Monday, December 28, 2015
Once again I’m behind on the blog. It’s 10am and Carly and I are hitting the vodka. Because, Yacht Week. Forgive me if these are brief, but I can only write what I remember. We woke up and set sail for Railay. On the way we stopped in Phrang Nha Bay. I think. I’m actually not sure. It’s a bunch of limestone karsts that jet out of the ocean and you take your dinghy through a little opening to reveal a beautiful lagoon. At least it was beautiful, until Yacht Week rolled in and desecrated it faster than you can say “nautical frat party”. We basically raped that lagoon with floaties and beer cans. We all parted in the lagoon for a while, so luckily for you I have some new characters to introduce you to. Adonis was there in all his sexy brain dead glory. I’ve had more stimulated conversation with a tree trunk. I’m pretty sure he thinks he is being profound, but he just sounds like a complete prick at all times. He is living proof that you really can’t have it all. If he was smart, that just wouldn’t be fair to the rest of us. Don’t worry – there is waaaaaaay more on this character to come. There is one American chick who looks like an entire football team just ran a train on her at all times. We are pretty sure she actually had sexual intercourse in the middle of the lagoon party. Like, in the middle of throngs of people. In her defense I’m pretty sure she thought she was on Mars. We watched for a while because when the train wreck of 2015 goes down, you just can’t look away. I can only assume she is on drugs. For her sake, I hope she was. Because there isn’t enough vodka in the world to drink yourself into that decision. There is a super nice black guy who basically just roams around passing out booze at all times. Which explains why I think he is super nice. We met some nice Italian boys who offered to come to our boat and cook us pasta naked. Honestly, I’m mostly excited about the pasta, but if you want to take your clothes off I’m not going to put up a fight. I had the Legend roam around to find me boys. Turns out that he can drive a boat and wingman. That boy is becoming more valuable by the second.
Let’s talk about the general yacht week clientele this week. out of 23 boats, there are 18 American boats. So basically, I’ve spent thousands of dollars to go to a floating frat party full of ass holes. All Americans are ass holes. Myself included. We are all loud, obnoxious, and completely full of ourselves. The girls alone are just horrendous. Thank god I’m blonde now, because I’m in the middle of a Regina George contest on water. American girls are the worst. They are bitchy and territorial. They never brush their hair, which is a new trend that I just can’t get behind. But above all else, they are fake as fuck. They will smile to your face and sharpen their knives behind your back. If I don’t like you, trust me when I tell you that you will know it. Because this face hides absolutely nothing. My mother always used to tell me “you may be a bitch, but just remember that I’m a bigger one”. What did your mom do, teach you to bake cookies and treat others the way you want to be treated? If so, consider yourself basic as fuck. So my plan is to avoid the girls and keep my inner bitch at bay. I’ll give you a little spoiler alert for tomorrow: I get to clothes line one of those American skanks in a yacht week sanctioned Olympic games. The only saving grace here is that the age population of this group seems to skew a little higher than other yacht week routes I’ve been on. But don’t let that fool you into thinking we will be more mature and better decision makers. Oh no, quite the contrary. There is nothing more dangerous than a big group of drunkards with disposable incomes who refuse to grow up and are trying to re-live their glory days. It’s basically over 200 Rory’s roaming around the Thai seas with millions of dollars in boating equipment being used as floating bars.
After our little lagoon party we made our way to Railay Beach It was a long trip on rough seas. I made spaghetti for everyone, but I kept my clothes on. I’m pretty sure my crew appreciated that. If there is anything worse than hiking in a bikini, it’s cooking in one. We then drank a bunch of vodka and went to our party. For those of you that haven’t experienced yacht week, your only responsibility is to get drunk and show up where they tell you. And since I’m the new and improved “go with the flow” Rory, that works for me. So we danced around at the party for a while. I sent the Legend out to find me boys. I know, I sound way too boy crazy for a 30 year old woman. But you forget that I am 25 on yacht week. And if you can’t be boy crazy on yacht week, when can you be? Typically the only boys in my life are my dog and whatever horrendous online dating loser I make the mistake of meeting up with. Scanning the crowd at the party, I naturally migrated to the tallest boy I could find. A sweet, dumb Aussie who’s name I can’t remember and really don’t care to. When you are you 6’4 and I’m drunk you are an automatic 8. Hell, when you are 6’4 and I’m sober you’re an 8. With my night one boyfriend in hand we partied the night away. Why does no one serve tater tots as drunk food in Thailand?
Tuesday, December 29, 2015
Think Rory, think. What did we do on Tuesday? Today we headed to Koh Lanta for drinking and the Yacht Week Olympics. It was another long sail day. I tried not to get too shit faced on the boat in the hopes of showing up for the games. Now, I was picturing more of a beer olympics, with games like “who can chug a bottle of vodka the fastest”. You know, things I’m actually good at. These were actual games. Yacht Week, stop over achieving and underdelivering. Why do you even try? First we had a relay race where you run in snorkel gear. While drunk. As if running isn’t hard enough for me as it is. Then we had skipper sand castle contest where everyone buries their skip. Crews were molding their skippers into mermaids and turtles and shit. We made the Legend into a sandy little lady boy. Then we played volleyball. Drunk. So that went about as well as can be imagined. We then played flip cup. AND WE LOST. As the reigning queens of flip cup at the Poop Deck, Kim and I were disappointed. Flip cup was really our best shot at win. In our defense, we were anchors and it never even made it to us. Oh and we were flipping screw drivers instead of beer. Because, Yacht Week. And then there was the capture the flag game. Excellent idea Yacht Week. Let’s take a bunch of crazy drunk ass holes and allow them to wrestle in the sand for flags. I may not have a lot going on in terms of athletic ability, but I am one scrappy little bitch. Do not come for me. Let me back up a little so you can understand the situation. Night 1 of yacht week some American chick with unbrushed hair hopped in our van cab with us. When she told me she lived in West Hollywood I replied “I’m sorry”. It was completely genuine sympathy. She was more offended than the Pope would be after reading my blog. I am a firm believer that if you live in LA and you aren’t within 10 minutes of a beach, you are a fucking moron. LA fucking sucks. The traffic is horrible, no one has a real job, the men are all Lost Boys praying someone will swipe right on a Tuesday night. The only redeeming qualities are the beach and the weather. Yet you want to live in a congested beach-less cluster fuck of self proclaimed film makers, models and actors who’s only weekly goals include learning the Monday night specials at their only actual paying job? If so, then I’m sorry, but I must question your decision making skills and mental capacity. So imagine my luck when our capture the flag opponents included the WeHo slut. Just for the record, she came for me. Not the other way around. I don’t start shit, I just end it. My flag was already pulled, but she didn’t need to know that. I rammed her harder than a West Hollywood gay bar on a Saturday night. Sorry I’m not sorry.
After the Special Drunk Olympics we had dinner and then headed back to our boat for pre-drinking before the party. And pre-drink I did. I drank my little heart out. I drank way too much. Back in college, I used to make tally marks on my arm to keep track of how many shots I took. Then when I hit ten, I would know I was good to go. Yes, ten shots. I’m aware its fucking gross. But I was a vodka beast back in my day. Anyone who knew me from 2003 to about 2012 could attest to the fact that I spent a better part of a decade perfecting the perfectly chilled vodka shot. Looking back, that time may have been better spent wearing makeup and finding a husband. But hey, vodka has been a constant a reliable companion throughout the years. Chicks before Dicks and Booze before Boos. Perhaps that can be the title of my memoire.
We thought tonight was the glow party, because that is what the yacht week app said. But the app is fucked up because yacht week can’t be bothered to keep their days straight. So basically, we dressed up in full neon and body paint for an intimate glow party for nine. Everyone looked at us like we were morons, but we gave zero fucks about it. I went to the party, fell all over myself like a college freshman who just tapped her first keg, and made a complete ass of myself. At one point I was just dancing on my knees. Because I couldn’t stand up without falling. Douang yelled at me “get up slut!”. It was the single greatest quote of the trip. The Legend took me back to the boat before I gave us even more of a bad name. I would like to tell you what the rest of us did, but I don’t have the slightest crew.