Hilarity bound to ensue when vacationing on the open road

Thelma and Louise had it right.
Actually, that isn’t very accurate. I would never kill a rapist and commit suicide by driving a 1966 Thunderbird convertible off a 2,000-foot cliff while seat-buckled to the driver’s seat. What I would do, however, is go on a cross-country road trip with my BFF (though, fishing in the mountains of Utah is far from my ideal vacation; hitching a flight to the island of Saint Martin – heavily spiked Sex On The Beach in hand  – better tickles my fancy).

Packing multiple people into a beat-up car, driving to the west coast and screwing with as many innocent bystanders as possible has to be the gnarliest idea ever. Every innate responsibility bestowed upon riley 20-year-olds, including being blatantly irresponsible, is jam packed in the concept of flipping the bird to harmony and riding off into the sunset.
Crusading to California has long been a dream of mine. I’ve never been there before but the Golden State has an alluring quality to it. There are countless reasons to go: the surf of the Pacific shoreline, the elitism of Hollywood, the curves of the tan and beautiful people, the I.Q. of the tan and beautiful people, the greenery of the scenery and the mere possibility of seeing Lindsay Lohan wipe out on a sidewalk. I could go on. Being stuck in my particular town for the summer has its drawbacks. We have a population of about 30,000 and half of them are over sixty. I came to this conclusion by turning the vehicle circulation of the Dunkin’ Donuts drive thru I used to work at into a statistical study. On average, the glass ceiling on the senior citizen discounts processed