Today’s guest post is by Bachelorette enthusiast and brand new author, Knox McCoy. Leave a comment below and you can win your very own copy of his new masterpiece.

Ah the beach. That salty paradise where waves undulate luxuriously under your feet and the sun exists only to crisp our skin from pasty to a shade of John Stamos.

I just got back from there with a couple of my best friends from high school. It was fantastic. Essentially, we slept late, ate well, and insulted each other. The stuff of legend, really.

You know those Corona commercials with somebody just sitting at the edge of the breaking waves with a drink in their hand? Well that’s basically beach porn. No beach in America is like that because of the following people populating every single one of them and keeping you from the nice and enjoyable time you anticipated surfside.

The Fisherman
Nothing better than floating in the waves and watching as a hook full of chummed up, bloodied fish carcass goes dancing into the water 4 feet away. I’m sure the Great White this guy is luring can totally discern between your soft human flesh and the bloodied up Happy Meal on the line right beside you so it’s really NBD.

But they do have these things called boats you can rent that let you fish in solitude without risking a feeding frenzy on your fellow man. Maybe you should check that out?

The Faux Runner
Exercising on vacation? YEAH buddy. You are going to show everybody how committed you are by running while you should be relaxing.

It’s going to be like GI Jane crossed with a hint of Prefontaine except awesomer. Except, you hit the beach and melt like butter because you aren’t used to running in a heat index of infinity. You know the guy: a walk disguised as a jog with his eyes closed and tongue wagging out of his mouth.

Look. Take a break on vacation, psycho. Nobody wants to watch a guy staggering down the beach while the vultures circle. I’d prefer not to have to dial 911 because the middle-aged guy from Pennsylvania just got dump-trucked by the heat and collapsed me and my son’s sand castle.

The Bocce Brothers
These guys occupy an expanse of land larger than the Louisiana Purchase and they glare if you dare invade into their territory. Why? Because they put some hellacious spin on their bocce balls, brah and they need their space. And also because the loser of this round gets Smirnoff Iced.

Mr. Banana Hammock and Mrs. Thong
Listen. Good for you for being so self-assured and evangelical about your bodies. But guess what? If I wanted a close up of genitalia I would have stayed in the hotel and blown up the adult movie section of the TV.

And spare me on the “It’s the European look and therefore more cultured” Please. If they were so cultured, why are they streamlining testicle deployment on public beaches? Riddle me that, Frenchy.

The Owners of the Nympho Dog
I love dogs. LOVE dogs. I’ve never met a dog I didn’t like. Even the small ones that have a Napoleon Complex. I really do love all dogs. My dream in life is to retire with my wife on the lake and have black, chocolate and white labs named Jacob, Edward and Bella.

But that doesn’t mean I like getting my leg date raped by some Golden Retriever named Warren or Julius or Mr. Belvedere. Either let the dog socialize more, get him fixed, or let him work it out on your leg. Those are your options.

The Lobster
It’s sunscreen. It’s not brain science or rocket surgery, guy. Spread it over your skin evenly and repeat every few hours.

And you don’t get to complain when you spend 358 days in a cubicle and try to get a good base the first day on the beach with no sunscreen. Your sunburn isn’t a badge of honor. It’s more like a purple heart of idiocy.

(For the recored, this may or may not be me.)

The Ogler
Yeah there are women on the beach. And yes, these women are in bathing suits. And also yes some of these women are wearing very tiny patches of fabric over their delicate lady areas. All those things may be true, but when your entire head turns and you shift your posture just so you can watch the girl in the tiny weeny yellow polka dot bikini walk by, then you aren’t a monument to testosterone. You’re making everyone nervous as a human version of the Nympho Dog.

Also? The sunglasses and bucket hat you are wearing doesn’t make you stealthy. It’s makes you more suspicious, Unabomber. Next time, try not selecting your outfit from the Sex Offender’s Consigment shop, mmkay?

Did I miss someone? Let me know in the comments for a chance to receive a free copy of my book. Double your chances by guessing what number I wore on my high school baseball team.