroom.  I have yet to witness that. 

You see all sorts of interesting people at the all-inclusive resort.  I happen to fall under the “happy drunk guy who still thinks he is ten years younger than he is” category.  I’m in the pool trying to play volleyball against 19-year-old college students from Omaha.  I am not a professional volleyball player.  So I totally understand why I am terrible.  But here's my question: they don’t even have water in Omaha—at least I think they don’t.  So why are there Nebraska dudes with abs spiking a ball into my face?  It’s been ninety minutes since my meal inbetween lunch and dinner—I think I’ll grab a snack instead. 

Everything becomes a big deal on vacation.  Have you ever had a drink at your house?  Maybe you get home from a long day, and you are watching television, and you kind of walk over to the cabinet and pour yourself a drink?  No one applauds, do they?  For some reason, if you order a couple of drinks at 10:02 a.m., strangers are applauding and pointing.  Maybe they are doctors, or they happen to own shares in a rum plantation. 

The huge competitive tanners come out of the wordwork on these tropical vacations.  The minute people are at the resort, the shirt is off.  Boom.  Dudes are topless within seconds.  Women run like Florence Griffith-Joyner to their hotel room and spin around like Wonder Woman three times before dashing off to the beach.  It might take her four days to pack for the vacation, but within forty-five seconds she is on the beach, in a chair, facing the sun like a photo-sensitive Venus Flytrap.  We also need the US Magazine and the largest sunglasses that a human cranium can safely support.  I say good for you—it’s all anyone ever asks about after you get back from holidays anyway.
          Coworker: Where were you?
          Me: I was in Jamaica.
          Coworker: Where’s the tan?
          Me: I don’t want to get cancer.
          Coworker: I don’t see much of a tan.
          Me: I had a pretty good time.
          Coworker: So... no tan? 

By the way: how come at home I can make my bathroom towel last a month before it finally marches itself into the wash, and yet on vacation I am going through eight towels in one day?  They have a little hotel resort sign on the counter that says “save the environment, only put towels in the tub that you don’t want to use again!”  Well guess what.  Every single towel is going in that tub.  I’m breaking into neighbour’s hotel rooms, taking their towels, and throwing them in the tub.  The thought of even looking at a towel more than once becomes instantly disgusting.  I’m wearing the same T-shirt four days in a row, but I’m going through towels like toilet paper. 

Anyway, Jamaica is great if you like sun and nine meals a day.