January 15, 2014
The 2013-14 winter Vacay Insta season has finally come to a close. It’s been a wild mid-December to mid-January, with betches nationwide clamoring for your attention through tropical selfies, belfies, and of course, the Puerto Rico Paddleboard Powerpose. Some people go on vacation to relax, but not you. This is a mission. Make sure everyone on Earth is aware that you’re near sand and in a bathing suit.
We all know that the main goal of the Vacay Insta is to let stateside peasants see how exclusive and exciting your life is, but when my newsfeed consists entirely of Hyatt Regency Aruba lobby shots, I’m simply not impressed. I’ve never been to Cabo, but thanks to Instagram, I can now successfully direct you to every emergency exit in the Hacienda Del Mar. Just kidding, I’ve been to Cabo a million times.
Vacay Instas are as unoriginal as they are obnoxious; here are some thoughts on them and stereotypical betch trips as a whole.
By some grace of God, I am Facebook friends with a few jetsetters who fly private. People with private jets love letting you know they have private jets.
OH, HOW THEY LOVE IT!
Every minute of transportation is documented. From lounging in those big brown leather chairs to descending the steps like they’re the fucking Beatles arriving at JFK for the first time. You know what I do when I see your PJ pic? I snap a selfie on the subway and pray for extreme turbulence.
BIG DINNER!! Remember when Mom threw up her Klonopin and Lychee Martini on the waiter? She’s so cray! I will bet all the casino chips in the Ritz-Carlton that your Dad is wearing a hideous paisley button-down. After dinner, he cuts a tiny bit off of that button-down and it becomes your brother’s Vilebrequin swim trunks.
I hate that stupid suit. I don’t know when it happened, but sometime around 2007, there was a federal mandate that every guy must wear a tiny $250 paisley bathing suit whilst on vacation. BTW, the shorter and more paisley’ed your bathing suit is, the more likely you run a Ponzi scheme.
It’s sexy when Minka Kelly does it, but I simply do not give a fuck about your hot-dog legs. It’s terribly played out. (…kind of like Minka Kelly?) What’s more impressive to me than your bare thighs is your photography skills: how did you manage did get an unobstructed view of the ocean with all those family friends around? The Blumenthals to the left, the Goldmans to the right and you pulled off the illusion that you didn’t go away with your entire hometown. Well done.
Look at you, gazing out upon the terrestrial majesty. So many deep thoughts under that fedora:
“How do I look?”
“Where is my Us Weekly?”
“I need a funny hashtag...HELP!”
The only more contrived vacay insta is the one where you take a sip of your drink and pretend not to choke while the waiter fumbles with the flash button.
I need to get tan! Am I tan yet? When am I gonna get tan? How did you get so tan? She’s too tan! She’s not tan enough! Danny Tanner!
A betch is terrified of the locals but will lie on a lounge chair for fifteen fucking hours to match their skin color.
Before your dad has checked in at the front desk, you’ve already checked in to Fontainebleau, LIV, and Some Random Bald 45-Year-Old’s Table But Hey, I Mean, He Does Have A Table on your phone.
There you have it. Till next month...in Aspen. Don't forget to practice synchronized jumping pics with your siblings.