Someone told me that once. And I’ll tell you this much—they weren’t shitting me.
If you know anything about me at all, folks, you’ll know I’m not much of a planner. Never have been and probably never will be. So when I decided to take early retirement without so much as a fucking whiff of a plan, my crew of geriatric buddies at the Seacoast Majestic Resort came to the consensus that I hadn’t given my future enough thought.
I mean, they weren’t wrong. All cards on the table—I hadn’t given it any thought.
Who the hell plans their retirement anyway? Like, what’s my to-do list even supposed to look like?
Day 1 - Consume margaritas while sunning on the beach—nap numero uno—poker with the guys—nap numero dos—early dinner buffet—more margaritas—relations with my girlfriend—bedtime.
Day 2 - Margaritas on the beach—nap one—miniature golf with the guys—nap two—early buffet—margaritas—sex—bedtime.
Day 3 - Margaritas—nap—poker—nap—food—drinks—sex—snooze
Day 4 - Rinse and repeat
You get the picture. Who needs a fucking plan for that?
And you know, my lack of a plan would’ve worked perfectly fine except for the little hassle of needing money to retire. According to Al, I wasn’t allowed to crash on his living room floor for the rest of my life, and Vic Hoffman’s old cottage cost more to rent than a song and a Bentley combined.
So, at Al’s persuasion (*cough* coercion), I was forced to temporarily come out of retirement and get a part-time job to cover my expenses. I won’t get into the details of the job I was forced to get, because that would spoil the story. But let’s just say, it became a clusterfuck in the unkindest sense of the word.
And now, once again, I invite you to join me and Al for yet another Caribbean-flavored adventure. As always, this book is rated R for colorful language, crude humor, sexual innuendos, and the occasionally frequent non-PC remark. Rated A+ for entertainment value.