As the bulk of the gang starts to arrive for this spring break version of Webmaster Access, I thank my lucky stars that I’m already firmly entrenched here on the beach.
I’ve built a bunker to repel the endless onslaught of drunken, half-naked sorority girls populating the other coastal resorts here. They just keep coming, though—they and meatheads from the University of Texas, filled with too much Tecate and too much school spirit.
I don’t care, though. I’m here with my porn brethren, and if the U.S. government can’t stop us, neither can a bunch of stumbling buffoons who’ve had too much tequila.
Although I’m not sure exactly what we’re doing here, other than lying in the sun, having a few drinks, and talking about the business, I am sure that everyone except us is 21. Last night’s trip to Fat Tuesdays confirmed that those of us in the adult industry are probably the only ones in this town not willing to dump booze down someone else’s throat through a funnel.
Where’s Joe Francis when you need him?
