FKS Field Trip: Tha Muthaphuckkin’ Beach, Part I

There were two things I forgot to bring up with regards to the best number of kids to have. First thing: if you have a shitload of kids, you increase your odds of having one who’s a real superstar. It’s like scratch tickets. You’re bound to hit paydirt sooner or later. Oh sure, 60% of your brood will turn out to be worthless fuckups, and you’ll be miserable. But who cares about that shit if you end up squeezing out a multi-millionaire? For example: Stephen Colbert is the youngest of 11 children. Imagine if his parents had stopped at 10! Boy, would they have been nonplussed when God told them they missed out on the genetic equivalent of filling out an entire Subway card!

Also, if you have two kids, you’re only compensating the Earth for you and your spouse when you both die. For example, let’s say Mrs. Drew and I are fucking badasses (true). If we only have two kids, we won’t have added to the world’s Badass population. We will only have kept it level. And we need Badasses to fight all the douchebags. Wyatt Earp had no kids. Selfish dick. We need more Earps and less Frankie Munizes. Not the other way around.

Anyway, let’s go to the beach, everyone! It’s both sandy AND windy! Shit yeah! Hooray!


I’ve done many dumb things in my life. One time I was at a department store and purposely walked into a mirror because my head was down, and I thought I had encountered someone who was stubbornly refusing to get out of my way. Whenever I tell Mrs. Drew this story, I need to show her pictures of burn victims to get her to stop laughing. And really, that story is just the tip of the iceberg.

But bringing a four-month-old baby to a beach has to rank right up there on the stupidity scale. If you’re going to the beach, it better be because you want to go into the ocean. The ocean is fucking sweet. It’s cool, refreshing, and can kill you at any second. I love that shit. There is no other reason to go to the beach. Without the ocean, going to the beach is the same as camping in the fucking desert. To accommodate the Girl (who is not yet old enough to appreciate the virtues of coastal real estate), Mrs. Drew, and myself, here’s a list of what I had to bring:

-Diaper Bag
-Water Bottle
-Beach Bag
-2 Beach Chairs
-Towels
-Sheet (to lay under towels)
-Sun Umbrella

(Let’s pause right here to talk about umbrellas. I fucking hate umbrellas. You know what an umbrella is? It’s a kite with +10 Impaling ability. The only useful umbrellas are the ones they have at outdoor cafes, and you know why? Because they’re attached to a fucking cinder block, that’s why. Rain umbrellas are dogshit. You burn 5,000 calories just trying to hold the thing steady in the rain. And once you’ve made it shelter to put the umbrella away, all the water still on top of the thing slides back onto you. We can’t do better than the umbrella in this century? And we’re supposed to be close to having hydrogen cars? My ass.)

You’ll notice that beer isn’t anywhere to be found on that list. Memo to the kid who was born with three arms, one of which was removed: you just lost out, kid. That third arm would have been a fucking godsend. You had an extra hand available for beer, ass-grabbing, and meat-rubbing. Instead, some know-it-all, asswipe doctor took it away from you. Sue.

But hey, we’re at the beach! Weeee!!! Let’s have fun now! Oh, wait. What’s that? I forgot the extension for the umbrella? So I have to walk all the way back? Someone find me a mirror to walk into.

(Come back to Part II Thursday.)