25 Following
HollyBusby

Fashion Style Guide

My first fashion blog

Scandal of the Panhandle: Get the Spring Break breakdown

Day One

A screaming comes across the sky.

It’s my girlfriend’s drunk little sister, Darla. She is hooked to a zip-line ride that’s been temporarily rigged up 50 feet over the beach in front of the Spinnaker Beach Club. She just spewed all of her Red Bull and Popov vodka on the heads of those sunburned Ohio boys, who are the color of Fireball shots. I don’t think they noticed.

Dude, I am flying solo at this year’s Spring Break because Darla’s big sister, Karla, is forbidden to enter Bay County until 2018. Last year, she got more crunk than a mug and the cops hauled her off to the drunk tank in the Sheriff’s Office across the bridge in Panama City.

When her daddy, Karlo, drove down from Dellwood to post her bail, he had to wait three hours before she was sprung from the pokey. He got so angry that he took a golf club out of his trunk and bashed up a bunch of patrol cars in the parking lot. He’s not allowed back in Bay County until 2028.

P.C. Beach in 1950 art.jpg

Photo: evening dresses perth

That family knows how to party, man.

There is some annoying, blabby blond cougar wandering around out here at Spinnaker’s named Ainsley Earhardt. She says she’s a reporter from Sean Hannity’s show on that FOX News Channel. You know, the one that makes my grandfather cuss at the TV screen and scare granny’s nervous little chihuahua named Chupacabra.

The cougar with the TV crew says she’s doing an expose about Spring Break. She keeps asking us if we have seen any Spring Breakers smoking pot or chugging beer out of a funnel or twerking or flashing their boobies or pulling their pants down in public.

“Listen here, Stifler’s Mom,” I finally told her. “This ain’t the Spring Bake Sale. This is Spring Break. This is the unacceptable face of freedom. We are all individuals. We are rebels. We don’t do what Corporate America tells us to do. Now excuse me while I head down to the Jason Aldean Spring Break Mega-Party Sponsored By Coor’s Light and Coors Banquet.”

Day Two

In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since.

He told me, “Never get a new tattoo at Spring Break while you’re liquored up loco on cheap tequila and Jager Bombs.”

I never listen to my old man.

The new tattoo still burns. Now that the swelling has gone down and the spontaneous bleeding has mostly stopped - man, it looked like arterial spray had hit the wall of Blue Magoo’s Tattoo Emporium last night - you can almost make out the outline of the dragon’s head. “Game Of Thrones” rocks, y’all.

My best friend, Purvis, says my dragon tat’ looks more like an angry case of severe ringworm. He took a bunch of pictures of it and now it’s trending all over Facebook.

What does Purvis know? He's the one who got Chinese letters tattooed all over his neck because he thought they meant "Don't You Wish You Were Hot Like Me?" Then a Chinese chick at the VitaminFIZZ After-Hang Party With Rich Homie Quan told him they really mean: "Don't You Want To Buy A Hot Watch From Me?"

Purvis is clueless when it comes to drinking and inking. He also has a gi-normous chest tat’ written in large Old English type that says: “BROS BEFORE HOES.”

“You really must not like gardening tools,” I tell him all the time and that drives him crazy.

He is thinking of getting it altered to read: “BROS BEFORE SHOES.”

We never make motel reservations during Spring Break, so Purvis and I depend on the kindness of strangers, specifically drunk strangers.

On the first night, we crashed with some frat boys from the University of Mississippi down at The Chateau Motel and that was sweet. The Chateau has nice carpet and people from Mississippi don’t vomit nearly as much as the ones from Alabama.

Last night, we tried to hang out at the Waffle House until dawn but they cut us off after 20 free refills of sweet tea. We crashed on a patio at a nice condo near the Spinnaker and decided to sleep in the hot tub out by the swimming pool. That way we looked like guests.

Everything was going great until a drunk girl from Kentucky stumbled by and said, “My cousin slept all night in that very same hot tub last year and, when he got home to Ox Spleen, Arkansas, he came down with a terrible case of leprosy. He ain’t got no pinkie toes now.”

She showed pictures of her cousin’s ugly feet posted on Instagram.

Sleeping on the beach is not too bad. But you have to remember not to turn on your side and get your ear crammed with sand or find a curious fiddler crab in your mouth.

Day Three

It was a pleasure to burn.

At least that’s what Purvis is saying today. Based on his poorly informed religious beliefs, Purvis is opposed to all forms of sunblock, sunscreen and ChapStick.

He slept late this morning in the sand, so, when he finally woke up, he was the exact color of an Alabama Crimson Tide football jersey. But just on one side of his face, right arm and legs.

It’s a good thing we passed out so close to the Spinnaker because Luke Bryan is playing his free concert at 4 p.m. and we have to get in line real early.

Luke Bryan is like the Bruce Springsteen of Albany, Georgia. He sings epic songs about all the important things that really matter in life: Miller Light, partying, pick-up trucks, acting country, booty-dancing, getting drunk and Spring Break. He grew up coming to Spring Break, just like us, and now he owns the beach.

After baking in the sun for hours, we try to push our way through the mob to get a decent spot on the beach to watch the Luke concert. I look up and see that Darla is taking another spin on the zip-line. Her bikini top is falling off and she seems real happy about it all.

A Wookiee-sized gal wearing a bikini, a Stetson cowboy hat and cowboy boots, starts dancing when DJ BP Tar Balls starts blasting the song “FU” by Miley Cyrus and French Montana. (Hey, was he Hannah Montana’s first husband?) The cowgirl in the sand keeps stomping on my feet with her boots and almost knocks me down with her butt implants. After I ask the Wookiee to stop doing the Montana Mash on my toes, she throws what’s left of her Bud Light in my face. When her boyfriend, who is the size of The Incredible Hulk, steps in, Purvis gives him a shove.

“Stay out of this, Radioactive Boy,” the rassler says to the brightly pink Purvis, who responds by calling him a “glandular freak.”

When I wake up, I am in the same lock-up where they incarcerated by beloved Karla last year.

That’s another Spring Break Luke Bryan concert that I will never see.

More info: bridesmaid dresses online