The Coping Cabana – A White Paper by Hermit
Zen BagHunter Supreme Hermit delivers this cold-ass take down:
If Vegas is a place where ’roided, tattooed Douchebags and lithe, nubile hotts go to see and be seen, why do they pay an additional $175 to $300 to hide in a covered canvas Boy Scout tent? Well, for this bunch it makes sense.
Phillip and Steve are far from the prototypical Vegas Douche, while Erma, Chastity (the wild one) and Stacey were sort of hot ten years ago. I contend that we can still find it in our cold, judgmental hearts to heap scorn and our collective derision on them because, quite frankly, that’s what we do.
When we sneak a peek into “The Coping Cabana” the stench of broken dreams, failing marriages and materialistic disappointment is palpable. Shackled by huge SUV payments, and upside-down mortgages, they come here as a temporary escape from the sterilized suburbia where they live month-to-month on lies and bank-owned status symbols.
They’re here hoping for a brief respite from their whining, obese children, clogged toilets and sagging bust lines. An ephemeral hiatus from disinterested sex partners, stretch marks, business failures and the mid-life crisis which is certain to come.
However, it’s only a short reprieve as they lie there among the dead skin, dust mites and bed bugs which befoul the cheap fabric of this sweaty, bacteria-infested Vegas sanctuary. The clock is ticking, the rented cabana must soon be vacated. Their furlough over, they must go home to their self-imposed prisons to finish out a life sentence of dashed hopes, harsh supervisors and the never-ending chore of cleaning out French fries and candy wrappers that those ungrateful little bastards leave under the seats of the SUV.
Also, make no mistake. With some alcohol and a little prompting, I still might rub Erma’s nipples with a plastic Wiffle Ball dipped in candle wax and canned cat food, her muffled giggles would erupt into a hoarse, smoker‘s hack, as I deftly slid the plastic bat up under her large, brown, corduroy bathing-skirt-thingy.
Maybe not.
You forgot that the purchase of Celine Dion tickets was refused by Capital One. This is what they used the available balance for in another attempt to soothe their rented souls. “Waiter, can we please have two Bud Lights in the fancy cans, and some more water.” “Will I put that an your account, M’am”…..”No, we don’t have an account, do you take rolls of quarters?We will be payin with our children’s futures.”
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Sitting in clear view to them on the far side of the pool, the Machine grins and rubs his hands with an ominous delight. Son.
Daaaaaamn Hermit. RevChads gonna have to dooble up on the doobage after reading that. Well done.
My spirits are lifted. Superb.
Very nice Hermit. I will ponder the Machinery intensely while I drive drunk to my Dad’s house to cut his perfect suburban lawn while he is in Nova Scotia with my birth cannon. Then I will return to my own suburban prison to host a BBQ and stoned pool party. I’m just glad that my prison is free of the creditor police that monitor my neighbour’s closely as they poison their futures with foreign cars and $40,000 outdoor kitchens.
Based on this photo, Bud Lite isn’t that lite….
erma could at least flash some beav while someone still cares to look. ten years from now, she will be divorced, starting over, living in an apartment mockingly situated above a nail and tanning place, and volunteering in a no-kill shelter late nights trying to give her life some meaning.
the best she will be able to do is bring a jar of crunchy peanut butter to work…she will look back on this photo and think what if, all over again.
This treatise is soul-lifting/crushing and should be required reading in small print on the back of all Capitol One Visa applications. Son.
^They were just charged a $69.19 overlimit fee and their rate was raised to 34.99%.
Im not sure if any of these chicks deserve your waxed wiffle bat Hermit.
Rev, $40,000 kitchens in a place with fourteen seconds of summer? Wow. Oh, by the way, what cars in Canada aren’t foreign?
^Fatness: In Canada they still manufacture the Ford Shaft, which is a cousin of the old Ford Probe.
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Plus, I’m pretty sure Detroit is in the Canadian state of Ontario. Son.
Speaking of Shafts, does anyone remember Wyckyd Scepter’s No. 1 Smash Hit, Getting the Shaft Again?
^Dick Cavett Poo Party. Son.
^Menocu Butt Plugs.
^The Jazz Singer. Son.
That description is so spot-on that I wonder if Hermit lives in La Jolla.
Corduroy is the new plaid. Plaid was the new blood soaked panty liner. So I don’t know if that’s an improvement
Jeebus, Hermit. Jeebus. I am seriously tempted to coax you into a book. Seriously. It’ll be all Burroughs-style. I’ll ply you with a little weed and booze and make jocular remarks about the idea. Then when you’re just past the point of being intoxicated, I’ll get real serious and stare you in the eye. I’ll make some dire remark in a husky voice about doom and creative ejaculations. Then I’ll grab your arm and jam a syringe into the ditch of your elbow. As I depress the plunger, I’ll slide a typewriter in front you and bark, “WRITE! We need this.”
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Fifty years later, college students will still be trying to decipher the underlying meaning of your genius.
Let me also add, Hermit, that your paintings of America the Indebted are so painfully lancing it makes me weep. I occasionally think about where I am in life as opposed to where I was ten years ago. While my situation now looks worse from the outside, it’s actually better from the inside. I have to chuckle at the ghetto antics of my neighbors as I realize none of us are really owned by anyone, as opposed to those in Mansion Row across town. And I don’t even have stretch marks. Yet. Hermit, you’ve fast become one of my absolute fave writers on here.
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Warm Corn Dogs, no. Menocu Butt Plugs, yes.
@Fatness
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As north as the Laurentian Mountains in Quebec the indebted buy million dollar cottages and spend fortunes on seasonal shit. My father and I have a business that sells top of the line American and Canadian made fabrics and metals and shit to companies in Quebec that send the shit to Chinkyland and container it back to sell to the indebted lemmings and those who come from money. $40K outdoor kitchen around my hometown I have retired to is common, but not for me, and that’s why I don’t have to work.
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The auto industry is still large here. Canada makes Camaro, Challenger, Lincoln, Ford trucks etc. and tons of raw auto parts and steel man. North America, (except for the Mexican’s) is a brotherhood brother. We make your weed, your oil, your comedians, Nickleback, your steel, potassium, potash, maple syrup, hockey players, lumber, and most importantly RUSH. And terrorists don’t come from here, by the way, give Boehner a polygraph. Any car that is not the big three is out of bounds for my consumption, except for that piece of shit RX-7 that kept blowing engines the piece of junk.
^The reason I like the RX-7 is because “rotary wankel” just plain sounds dirrty.
How do these motors work? Nobody knows. But they blow the f*ck up at 80,000 miles, Son.
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They also run like a scalded dog when you stick two in-line turbos on them.
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Son.
@ Rev, thanks for the info.
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@MO, the north side rox.
I can honestly say that when I log onto this site I look forward to the prose just as much as the Hott’s & Boobies. Hermit hit this one out of the park. Having experienced in the past some of what he so eloquently described makes me wince. His social commentary is spot on. Well done sir, well done
@ Medusa 10:32 am
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I hear what you’re saying it’s quite humbling yet liberating.
BTW, we are all still here, and Harold Camping is “flabergasted”.
Huh, go figure.
flabbergasted.
Harold Camping isn’t flabbergasted that the world didn’t end this weekend. He’s flabbergasted by the stupidty of the people that made his Family Radio Hour operation a multi million dollar success.
I would be too.
Thanks, all.
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@ Medusa,
The book deal is a definite. While I never could refused weed, booze or syringes filled with mysterious potions being thrust into my arm, the whole “husky voice of impending doom” thing seals the deal.
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re: 10:32
I’m feelin’ ya’ girlfriend. In the mid nineties I was rolling phat with a new $50,000 truck every two years, bigger house than I needed, sparkling new equipment and was grossing close to seven figures. (It was all bullshit because most of it went right back out in payroll, insurance, materials and taxes.)
I was stressed, lost my hair and two wives and was generally miserable.
I sold my house and property in ’06 (lucky timing) and bought my current Hermit shack with cash, paid off all my other shit and now work two or three days a week, have a couple of part-time employees, and make what amounts to poverty level incomes each year.(no shit)
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I’ve never been happier.
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Life is good.
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Except that The Machine’s incessant gears pinch and tear like a malevolent and gluttonous zipper, ripping at the tender flesh of my bleeding, tortured foreskin.
Excellent! But please: uninterested, not disinterested.