GO HOME-PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE!!!!!!!
The tourists are here; the tourists are here. They are here, and you can’t get away from them. They never stop, and they won’t leave. They are crazy, and they are driving us crazy.
We live in Hilton Head, SC. The island is about an hour north of Savannah and about two hours south of Charleston. Interestingly we are also across Port Royal sound from Parris Island, the Marine training ground.
Hilton Head is a resort and retirement sanctuary. Over forty golf courses, several world-class tennis centers, and twelve miles of beautiful beaches. At one time, it was used as a training area for the Marine Corp, but the Marines chose Parris Island as a permanent home instead. Probably because of the fucking tourists.
Morning for check-out and afternoons for check-in. Check-in day and check-out day is Saturday. There is only one way on and off the island, so traffic on Saturday is very congested. The locals rarely venture off the Island on Saturday due to the traffic jam coming home resulting from check-in. Some residents went missing for days.
One of my favorite pastimes is visiting one of the many supermarkets on check-in to witness the antics of the groups of tourists shopping for a week's worth of provisions. It’s total decadent chaos by these moronic elitist schmucks. By the way, they shop in groups, so they swarm and huddle in every aisle, acting as if rugby is their game. The potato chip and bread aisles are the most interesting. Every item requires a group consensus.
Then the parking lots are jammed. Each group requires at least two or more vehicles, mostly loaded with bikes and beach chairs. It’s really humorous when they have surfboards tied to the roofs since we hardly have surf down here.
Another thing about our usual crop of tourists is the cars they drive. Most noticeable are the tremendous numbers of BMWs and Outbacks coming from other areas of the country. If they come from Ohio, it seems most drive Mini Vans. Of course, there are also a good number of Audis and Volvos.
Tourists are easily identified by the way they ride their bicycles. Riding bikes seems to be one of their favorite sports, as is jogging. If they are wobbling and grinning at the same time, they are tourists. If they’re attempting to cross a busy intersection without looking, they are tourists. If they appear not to use common sense and obey the road rules, they are tourists. They are tourists if they ride in packs with the father in the lead and wear goofy outfits without helmets.
Going to the beach is another cherished experience. It reminds me of going whale watching or observing the annual gathering of sea lions. Never will you see so many overweight women in bikinis two or three sizes too small. I swear there are times when I think I’ve seen Moby Dick. Then, sometime during the day, the husbands arrive donned in their golf attire at the end of a round of golf. It's a ritual and such bull shit. Of course, they look so cool in their preppy golf shirts and all. Probably a bunch of bankers or financial planners who married into their respective sows' family money.
Then comes diner time. Forget it. God forbid you wish to have a quiet dinner. You will assuredly get caught up in the supermarket atmosphere in the nicest of eateries. Decorum and reasonable manors are non-existent. When these people hit Hilton Head, they become animals. Just try to use a restroom. I dare you. Worse than a truck stop on the NJ Turnpike.
Being involved in the home furnishings industry, I can tell you first hand about the damage our tourist population wreak on the hotels and the condos they occupy. They become terrible and disgusting slobs as well as property wreckers. The more damage they inflict upon their digs, the more replacement work I receive. I guess I shouldn’t complain since I consider them the gift that keeps giving. Sometimes I wonder if I need the work or want it. Very nasty work.
Suppose the weather happens to turn bad, an entirely new type of activity surfaces. Shopping at the outlets. Once again, the entire roadway off-island becomes the Long Island Expressway, with traffic being tied up for hours. Between the quantity of traffic and the fender benders resulting from the hot rod tourist kamikaze drivers, we are just stuck. Heaven helps us if there is a real emergency. We will all perish.
This gives you a small glimpse of tourist season through the eyes of a year-round resident of Hilton Head, even though I was once a visitor here myself many years ago in simpler times. If I were visiting today, I would never return. Hilton Head has become a zoo during the season that seems to get longer and longer every year.
Now we are experiencing a migration of what were once tourists to year-round residents. Residential property is being snatched up almost sight unseen by folks fleeing big-city crime and Covid 19. It is truly a boom time for the real estate industry, but it will destroy our pretty island.
My wife thinks there should be an open season on all tourists, or they should be sent home never to return.