Wherein I talk about hell, wine, and rich people.
During an impossibly long feeling 6 hour drive to Kiawah, South Carolina for spring break this year, I realized how much life sucked before man found fire and brought into his cave then realized it was too damn hot so he put that shit out and cranked up the AC. And lo, the air conditioner was invented. Being hot is a terrible feeling, definitely top 10 worst feelings of my life. I mean, its below "dissolving my stomach lining with vodka" on the list of terrible pains I've experienced, but definitely above "swamp ass" and "crunchy Bologna." So yeah, it's up there.
I had to be uncomfortably hot for like three whole hours during this car ride. The AC was broken, but apparently driving friend has heat proof skin or is secretly a fire-dwelling lizard monster because he had that shit blowing hot air the whole time. We were all too hot to complain, but we made the effort to save ourselves by opening the window from time to time. That lasted maybe 3 seconds before fire-lizard in the drivers seat rolled it back up.
Eventually my increasing amount of ball sweat over-rode my desire to not expend energy and I opened the window again. Demon-fire-lizard closed it again but the swampiness of my ass was at an all time high and something needed to be done before I ran out of liquid and started excreting dusty chunks of my internal organs.
“Dude stop doing that! What do you have against air?”
“The air is on.” Hissed the lizard monster.
“But your AC is broken it's just blowing hot air”
“I don’t want the windows open while the air is on, it’s pointless.”
“I’m pretty sure your air vents are pulling straight from the depths of hell.”
“It’s the same air that comes in the windows.”
“Except for the part where Satan might as well be LITERALLY farting into this car because its THAT HOT IN HERE!”
Backseat passanger friends backed me up with a solid logical argument that didn’t involve any allusions to a lake of fire or Satan (which were my main points), and we ultimately won the window battle.
About half an hour later was pit stop time at a quality gas station. I can tell it was a quality gas station because the first thing on display was a rack of wine for “$8 and Under!” as the sign proudly told me. I have a few problems with this wine. For one, when your classiest wine selection is only eight dollars you have no business selling wine. Also, if you’re buying wine from the discount rack at a gas station, you probably need something stronger to take away that sting of getting fired from your job at the Burger King. It’s a hard, hard life and you’ll need a higher alcohol content than $8 wine can provide to make the pain go away.
Shortly after thinking that I realized I was in no position to judge. I was wearing a cut-off t-shirt that said "For a good time call: 1-800-Suns Out? GUNS OUT!" Which I clearly wrote myself because it was in sharpie marker so I couldn't even blame it on the shirt. I was probably the least classy person in that gas station. People could’ve easily assumed I was homeless and I probably shouldn’t have made fun of the eight dollar wine because everyone in that store expected me to pick the cheapest bottle, put it in a paper bag and start chugging out on the curb. The thought crossed my mind to dress a little classier next time I had to be in public, but then I bought some Cheetos and stopped caring about that because, DAMN do I love me some Cheetos.
Two hours later we finally rolled up to the gates of Kiawah, or as I renamed it “The Hidden Island of the Rich People.” The one-white-glove-wearing gatekeeper doesn’t let anyone past him without a parking pass, but theres no barricade or guard rail. It's literally just this guy with his one glove. So I'm assuming people stop and let him check their passes pending threat of of being devoured by a fire-dwelling lizard monster because it's definitely hot enough there to have those. We had to get our friend who lived there to call the gate and convince them that despite the trashy kid wearing a cut-off shirt in the front seat, we were allowed to be there. "Sorry for not wearing your golf-outting attire fancy island people, I guess I'm just not good enough for you." I said snarkily in my head to cover up for my shame of looking like a homeless reject from MTV's Real World....so much shame.
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