Crap Vacations: 50 Tales of Hell on Earth
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Crap Vacations: 50 Tales of Hell on Earth

by Dan Kieran
     
 

The party poopers at the humor magazine The Idler -- the same bunch who filled your brain with workplace horror in Crap Jobs -- now put a damper on the beloved annual getaway with hilarious true stories of nightmare vacations. Here, in all their hideous glory, are tales of leaky caverns, dodgy campsites, and bug-infested bedrooms in "luxury"

Overview

The party poopers at the humor magazine The Idler -- the same bunch who filled your brain with workplace horror in Crap Jobs -- now put a damper on the beloved annual getaway with hilarious true stories of nightmare vacations. Here, in all their hideous glory, are tales of leaky caverns, dodgy campsites, and bug-infested bedrooms in "luxury" foreign hotels. We've got dysentery disasters, land-mine-littered beaches, irretrievably lost luggage, and hours of exotic tarmac-sitting at the world's top airports -- not to mention Crap Vacation sex, crime, and toxic food you pay far too much for.

So if you're making plans to get away from it all, make sure you're not going somewhere you'll want to get away from. Let Crap Vacations be your guide down that old holiday road. Getting back to the nine-to-five grind has never seemed to tempting.

Product Details

ISBN-13:
9780060833428
Publisher:
HarperCollins Publishers
Publication date:
05/02/2006
Pages:
160
Product dimensions:
6.00(w) x 6.00(h) x 0.43(d)

Read an Excerpt

Crap Vacations

50 Tales of Hell on Earth
By Dan Kieran

HarperCollins Publishers, Inc.

Copyright © 2006 Dan Kieran
All right reserved.

ISBN: 0060833424

Chapter One

Stag Week in Kavos, Greece

Duration: 7 days
Cost: $885

Before I start, whatever happened to the stag night? How come it's become a week's holiday these days? Just for the record, if you're getting married and want to celebrate the end of your freedom, go to a nightclub and order a stripper like people used to do in the old days. No one wants to go on a stag week. We've got better things to spend our limited vacation time and money on but we're too polite to say so, OK?

Anyway, back to the story.At the airport the T-shirts were handed out, which was the first indication that the books I'd packed into my case could turn out to be superfluous pieces of luggage. The best man, Richard, had printed 'hilarious' slogans on each of our shirts. Mine said 'Sad Dad' on the front (on account of my sobering family life and the fact that I wasn't still going out taking pills every Friday night) and 'Dave's Stag, Kavos, 1999' emblazoned on the back. I was informed that my job for the week was to stop trying to persuade other people not to start drinking at 9 a.m. in the morning, which was, Richard reminded me, the whole point of our trip.Next he dished one out to 'Belcher'. His job was to belch asmuch as possible in inappropriate situations and into every microphone in every nightclub we visited. Then there was 'Shagger' -- yes, you guessed it, he was single and therefore had to try and shag as many women as possible. Next to him there was 'Mincer' who was a trifle overweight and hadn't been that prolific with the ladies since we left school, leading to the masterful and hilarious deduction that he was, in fact, gay. His T-shirt was pink just to humiliate him even further. He was told to make sure he was always standing next to Dave to keep him out of trouble. Richard confided in me later that this wasn't to protect Dave but so that Dave would always look good in comparison when we were 'hunting the dago tarts in the clubs'. I resisted the urge to inform him that his racism was misplaced because we were, in fact, going to Greece rather than Spain but decided it would fall on somewhat deaf ears. The stag himself (my oldest, closest pal, Dave) just had 'The Stag' printed on his shirt, although he had an extra line on the back that declared, 'Please shag me, it's my last chance.' Meanwhile Simon, the show-off of the group whom everyone secretly hated even when we were at school, laughed smugly when he was given his shirt with 'The Dude' printed on the front. There's always one of your mates who doesn't get the piss taken out of him, isn't there? He's always a right wanker. Finally, Richard revealed his own shirt, which said simply, 'The Best Man.' We were ordered to strip off and put our T-shirts on before being frog-marched to the bar, where Richard had soon lined up seven pints of Stella with whiskey chasers. People literally parted in fear as we approached, an uncanny prediction of the week ahead. By the time I got onto the plane I felt sick. By the time I'd got off it I had been sick, several times. Cue much laughter from my 'pals' who were so relieved that someone else had made a fool of themselves first that they all stuck the boot in heartily like the weak-willed bullies most of us become in such situations. This torment continued throughout the week. I could drone on forever about the misery of that experience but will instead pick out a few highlights. 'Belcher' decided to spend the week trying to shag the fattest and ugliest woman he could find because he'd once seen a Web site based on this concept at work. Apparently it was the funniest thing he'd ever seen. I must say he outdid himself, notching up six complete howlers before we got home. 'The Stag' seemed to be in a state of constant torment as he was paraded and humiliated in front of loud women from England's less salubrious towns and cities. He told me some months later that it was one of the worst experiences of his life. 'Mincer' nearly drowned in the sea after being goaded by Richard into swimming immediately after he'd been persuaded to take thirteen consecutive blowbacks on a joint made with particularly potent skunk. 'Shagger' was notable only for the amount of Gut-buster breakfasts he managed to wolf down at the Eastenders (I kid you not) Cafe. 'The Dude' shagged two of the most beautiful, bikini-clad women I've ever seen, all the while revelling in everyone else's misfortune. 'Sad Dad' and 'The Best Man', meanwhile, had a curious conversation on the final night where he confided to me that his regular Ecstasy use had put him on the verge of schizophrenia. 'I know you won't believe it,' he said earnestly, half an hour after trying to whip me in the testicles with a wet towel, 'but I'm manically depressed.'

He then offered me some Prozac, before making a startling statement that I still can't quite believe. 'It works straight away if you snort it.'

Continues...


Excerpted from Crap Vacations by Dan Kieran Copyright © 2006 by Dan Kieran. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Meet the Author

Dan Kieran is The Idler's deputy editor and an expert on crap jobs. His mortifying resume includes weed sprayer, bank clerk, box stacker, washer-upper, hay bailer, marquee director, army kitchen porter, watercress farmer, pallet maker, and turkey beheader. He lives in England.

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