IT’S WORSE THAN YOU THINK

IT’S WORSE THAN YOU THINK by Jim Quinn – The Burning Platform

“Any formal attack on ignorance is bound to fail because the masses are always ready to defend their most precious possession – their ignorance.”Hendrik Willem van Loon

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We sold our Wildwood condo in January, so no more stories about Section 8 neighbors cursing on the deck or trying to sell drugs to our renters. Owning a condo and renting it all summer kept us away from Wildwood during the busiest summer weeks, so we rarely experienced the joy of mingling with the People of Wildwood – a subset of the People of Wal-Mart. Even when we spent time at our condo, we could sit on our deck and observe the sheeple from a safe distance.

We still love the beaches, boardwalk and bars in Wildwood, so we continue to spend time there. We’ve rented at a couple of nice motels in North Wildwood so far this summer. The owners were nice, the rooms clean, and the fellow guests were polite normal families acting like civilized human beings. The motels were on the beach block and walk-able to the boardwalk and nicer bars in Anglesea. Both experiences were delightful.

With my wife’s restaurant closed for the week for renovations, we realized we had a free weekend earlier in the week. She tried to make reservations at the motels where we had stayed. No luck. They were booked. She proceeded to try another fifteen nice motels in North Wildwood. All booked. These are the most popular weeks at the shore. We had almost given up, when she tried a motel closer to the boardwalk that had just had a cancellation. We were happy with our last second good luck. I checked the on-line reviews and they were all 4 or 5 ratings. I was expecting a place on par with our previous motels. Boy was I wrong.

We pulled into the motel parking lot a little after noon on Friday. We went into the office and met the ancient owner with a voice created from at least 40 years of heavy smoking. She proudly stated her motel had no rules. We should have taken that statement as a warning, but it was 80 degrees and sunny, we were psyched to be at the shore and we were anticipating a good time. We got the key, grabbed our luggage and proceeded towards our 2nd floor corner room. We had to slide by a vehicle that looked like it came from the Road Warrior movie. That should have been our first warning, but we continued our trek.

And there he was. At first I didn’t believe what I was witnessing. As we walked past the lower floor rooms towards the stairs there was a 300 pound twenty something shirtless whale bent over in the chair in front of his room clipping his toenails onto the walkway. He didn’t move as we tried to maneuver past him without getting hit with flying toenail shrapnel. At that moment we realized we had made a really bad choice.

We had entered the ignorant masses zone. It turns out he may have been the only person at the motel concerned about his appearance. I was actually impressed he could reach his toenails with the clippers with his rotund girth. In his sub 85 IQ mind, publicly grooming himself was perfectly acceptable behavior. IT’S NOT!!!!

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The room was really small, but it was clean. There was no bedroom. The bedroom was the room. The couch was also a pullout bed. When the window blinds were open you could see directly into the room from outside. We could also witness our fellow renters in all their depraved glory as they shuffled to and fro outside. It was not a stellar start to our weekend. But it was only a block to the beach and boardwalk, where we planned to spend most of our time.

As we settled into our room and got ready to go to the beach we noticed more of our deck neighbors planting themselves in the chairs in front of our window. It seemed like all the rooms surrounding our room were occupied by white trash acquaintances whose sole daily plan was to sit on the narrow deck with shirts off, consuming as much beer and cigarettes as humanly possible, while discussing Einstein’s theory of relativity, the likely outcome of the Trump Putin Summit and the economic impact of Trump’s trade war.

It was then we realized it must be a requirement that at least 50% of your body be covered in hideous tattoos to stay at this fine establishment. These pictures do not do justice to the depravity of the human beings sitting on the deck outside our room.

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Once we were ready to go to the beach we had to run the gauntlet of the wretched refuse blocking the walkway outside our door. As I acted like a normal human by saying excuse me, the tattooed trollop barely moved to let me by. The leader of the pack (with a soaring IQ of 88) attempted to joke about them using our chairs without permission. It was all very jovial as we bolted down the stairs to get away from this loathsome cadre of lowlife Americans.

But there was no escape. We had to pass toe nail guy’s room, along with five or six other rooms with a bunch of in-bred repugnant white trash sitting on the chairs outside their rooms drinking and smoking, while waiting for the chicken necks to cook on the community barbecue next to the pool. One dude sounded like he was going to cough up a lung as we passed. At the previous motels we liked sitting next to the pool while reading our books. We both concluded there was no way in hell we’d be going anywhere near that pool. It was likely functioning as a white trash bath and bathroom simultaneously.

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I admit I am a judgemental prick. I am constantly assessing my surroundings and the people I come in contact with. I judge my government, the press, Wall Street scumbags, neighbors, family, coworkers, and the free shit army marching in the streets of West Philly. If you are honest, you’ll admit to making judgements about people you see and talk to every day. My wife is the nice one. She tries to see the good in people. She is an optimist by nature. She was left speechless by the repulsiveness of what we had just witnessed. She was unable to find one redeeming quality in the people we were sharing the motel with.

We finally made it to the beach and tried to blot the sordid images of flying toe nails, tattoos, beer and cigarette butts out by sitting in our beach chairs by the ocean reading our books and soaking in the sun. The beach was occupied by normals. The deviants were all at our motel. We stayed for over three hours, dreading the return to motel hell. When we went back it was as if no one had moved. These dregs of society had consumed a few cases of beer and a few packs of smokes while pondering the deeper issues of life, like where they should get their next tattoo and calculating when their next Social Security Disability check was arriving.

We dumped our wet towels on the deck, scrambled into our room and drew the blinds nice and tight to blot out the nastiness presiding outside our door. The pool was occupied by a horde of white trash children, because there is nothing to prevent these people from breeding. The low IQ genes are passed down to Sissy and Bart. How else are tattoo parlors going to stay in business? Footballs were being thrown, cannonballs performed, plenty of urination, and heavy metal music turned up to 11. The barbecue was fired up to cook more gourmet hot dogs and chicken gizzards. We decided not to take a dip in the pool.

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Our evening plans were to walk the 25 blocks to Inlet on Olde to listen to a cover band, have a few drinks, and grab some dinner on the open air deck overlooking the ocean. Again, we were among the normals – older couples like ourselves with a mixture of middle aged and younger people. The music was good, the atmosphere was pleasant, and the bartenders were hot (even my wife agreed).

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As we were enjoying the music a middle aged dude sat down next to us. I guess we seem friendly, or at least my wife seems friendly. He started some small talk and we got to know Dan, the Wall Street commodities broker in the midst of a divorce from his second wife. He was a talky 47 year old who owns a condo in the Crest and drives the three hours down from West Chester, NY to go to the beach. We quickly found out he was a Trump supporter. He told us a story about being on the way to a threesome in Chicago when he blurted out his support for Trump and they called off the deal.

He was on the prowl and my wife was trying to pick out some possibilities. She made a few suggestions, but he said they were too old. I think he was looking for a twenty something to impress with his money. No luck. So he asked my permission to dance with my wife. Anything to stay off the dance floor. Dan eventually threw in the towel and rode his bike back to his condo. It was about 11:00 pm and we didn’t want to go back to motel hell yet. So we hopped across the street to Flip Flopz to mingle with the young hot people. My wife immediately made friends with some middle aged women celebrating a divorce/birthday. That gave her some dance partners for awhile.

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After a 1:00 am slice of pizza from JoJo’s we proceeded to walk the 25 blocks back to our motel. My wife was feeling no pain and the trip was successfully completed in no time. The good news was the ignorant masses must have  stumbled into their rooms and passed out, because there was no one left on the decks. With my body trained to wake up early and the sun bursting through the window, I was up at 7:00 am with only five hours sleep. I made a pot of coffee and ventured out to get us some breakfast sandwiches from a joint down the block on the boardwalk.

I sauntered down the steps and was  overjoyed to see the beautiful people were still sleeping off their loads and weren’t blocking my pathway. But then I looked to my right at the spot where toe nails were airborne the day before and spotted a water bottle. But not just any water bottle. A water bottle filled three quarters with bright yellow liquid sitting on a table. My mind didn’t immediately make the connection, but I am pretty goddamn sure it was a bottle of piss.

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Just when I thought these troglodytes couldn’t sink any lower than what I had already witnessed, they said hold my beer. It wasn’t Mountain Dew. It wasn’t apple juice. There is only one liquid that looks like the liquid I saw in that bottle – human piss. What kind of depraved deviant would piss in a water bottle and leave it on a table outside their motel room? Maybe the same type of person who would cut their toenails outside their motel room. My wife didn’t believe me until she witnessed it with her own eyes as we went for a walk on the boardwalk. She was flabbergasted.

We weren’t in our room for virtually the entire day, with the “clean the room” door knob thingy on the outside. Somehow the housekeeper managed to not clean our room. Par for the course. Maybe she perished while attempting to clean toe nail/urine bottle guy’s room. Or maybe she tripped over the fourteen cases of beer in the room next door to ours that we saw a black guy lugging up the steps. He was pounding them by 10:30 am. He did have couth, as he managed to piss in his toilet rather than a water bottle. Thank God for small favors.

By the evening we needed to escape to our Shamrock oasis and listen to Billy Jack playing some Tom Petty, Johnny Cash, Neil Diamond, Eagles, Van Morrison and other favorites. He had the place rocking all night. The place was packed with young and old, and luckily no one from motel hell. It was nice to meet some old friends and have a few beers. Once his set was done we headed for the door, said goodbye to the owner, and chatted with Billy Jack outside the front door. Then the owner yelled for Billy Jack to watch the door and a couple bouncers threw a dude out the door at our feet. It was time to get on our way.

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Checkout time was 10:00 am and I was never so happy to checkout of a place in my life. Of course we couldn’t possible escape this den of degradation without one final hurdle. I lugged the luggage to our car and lo and behold there was a beat up piece of shit car parked directly behind me, making it impossible to escape this hell on earth motel.

We told the motel owner and she said it was all part of their master system as she walked out with the keys to the jalopy. One problem. The derelict owner gave her the wrong keys. She had to find the owner and have him move the piece of shit. At that point I was considering ramming it to escape our nightmare. But he eventually moved it and we sped away as fast as humanly possible, never to return.

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The Burning Platform

Hardcore and hard hitting economic analysis. The Burning Platform presents information and analysis you will not find anywhere else. Various authors from a variety of backgrounds. Jim's work is featured regularly on Zerohedge.