The case against sex on the beach | Van Winkle's

Here’s one compelling clue that sex on the beach sucks: The drink named after it uses peach schnapps. At best cloying and at worst the thing of which nightmare hangovers are made, peach schnapps is preferred by people who are young, unsophisticated and lacking a proper bed.

Which, I might add, is also true of those who consider sex on the beach a capital idea.

The act seems to hold myriad allure. Sex on a beach is public, it feels romantic and classic movies tell us it’s something hot couples do. No doubt, the beach is sexy. People are barely dressed, rubbing themselves with oil, dripping with pheromones. Everything about the environment  tells us we should want to fuck.

Everything, that is, except the sand. And the bugs. But mostly the sand, which sticks to moist bits (and what is sex but an elegant mashing of bits that are moist?). At its essence, sex on the beach is a bucket-list act, sitting alongside the mile-high club as something we're supposed to do. Beach boning is a to-do list item that, once checked off, is unlikely to be done again.

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Bernie Sanders Was Just Another Hippie Rummaging Through My Mom’s Fridge | New Republic

6/10/2015: "Bernie Sanders Was Just Another Hippie Rummaging Through My Mom’s Fridge"

One hot night in July 1972, I walked into my family’s kitchen to see my mother brandishing a broom at a skinny man who had his head stuck deep inside our refrigerator.

“You get out!” my mom yelled, hitting the man on his skinny ass. “Out, out!” Under her tan skin, my mother’s face was red with indignation. We didn’t have much in our fridge, but my mom would fiercely defend it. The man pulled his head out of the fridge, dropping the food on the shelf. His hair was curly; a cherub’s full-bodied curls framed his startled face. Chagrined, he loped off to the other apartment housed in my family’s converted two-room schoolhouse in Huntington, Vermont, the site of a late-night mock-up session for The Vermont Freeman, the alt-weekly my parents published. Years later, I’d find out that man was Bernie Sanders. (Read more)

‘Procrasturbation’ Is the Last Refuge of the Over-Burdened, Under-Pleasured Worker | VICE

In the course of writing this article I have made five false starts, checked Twitter eight times, refreshed my email four times, texted plans with two friends and IMmed a third, four times run out for coffee, and masturbated—twice. All of these things are forms of procrastination, but only one is a form of procrasturbation.

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