Florida Bound Not Me
So my cousin from Washington decides she’s gonna move to Florida. You know—land of sunshine, palm trees… and apparently bad decisions. She buys this old motorhome. And when I say old, I mean seasoned. Like, this thing remembers when Elvis was still skinny. She loads it up—her son, his wife, their six kids, her daughter, six dogs… and surprise! Her daughter-in-law goes, “Oh by the way, I’m pregnant.” Next thing you know—bam—there’s a newborn onboard. At this point, it’s not a road trip. It’s a circus caravan. Ringling Bros, but with less clowns and more duct tape. Now the RV itself? Disaster. The ceiling is sagging from a water leak. She was “assured it was fixed.” Sure—except now it rains INSIDE. Right over the bed. Romantic, right? Nothing like waking up in the middle of a thunderstorm indoors. The bumper? Nearly ripped clean off at the gas station. It’s hanging by a thread, just flapping in the wind. Now every time they drive by, the bumper waves at people. “Hi there! Just anothe...