Hoedown

Jethro and I took the girls camping on the beach this past weekend. Unbeknownst to us, it was the weekend of the East Beach Party - a ghetto spring break party. I'm not sure how PC it is to say that, but I don't care. The partygoers have done so much damage to Galveston in the past, that many businesses just close down entirely and the city goes onto full-scale riot alert. The city still hosts the party, but works very hard to keep things under tight control. Luckily for us, we were heading in the opposite direction of the beach party and the hoochies don't go camping. Lest anyone think I have some kind of prejudice, I would be glad to be heading in the opposite direction of any beach party involving hoochies and alcohol, at least as long as I had my kids in the car.

But let me just tell you about the hoochies for a second. Truly this is an underrated subculture. I got my first inkling as to what was about to go down when I saw one riding on the back of a motorcycle, her companion's head lodged comfortably between her voluminous breasts and her copious, mini-skirt clad derriere enveloping the entire back end of the bike. Jethro nearly drove off the road when I told him to check out the gal pooping a tailpipe.

To be fair, there were classy, well-dressed women on their way to this event as well, but let's face it - they're nowhere near as interesting. I saw hints of beaver, I saw cellulite in places I didn't think could get fat, I saw tube tops disappearing into rolls of flesh. Definitely an event that, for better or worse, is now seared into my brain.

Camping was rather dull in comparison, but the girls loved it. The only bad thing was that Jethro got really sick. His fever was so high last night that I was afraid he'd damage some brain cells. Lucky for us, he's done with all his classes, so now he can pretty much drool and crack backs for the rest of his life.

I may be writing sparingly the next couple of days until he's better and my plague-infested house is out from quarantine.