Beer and Loathing in Lake Havasu

by: Vincent Eenhuis

Illustrations by: Leona Novio

It was the smell of sunscreen, and the smell of unwashed fraternity man after three days of binge drinking. It was the sound of bare feet against pavement, and the sound of the weakest waves drowning in the sounds of dirty house music and the ever prevalent ‘woo!’ of the girl who just can’t contain the party animal within. It was a thousand neon colors woven into shorts and tanktops with words that were less than polite as fuck ironed across chest and ass alike.

It was Lake Havasu City, where eleven months of the year were service to a geriatric crowd that lived at a pace slower than the senate could pass an education bill. For one month of the year, though, the city boomed with every college kid that wanted to have the MTv approved time of their life.

It was Spring Break: hail Dionysus and let morality be damned.

I was among the debauchery two years ago. My first taste of Havasu was in 2013, and I’ll be damned if it wasn’t a taste that numbed my nose and made me want to have sex with school teachers. Early this year, my bros asked if I wanted to go again.


I said yes.


For a second time I’d accept the dark descent into a lifestyle that glorified keg stands at sunrise; for a second time I tossed aside the urn that held the now ashened body of my dignity, all in exchange for a cold beer to wash the taste of vomit out of my mouth.

“Holy shit! You guys, it’s Vincent Eenhuis! That billionaire ex-military poker player and philanthropist.”

I really don’t look anything like the guy, but every intoxicated person from here to the pool thought that I was somehow his doppelganger.

“Dan,” it felt scripted at this point, repeating my name to every person that thought their joke - or their honest, drunken mistake - was the highlight of their day, “Dan Bizillionaire.”

“Bro, you look just like that guy. Hey! We’ve got tequila in our room, take a shot with us.” This was never a question. As much as I wanted it to be a proposition that I could decline, I really wasn’t ever given that option.

Surrounded by hundreds of people who were the future of America taking every drug under the welcoming Havasu sun, - some of whom had fell asleep on the beach. Sleep: something that I was often envious of that week - no one in their right mind would deny free alcohol. I obliged every guy and gal that offered.

Some of the offers were more than we illegal than we wanted to deal with, though. It wasn’t always alcohol that people wanted to give us.

The Time that Dan and Pierre were Mistaken for Prostitutes on the Beach

We spent some time in Las Vegas, where I: punched a phone out of a girls hand who later threatened to kill me, opened a bottle of beer with my teeth for the first time, watched my dad ride a mechanical bull, and then asked my little sister’s dance teacher to go home with me. She said no, but you should appreciate the effort.

Some of those things worked out, but I mention this because I only blacked out twice over the entirety that was spring break, and it was both of my nights in Vegas. Every night that I spent in Havasu was less than crystal clear, but I can recall the events better than most.

It’s hard to describe how I felt over the course of the week in that Arizona city; maybe like my whole body had cotton mouth and I was being throat fucked by a sandpaper monster. Just kidding, that totally covers it.

We got to Lake Havasu City after two days of drinking like we were divorced. I’m not sure if it was the tolerance or a hearty rejection of alcohol by my body, but I spent the entire week physically miserable when I wasn’t totally wasted - because I felt great when I was wasted.

Things got a bit out of hand the first night. Everyone was within the beach courtyard of the hotel that we were staying at. There was music that would make your grandmother call the police; girls were in bikinis that were safer for your teeth than dental floss, and I’ve never been so drunk on a beach.

The snippet I remember before falling in and out of consciousness was a dude trying to steal the security guard’s golf cart. Let’s be honest though, the security guard was of a heftier set, and it would have been damn easy to take that thing for a joy ride.





I was on the beach with Pierre. Pierre was great at guitar and a self-described stone cold fox. It was well past midnight, and the waves crashed amongst the silence. I don’t know why we were on the beach. But we were wasted, awake, and trying to find something to do.

Pierre and myself had apparently garnered the attention of two other guys who were also spending their late night on the communal beach. We got to talking, but something didn’t sit right.

You know how you snap out of a blackout when something so out of your normal day happens, your body goes into overdrive to remember it? Well, the washes and fades of memories came together so that Pierre and I could say no and run for the hills.

“Come on, guys. We have a thousand dollars, you both should just come back to our room for some drinks. It’s just us.”

Nope. No no no. I’ve been on the other end of this situation enough to know exactly what these boys were planning - I mean, minus the money thing. The whole “come back to my place for some drinks” things.

They were attempting to bribe us for our buttholes. Or, for theirs. We didn’t exactly stay long enough to get down to the fine print.

Pierre and I exchanged a look that spoke volumes of our inevitable answer:

“Oh, uhh, no thank you,” we shook our heads and decided to call it a night. Sure, a beach wasn’t the least romantic place to look for male prostitutes at a hotel during spring break, but I guess it just wasn’t in the air for them that night.

That Time that Carlos and Party Hat tried to Bang a Mom

This must have been on the Thursday that we were in Havasu. At this point, the days were blending together from naps and blackouts like Zebra in the wild.

Like the first night, the entire hotel had gotten together and thrown a party on the beach. Security had apparently given up at this point, as no one even drove by to see what was happening. The next few events were things that I never expected to blow up into such a wonderfully amoral story.

There was a girl, we can call her Diana, who was grinding on every one that she passed. Guy, girl, or tree, Diana was getting her business on whether the receiving party could consent or not. She could only be described as the archetypal female fuck boy.

Carlos, the black sheep from a millionaire family, had taken an interest in Diana as he too was a fuck boy. Carlos decided to bring her back to my room - which was six rooms past his. I’m still not sure why he brought her to my room instead - where Party Hat was watching HGTv and chowing down on some Filiberto’s from earlier in the day. Party Hat is of course named for the large and colorful sombrero that he wore everyday; he even had novelty value by the end of the trip.

Diana, out of what seemed like animal instinct, began to dance on top of Party Hat. As a peace offering, he asked if she wanted a bite of his burrito, and when she declined he politely asked her to do whatever she was doing somewhere else.

Diana was gone for what seemed like an hour while we drank in our rooms after the party had crumbled, which was do to the fourteenth hour of drinking being too many for the majority of the rampant amoral fuck boys.

Yet, as midnight struck, like a shitty fairy tale written specifically for people who lived in trailer parks from Florida, Diana was on the second floor of our hotel asking if anyone had seen Carlos or Party Hat.

She was looking for a ride home, apparently. She had called her mother to come give her a ride, but her mother called her a “whore” and hung up on her. She then tried to call her friend who was too drunk to get her, but we can all see where that was going.


So she decided to come to us.


Diana was interesting to say the least. She asked the room at large who was going to take her home and bang it out with her that night. Carlos and, surprisingly, Party Hat sprang for the chance at Dirty Diana’s Hot Pocket.

Eventually, someone ended up suggesting that they just have a threesome. But Diana wasn’t about to have that happen, because as soon as the topic came up she proposed that:

“One of you could just fuck my mom.”

Some laughed. Some got quiet.

Though, it turns out that she wasn’t joking. Not for a single second was this girl making some attempt at humor to make a group of strangers laugh. She was genuinely offering up coitus with her female parental unit as some sort of consolation for not being able to offer herself up for a trip to Paris.

As it turns out, though, Party Hat and Carlos were just the men for the job. If mom banging were a job.

They headed out via taxi. In the mean time, as things again have died down, the people left in our hotel room decided to partake in the devil’s lettuce and watch some Property Brothers on the HGTv. Just minutes after getting high as fuck, in the bathroom we could hear Dale, our tall and curly haired friend, laughing up a storm.

“Holy shit, guys. Party Hat is calling me,” Dale walked out of the bathroom in a cloud of smoke, his eyes redder than communism and that shit school that we’re funneling all of our money to, “Hello? You need us to come get you? Dude, we’re so high right now. Plus we’ve been drinking since like ten in the morning. What happened? Hold on.”


Dale put Party Hat on speaker.


“Holy shit, dude. So we roll up to this girls house, but guess what? She doesn’t live in the house. She lives in a trailer behind the house. So we get into the trailer and her gigantic friend is there waiting on the couch, like bitch we told you that we didn’t want to have sex with your friend, where is your mom? Anyway, while I’m in the bathroom, Carlos starts finger blasting Diana in front of her friend. She starts looking for validation and asking Carlos if he likes her puss-puss, and do you know what he says?”

Carlos starts to yell in the background: “Dude, I told her I liked her penis.”

“He fucking said that he liked her penis. She gets super booty tickled by this and puts her hot pocket back in the fridge for later, and I’m still not even done peeing. So the mom is walking down the backyard toward her daughters fucking trailer and Dirty Di tells Carlos to duck behind her bed. Which is weird because one of us is supposed to fuck her mom, like why would we hide? Anyway, the mom comes in screaming that she knows Diana had brought a boy over and that everyone needed to leave immediately. Like what a fucking boner kill. We’re walking back right now, literally no clue where we are.”

They both started laughing and hung up. They eventually got a taxi and made it back to the hotel, where they told us the story again.


All of the things that I kept in my backpack for Spring Break:



First Aid Kit


Clif Bars

Emergency Beers

Two Condoms

Eye Drops


I used everything. Except for the condoms.


*Crying Emoji*


At one point I overdosed on Molly with Party Hat. We were rolling more balls than a bowling tournament and watching the Home and Garden Network, because yes that is my favorite television channel. Those hotel beds were baller to have a panic attack in, though.

One Queen sized hotel bed can uncomfortably sleep up to four grown men.

At one point, Pierre had me held down screaming for someone to grab scissors to cut my beard off, while Dale shouted quotes from Shawshank Redemption at me.

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