I know you’re dying to know what I did on my summer vacation, so I figured I’d send this post card and tip you off. That way when I get back to school in the fall, you’ll know how to work me into the kindergarten schedule. You might consider scheduling this after nap time, so everyone’s well rested. You know how I tend to write long and bore. You remarked on this when you reviewed my admissions essay and that was way before I learned how to mix metaphors and color between the lines.
So anyway, my friend and I are away on our Big Vacation. We ran away from our old, cranky husbands and dogs and are taking a few days off from the desert summer heat of Arizona to inhale the noxious pollution of California and soak up all those overpriced restaurant prices. We’re in Pismo Beach, which is the Clam Capital of the World, or so the brochure says. But I’ve been here for a full four hours and haven’t seen one darn clam. You can’t believe anything anymore.
Tomorrow we may go see the Hearst Castle, which, the nice man at the reception desk said is a fancy, shmancy place that Randolph Hearst built to give big parties and induce Patty to leave that terrorist group she joined and come home. I hope Patty will be there because I really never understood what that pretend game was all about and maybe I could talk her into giving me some added insight. Then I could write up a blockbuster story, sell it to some juicy tabloid and finally get my name on CNN.
We just got back from the pier, which is longer than the one at Virginia Beach but shorter than the one at Santa Monica. Actually I’m not sure about that since I forgot my tape measure at home and there’s no Home Depot around here to purchase another. After all, we’re in Lalaland or thereabouts and Reality might give the Golden State a bad name. And speaking of reality, I haven’t yet seen one movie star since we’ve been here. No Leo DiCaprio; not even an aging Bruce Willis. I’m so desperate for celebrity I might even beg an autograph from an Elvis lookalike. But Elvis isn’t in the building, at least not here at the Blue Hawaii Motor Lodge.
I can’t wait to tell all my boomer friends back home about all the beach bunnies I saw lolling on the white sands. One had on an itsy bitsy teeny weeny you guessed it and another nymphet was trying to signal with her come-hither eyes to all the Frankie Avalon lookalikes she spotted by the lifeguard station. And here I was just like in my past life, desperately seeking something tall, dark and handsome but only acquiring the first stages of skin cancer.
Which reminds me. This post card is beginning to show all the signs of disappearing under the weight of all that I’ve written. So before I sign off, please secret this away in my permanent file so the NSA and FBI will have full access to it whenever I commit the Next Heinous Crime of the Century. Okay? Toodles.