Thinking about cruise ship assholes the other day reminded me of a story that happened a few years ago on St. John. My husband and I were hanging at the Westin Resort having some lunch at the Pool Bar. Now, the Westin on St. John attracts a special kind of asshole – the type that is either accumulating and/or using some sort of Points and therefore think that they are something special. Hey, you’re not special. Am I special because I ate 10 sandwiches at Blimpies and got one free? Well, sir – you are just a giant Blimpie Guy, so get over yourself already.
Anyway, there’s a lot of good people watching at the Westin Pool Bar – a lot of obnoxious East Coasters with their stupid Boston Red Sox hats, usually towing one or two small children, whom – of course – are also wearing some sort of Red Sox gear. Harried Minivan Moms, who really thought that bringing their 2 and 4 year old on vacation was going to be, well – a vacation – and soon discover that in fact, it is not. Fat, hairy, unusually tan dads who sneak up to the bar when Minivan Mom isn’t looking and pays cash for that 10th secret beer. Spoiled tweens that think every summer comes with free vacations to the Caribbean, etc. etc.
On this particular outing we were privy to one of these annoying couples, who had obviously been fighting before they arrived at the Pool Bar. The Mom decided she’d had enough and told her husband that she was going to the room to take a nap, and he was now in charge of Little Johnny, their three year old son. “Make sure he eats lunch before you come back to the room for his nap,” the Mom said on her way out.
Turns out Little Johnny is a pill without Mom around, so Dad thinks he better order his lunch sooner rather than later. He puts an order in for the Kid’s Meal Hot Dog at the bar and then goes on his merry way back to the pool with Little Johnny.
Five minutes later, he’s back, and Little Johnny is not happy because he wants his hot dog. Where is the hot dog? Dude – it may be the Westin, but it is still the Caribbean. Have you heard of I-S-L-A-N-D T-I-M-E? Soon come, mon.
Five minutes after that he’s back again and now Dad is pissed, too. “Where is my son’s hot dog?!” He yells at no one in particular at the bar. “My son needs his hot dog! He wants his hot dog! He is a hungry little kid and he wants the hot dog NOW!” This went on and on and I wondered who exactly the three-year-old was here. My husband and I giggle in our Rum & Diets… this will be good.
Five minutes later he’s back again and this time Little Johnny is whining and crying about his missing hot dog. Dad is panicked, so naturally he yells at the bartenders some more. “Listen! This is BULLSHIT. Now I want that god damn hot dog and I want it NOW!” The veins in his fat bald head are bulging. “Where is my son’s hot dog? He WANTS HIS HOT DOG, WHERE IS IT?????”
Oh, you’ll get your hot dog – and then some, pal.
… to be continued.