the media stereotypes you meet
on spring break! the ted mosby He’s been your best friend since Jeremy Daniel gave you simultaneous wedgies in the fifth grade. You dormed together freshman year, but when you rushed he decided to chat with his threestates-away girlfriend over Skype. It wasn’t until his junior year that he discovered she was cheating on him. Though you rarely talk these days, you decided to invite him on spring break. Now you’re in club dancing with hawt womenz as he shoots you “please come end my boredom” daggers from across the room. You let your slamdunk slam piece go and mosey his way. “Dude, there’s hundreds of sluts here for you to bone,” you mutter. “I don’t want to talk to any of them,” he downtroddenly claims. You give him a half dozen “How ‘bout her?” options, but it’s always, “Too fat,” “Too skinny,” “Weird freckle,” “Missing a leg.” You’re regretting that invite, as you hate him almost as much as he hates himself.
It’s unlikely that you’ll meet a fictional character on spring break, unless you have some really, really good ‘shrooms. Still, you’ll certainly meet someone that’ll remind you of that one guy you saw in a movie that one time. Like these folks! By: Brendan
the chelsea handler
the van wilder
Before leaving for spring break she excitedly shows you a shirt she bought for the vacation. You frown as she unfurls it, so she feels the need to explain, “It says ‘The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else’! Get it?! Plus, it’s white, which will be absolutely perfect for a wet t-shirt contest.” Yes, she’s an attention whore, but that doesn’t take away from her more normal whoreish qualities. As you roll into Panama City Beach she demands the group stops at Wal-Mart before checking into the hotel because she wants to do a vodka shot minutes after the gang gets into the room. Over break she’ll claim to invent the “tan nap,” which is really just an excuse for her to pass out next to the pool. This is fine, she needs all the rest she can get, what with the stop-start self-esteem sex she has with a different, flaccid, barely-conscious dude in your bathroom each night.
You’ll spot the Van Wilder from a few dozen yards away. His hot, oiled body glistening in the sun, his perfectlycoiffed hair reaching for the sky as though even his keratin is surrendering to his sparkling blue eyes just a few inches south. Guy or girl, your knees quiver in anticipation as you pray he talks to you. He asks, “Hey, need a beer?” as you rush to tumble a sloppy “Yes!” out of your mouth. He murmurs, “Alright man, give me twenty bucks and I’ll be back with a case in a few.” What? You begin to catch on. Those flip-flops look like they cost several hundred dollars, and his board shorts look to be a brand you can barely pronounce. This guy’s gotta be north of thirty. What kind of grown-up douchebag still celebrates spring break?
the annie walker She sidles up next to you at the bar and within minutes you’re smitten. She’s cute and she’s sucking back shots faster than the bartender can pour them. The two of you trade adorably awkward glances because, hey, you’re both the shy type. Finally serendipity strikes when you both turn to each other and say, “Hi, I’m--,” bursting out in laughter an instant later. The glimmer in her eye and the stirring in your swim trunks both indicate things are going well until she says something goofy. Shit hits the fan. The conversation’s momentum dies and the glimmer in her eye turns into a glassy shell that does little more than hold in orbs that are just waiting to bulge out of her head. She’s stumbling over her words, stumbling to the bathroom and she tumbles to the ground just as she covers it in a thin puddle of puke. Feel free to give yourself a mental high-five, acting like an ass is what those low selfesteem hotties do.
the taco macarthur the Leslie Knope You open your eyes, roll over and look at the bedside clock. It’s 10:15 a.m. Four hours of sleep? Jesus. You will yourself out of bed because there’s only two days of break left and much tanning left to do. You angrily stumble into the bathroom only to realize she did it again. Taped to your mirror is the day’s itinerary: 10:30 a.m. mani-pedi followed by a 11:15a.m.-1:30p.m. spa session? Doesn’t she know that you just want to eat a stale bagel from the continental breakfast, slam a beer and hit the beach? She’s everything you love in a person: Organized, driven, adventurous and loyal, but she can’t get the notion that you just want to sit around drinking beer on the beach through her very pretty skull. You hear her rustling around in the living room, so you decide to hide in the closet until it’s 10:35. You’d chip your manicure cracking open beers anyway.
You’re barely out of the state before you have to scream at him for casually lighting up a spliff in your back seat without asking. He barely utters a word during the entire 18-hour journey, tossing in a “Yeah, cool, whatever.” when you periodically ask him if he’s still alive. You exit your condo’s bathroom only to discover a text message claiming he’s gone down to the beach to smoke an apple bong with some girl he met in the elevator. Every night you stumble home from the club frustrated that you’re still not getting laid, and every night you walk into the room and he’s there with a half dozen girls he met on the beach. The rational part of you wants to hate him for succeeding with minimal effort when you fail while trying so very, very hard. Your penis loves him though, because hey, tits.