I’m old. Steve is even older. Things are starting to fall apart, smells are emanating from orifices that I’m pretty sure didn’t exist when I was in my twenties and I make noises when I sit down or get up that I have no control over. My nights of drinking for a week straight and days of fishing hard for even longer are behind me now, and that makes me kind of sad. Never again will I be who I was. Now that I have accepted the exponential timeline of my nether regions wrinkling, I have come to the conclusion that just because I am getting older and acquiring all of the trappings that age brings with it, I will—NO, I must—reserve the right to celebrate my youth once a year in the traditional bacchanalian rite

known as Spring Break. There is no need to fear readers, you won’t be seeing my saggy areolae on any late-night advertised videos, and for you older guys, I won’t be hunting down your college-age daughters at Señor Frogs. I will, however, be taking a Spring Break for old men every year from now until the day I can no longer scream, “SPRING BREAK 99!” at the top of my lungs in the Wal-Mart checkout line with a cart full of PBR…I’m thinking 40? So this spring, we have set out on the road to take back Spring Break from the stupidity of youth, and put it back where it belongs…with the stupidity of age.

Enjoy the spring.

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