To launch this new category, The Stupidest Thing Ever, I’m going with “glamping“, a concept that comes with its own stupid word.

“Glamping” is a portmanteau of glamorous and camping and describes a style of camping with amenities and, in some cases, resort-style services not usually associated with “traditional” camping.

Apparently, this stupid practice has been going on so long that the American Glamping Association launched in August, joining World of Glamping (whatever that is) to promote the growing “industry.” There’s also Glamping Hub.

It looks like I’ve been totally out of the fucking loop, as usual, but I’m trying to catch up. As I understand it, glamping is for people who want to be outdoors but don’t want to rough it. In millennial speak, it’s for people who want unique experiences.

Now here’s where I know I’m not a millennial: I DON’T WANT A UNIQUE EXPERIENCE! If I’m traveling, I want a 100% normal  experience! When I went to London in September, I didn’t think, “Shit, I’m staying in a nice hotel in a nice part of the city, right near an underground station”. I didn’t wish I were in a teepee in the countryside or a barn with sheep. I have actually had some “unique experiences” while traveling, such as someone pointing a gun at me (England), a stranger slapping me (Italy) rape (Greece) and a really terrible acid trip (Wales.)

No thank you!

Also, how stupid would you feel to stay in an actual cave that had room service and a designer bathtub? How could you pretend this wasn’t stupid, you know? I discovered the cave hotel while scrolling through the offerings at glamping.com. The destination for this experience is Sextantio Le Grotte Della Civita, in southern Italy.

The restored ancient caves will provide “an out-of-time journey through the traces of the uninterrupted presence of the man in this area, from Paleolithic times to the present.”

The hotel rooms occupy the caves themselves. What separates Sassi di Matera from merely sleeping in a cave is a certain dedication to luxury. Your bathroom may be a bare rock cavern, but you can trust in your Milanese host’s taste in fixtures and fittings: your bathtub is the finest money can buy. Prehistoric man might never have ventured outside the caves if they had bathrooms like these!

For fuck sake.

But let’s say you don’t want to pretend you’re Fred Flintstone. What else is there? The co-founder of the American Glamping Association notes that people have different needs.

For example, if you really need complete isolation, then a glamping location that has just one very unique tent is the place for you.

What kind of motherfucker needs one very unique tent???? The kind that takes an hour to describe what kind of beverage he wants at Starbucks? As if such a person would even go to Starbucks when he/she/they/it/x could only be happy with single origin coffee, reverently prepared in a kabuki ritual by a barista wearing a crisp hemp apron.

So much privilege. So much stupidity.

Are you a glamper? Is glamper even a word? If you have any firsthand (or secondhand) glamping stories, let’s hear them!

Today I went out to a mall and ordered a cup of normal coffee. As I walked away with my small black coffee, I heard a woman order a no-foam non-fat decaf extra-hot latte. I think there might have been one more requirement but I can’t remember it. This underscores the fact that I’m way too stupid to get work as a barrista.

Why the fuck do people have such perfectionist needs when it comes to coffee?! What the hell is wrong with these people?? Why do they feel so entitled to reel off a string of   detailed instructions for a cup of coffee, that another human being has to then prepare TO THE LETTER?!?

I would be mortified to appear this fussy about anything. Why aren’t these coffee prima donnas embarrassed?

My own theory is that they didn’t get enough of Mommy’s attentive pampering so now they’re going to take it out on some helpless coffee server who can’t spank them or send them to their room.

Let’s hear your theory.

As I walked out onto the patio of the Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf in Santa Monica, a tall shirtless douche was involved in a contretemps with an elderly woman who was afraid of his dog. He was saying to her, “I told you there’s nothing to be afraid of, now just shut up!”

How rude, I thought as I sat down with my coffee. The douche was returning to his table where he’d been sitting with a girl he just met in the parking lot. They had realized they had a friend in common, “Brian.”

The douche’s dog wandered over to me and I pet its head. “Oh, sorry,” said the douche as he came to get the dog. I gave him a nice smile and said: “You don’t have to be sorry to me!”

At this, he flipped out, screaming, “Hey, I don’t have to be sorry to anyone! I have nothing to be sorry about! I’m here having a great day, I’m enjoying myself, I’m with a beautiful woman!”

I started laughing, and a guy working at a laptop said to the douche, “Stop yelling.” The douche turned to taunt the laptop guy, who muttered, “Psychopath.” “You’re the psychopath!” screamed the douche.

The douche sat down again with the girl, who seemed thrilled by his performance. Together, they phoned the mutual friend to tell him they were together at the Coffee Bean. The douche went back inside to get more coffee while the girl continued on the phone. “Yeah,” she said happily. “He’s GREAT!”

Here they are, above. Reading their body language, I wouldn’t be surprised if she slept with him later that day and he rewarded her by bashing her head in. I can’t even feel sorry for her, you know? You get what you pay for.

Today I stopped at a Starbucks on my way home from an exciting outing to a box store. I checked out the two girls in front of me, who were decked out in a weird combination of work-out attire and leather. They were both tall and somewhat lesbitious looking.

One of them addressed the barista as though speaking to a member of a lower caste. “We want the coffee that gives money to AIDS,” she explained. “We want to make sure we get that kind, okay? That’s why we came here.”

(Now, I’ve seen the new Starbucks commercial, announcing that 5 cents from each coffee will go to the Aids fund.)

The guy looked baffled but game. “Uh, okay,” he said. “I’m not sure what kind that is.” He conferred with another guy and took the girls’ orders. They spoke loudly, like the Martian family on Saturday Night Live pretending to be from Paris.

“How do we know that the money is going to the charity?” demanded the more lesbitious of the two. The guy fumbled his way through an answer, obviously unaware of how the Starbucks ‘Red’ enterprise was supposed to work.

Watching this interaction, I was absolutely flabbergasted. I wanted to scream, “I’ll give five dollars to AIDS if you’ll just shut the fuck up and let me get my coffee, you fucking morons! You’re talking about ten cents!”

After politely ordering a normal cup of coffee, I wandered outside, filled with rage and wonder. Are there really people walking around, expecting the Nobel prize for giving ten cents to charity? This is why I’m better off staying at home and sending the husband to go to the box store.

I’ve just read about the Starbucks Red deal at the Starbucks website, where I learned that:

“In honor of the 20th World AIDS Day on Dec. 1, Starbucks will contribute five cents from every hand-crafted beverage sold that day at participating stores in the U.S. and Canada to increase awareness of AIDS in Africa.”

Hand-crafted beverage?! God. Just yesterday, I realized how much I hate the word “artisan,” thanks to hearing it attached to things like bread. Now I’m ready to hate “hand-crafted” too.