Beach Blanket "Who Wants to be a Millionaire?"
By Carson Cockman
As you are aware, if you read my columns rabidly, I have a dream of one day becoming a beachcomber.
However, as I am beginning to lose my hair, I will probably have to settle for being a beach comb-over.
There seems to be a “catch 22” kind of problem with my dream.
I desire to be chasing tropical nubilites along a seashell-strewn coastline, with a bottle of Coppertone in one hand and a bottle of coconut wine in the other. This in itself is not a problem, except I have not figured out how to hold on if I catch her, with all that stuff in my hands.
|Fantasy Beach Bum|
The real problem is that I am getting too old to run more than a few yards in pursuit of my prey. I find myself having to use the Coppertone on my scalp and coconut wine gives me a raging case of flatulence.
|Reality Beach Bum|
Nothing says I love you more than hearing, “Don’t you honey ME, you conched-out beach boy wannabe. If you think I’m touching THAT loincloth without a set of tongs, you’ve had one too many coconuts fall on your head. Put DOWN that bottle of wine and open a window!”
That being the case, I have come up with a questionnaire to help me select my beach babe. I have based my research on the best of sources…Who wants to be a Millionaire?
That and I found a keg of Michelob washed up on the beach last evening.
I will have my contestants sit in a chair under the blazing tropical moonlight across from my podium made from a castaway boat wreck.
The natives will swirl torches to simulate the fancy smancy lighting effects.
Wally Witch Doctor and his Cannibal-aires will provide the suspenseful Tom-Tom music.
I will ask the babe across from me easy questions that any form of life higher than a starfish could answer and celebrate uproariously when she gets them correct.
After all, we are not looking for Miss Universal Rocket Scientist of 2005, are we?
But the big questions, we will save until last.
Me: Now, Bambi? You’ve answered all but the last three questions. If you answer these last ones, YOU will be a beachcomber’s babe! Are you ready? Who wants to be a Beachcomber’s babe?
Bambi: Oh sure! But we’ll have to hurry. My agent has me scheduled to be on The Weakest Sink next half hour!
Me: First, how fast can you run the forty-yard dash? Is it, A: 3.4 seconds? B: I don’t know how far forty yards really is? Or C: I can ‘t ever run that far. My bikini top keeps breaking and I trip EVERY TIME!
Bambi: Oh shoot! I can ‘t ever run that far. My bikini top keeps breaking and I trip EVERY TIME! That’s my final answer!
Me: (The tom-toms rumble and the torches swirl) You’re right! Now only two more questions! What do you think of bald guys? Is the answer, A: They go perfectly with Blue-haired ladies, B: They are Ok if they are the last ones standing at the bar at closing time, or C: They’re too sexy for their heads…too sexy for their heads?
Bambi: Hmmmmm. I’m going to have to phone a friend on this one…
Me: Ok, we are calling Twanisha, courtesy of our local phone system here on the island…Southern Bongo…where their motto is “Pick up a macaw and caw your momma.”
Me: Hi! This is Carson on who wants to be a beachcomber’s babe?
Twanisha: I’m Twanisha And I sure as heck don’t!
Bambi: Twan, listen! Help me answer this question, will you?
What do you think of bald guys? Is the answer, A: They go perfectly with Blue-haired ladies, B: They are Ok if they are the last ones standing at the bar at closing time, or C: They’re too sexy for their heads…too sexy for their heads?
Twanisha: Listen girlfriend…if he has a pocket full of traveler’s checks and a gold card in his pocket he could be three feet two and have a wart for his nose. I say C!
Bambi: Ok. Thanks. C is my final answer.
(Raging Tom-Toms and one torchbearer self-emulates!)
Me: This is the last question, Bambi. Get this one right and YOU will be a beachcomber’s babe!
Would you be able to pick up your beach boy’s slightly soiled loincloth for the wash after a night of fried pompano and coconut wine? Is the answer, A: Sure…anything for my snuggywuggums, B: It is my duty and my honor to be there for my man, or C: May I rub his tired aching feet after the wash?
Bambi: My final answer is D: “Don’t you honey ME, you conched-out beach boy wannabe. If you think I’m touching THAT loincloth without a set of tongs, you’ve had one too many coconuts fall on your head. Put DOWN that bottle of wine and open a window!”
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