Beach Rules

Welcome to this installment of Moveitfred's Beach Rules. Moveitfred and family spent a lovely weekend lounging at the local town beach here on the beautiful north shore of Long Island, and Moveitfred would simply like to pass along a few tips for those of you intent on spending any amount of time in a pleasant, sandy locale this summer.


Here is a lovely shot of the beach this past Sunday. Here on the beautiful north shore of Long Island we tend to get a pretty benign crowd of well-educated, family-centered, well-mannered white people out at the beach.

Here you can see one of the reasons for the banality: ankle-high surf ripping onshore from Long Island sound.

Rad.

Oh, what the fuck. At least we're not in Kansas. And the south shore beaches have some good breaks...

But back to the north shore and this pleasant community beach. OK people, even if you are just going down to your local watering hole and it's, y'know, no big deal 'cause it's only a few miles from your house and if you forget something you can just go home and get it, still please avoid a few common mistakes.

First off. People: the paddleball game is no fun. Even the raddest paddleboarders only hit the ball twice--a serve and return. Then the ball zips over someone's head or skitters onto the sand. End of round. Who cares? Is there any way to keep score? To win? Fuck paddleball.

Here you can see bleached white Ric Ocasek dude (fuck, man, it's the end of July! First day out in the sun?) playing a rousing game with his mildly hot cousin.

Just keep that paddleball shit away from Moveitfred.

Now Moveitfred appreciates the attempt at cool beach activity from this dad. See, he went over to Dicks with his tax return, waved that check in the manager's face, and said "Me and my boy want to kayak!"

As you can see he's got the full-blown kayak kit workin' the beach: from aqua shoes to neoprene gloves.

I'm sure this is great family fun, but please take part in this activity in the back bays away from Moveitfred. It disturbs Moveitfred when you beach your plastic craft and drag it along the rocky shore. The noise is horrific. Plus, this getup has got to result in some very un-rad tan lines.

Next. People, don't bring cheap lawn furniture to the beach. Any chair woven in Mexico by child labor needs to stay in the garage at home. Also, consider the patterns you will embed into your fat backs when you get up.

No, there are chairs designed for beach sitting. Purchase a couple.

Skin cancer is not cool. If your one of those pussies who is all jacked up with fear over the UVA and B's messing with your inherently beautiful skin, then get yourself an umbrella. Just don't purchase overstock from Circus Vargas. You don't want children clamouring for the elephants and clowns.

OK, we got a few things going on here. First, Rick and his hot little minx cousin are still playing the fucking paddleball.

But more importantly, people--tuck in your strings. Such a simple thing to do that will make a world of difference.

You may be saying to yourself, "But Moveitfred, I'm not a beach person." OK, OK, we can't all be rad like Moveitfred. Take this gruppetto. First, cut out the depressing goth look. Save the black shit for when playing D&D with your friends while listening to old Manson records.

The boardshorts are mildly cool on this dude, but pair those bad boys with a matching T if you've got the layered skin look working on your backside.

This kind of shit also disturbs Moveitfred and makes him throw up a little bit in his mouth.

Moveitfred hopes you are feeling a little better about your beach experience now. One final examination. Below we see somewhat of a rare sight along the sedate north shore beaches: the Long Island Douchebags. Normally one would find these specimins closer to the city, say adjacent to Massapequa or some such locales. But occasionally the tide shifts and these scrotes wash up just about anywhere.

Notice how the poly athletic shorts are taking on water and slipping into the depths to expose the all-cotton boxers. Now that's a comfy wet combo. Douchey Vincent on the right is trying to talk his younger cousin Richie into getting some Jesus bling and matching tats.

Here the two Douchies are joined by a third scrote and are being pulled toward Queens at low tide.

About 50 more miles, UberDouches....

OK, Moveitfred is tired. He would just like to close with a request. Please, purchase yourself a surf mag, educate yourself on the culture, and come prepared. Moveitfred wants you to fit in.