Words by Frozen in Carbonite
Everyone has their own theory about the point in time when summer ends and winter begins: fantasy football draft night, college kids swarming back into town, the first rainy Sunday when you bust out your favorite sweatpants, when the first beanie appears at the skatepark. (Maybe that’s not the best example, dudes would still skate in beanies* if there was a ledge in, like, Death Valley or some shit.)
ANYWAY, in my neck of the woods, the end of summer was marked by a quaint event at my local bar — perhaps the least “woke” event such an establishment could conceivably host: a bikini contest. Sunday night. Labor Day Weekend.
Unlike that one bikini contest that Ronnie “The Limo Driver” Mund hosted, this particular contest only had five entrants. The emcee set it off with a mandatory disclaimer regarding the importance of respecting women and a stern warning that anyone who failed to follow these guidelines would be removed from the premises. Subsequently, he asked the contestants a series of typical pageant-type questions like “if you were a number, what number would you be,” to which the young lady responded with the most predictable answer in the universe.
Nevertheless, another contestant triumphed that night and took home $500.
Before that, however, these songs and parts fucking powered summer 2018 — notable for a higher than usual number of according-to-Hoyle full-length vids and a lower than usual level of “IS THE FULL-LENGTH VIDEO DEAD?!” prognosticating.