But that story doesn’t really mean much to you.
Nor does the story about grown men reliving their childhood by singing “The Thong Song” word-for-word just outside Baker, California. Or when a liberal-themed food kitchen fed us a Cobb salad that Michael Moore had probably just finished washing in his own bidet. Or when we all peed a little bit, laughing about the time we were going to Kansas and all of the creepy truckers left us abandoned at the pit stop on I-15.
Those stories don’t mean much to you because you weren’t on the 39-hour road trip to Newport Beach and back. You weren’t in the back seat covered in fiber gas clouds and Sun Chips. Nor were you ordering Strawberry Daiquiris in nothing but spandex shorts after a long morning workout with wrinkled women trying to catch a peek of your hot body. None of those stories mean a thing to you.
And that’s ok. Because I’m sure you have stories about what happened in the last 39 hours of your own lives. They may not be as entertaining as what happened to five guys in a minivan, but they’re your stories, and only you and a handful of others get the inside jokes associated with them.
In the meantime however, just sit back, laugh a little bit at the third-grade looking picture of me feeding a grown man a frozen banana, and slightly envy the non-Instagrammed life that I have.