I Listened To Nothing But Yacht Rock For A Week, And The Results Were Startling

Image result for yacht

I have music tastes that haven't changed a whole lot since middle school. And even though I went to middle school in the late-'00s, considering I own a phone full of Iron Maiden, Metallica, and any hair metal band du jour you can think of, it seems as though I went to middle school in the late '80s.

So, I thought it would be in my best interest to broaden my musical horizons. Little did I know the results would be so disturbing...


I decided to base my choice of new favorite music genre on the type of person I wanted to become.

First, I considered country music. It's hugely popular, women seem to love it, and features simple themes like trucks and large hats. However, this would be too simple to transition to from the 13-minute metal epics based on Samuel Taylor Coleridge poems to which I had become accustomed.

Surely, there must be an interim choice. 

Fortunately for me, there was.

I decided that I would go off the beaten path and eschew traditional genres. It would not be pop, rap, reggae, nor jazz; I would adopt...

...yacht rock.

I figured it would be an ideal choice because I enjoy boats, and everyone knows that yachts are the best boats. I will say that I don't like how you're expected to wave to people on passing boats. 

I'm on a boat, you're on a boat; I get it. Aside from that we have nothing else in common.

I decided to gather a collection of yacht rock's greatest hits, by which I mean I clicked on a pre-made playlist on Spotify.

Before I knew it, I had the smooth, silky-soft melodies of Steely Dan, George Benson, and Toto flowing through my earbuds and caressing my eardrums.

For a week, I listened; fighting insatiable urges to always have a piña colada in my hand every waking moment.

At the end of the week, I decided that yacht rock was not for me. My experiment had yielded no results...

...or so I thought.


I awoke the day after my yacht rock foray and rubbed my eyes. I then stubbed my toe on the corner of my bed en route to pop my contacts in for the day. "The Stubbening" as it has been deemed, set off a tirade of expletives the likes of which are not even suitable for the Internet. 

I placed my contacts and blinked rapidly to set them. As my eyes adjusted to the clarity, I realized something was amiss. 

Glancing down at my legs I noticed I was wearing shorts, but not the shorts I had put on the previous night.

My nylon shorts had been replaced with a pair of khaki shorts covered in anchors, that were so short, one would have to give a few seconds of thought before sitting down in order to avoid a scrotal-torsion related ER trip.

I backed away slowly from the sink; trembling.

What was happening? How was I now wearing these phantom pants? Why did I suddenly want to watch hours of Michael McDonald videos on YouTube?

I nervously ran to my closet. I threw open the doors and gasped in horror.

Where there once had been my regular clothing; there were now linen shirts like one would wear...

...on a yacht.

I backed away, but not before grabbing a shirt, jacket, and captain's hat so that I could look like Judge Elihu Smails.

I hopped down the stairs, being sure to properly tie my ascot around my neck, and ran out the front door. Where I was headed, I did not know.

I ran for what seemed like an hour, until I arrived at a marina. 

My footsteps rattled off the planks of the dock as I was drawn to one boat that sat stoically at the end of the marina.

Her name was Gertie. A terrible name for a person, and honestly an even worse name for a boat, but like a proverbial fly to a proverbial pile of shit; I was drawn to her.

I hopped on board over the starboard side... or maybe it was the port side, and made my way to whatever that place is where you drive the boat (I was drawn to the boat, but I still knew nothing about nautical terms).

A man blocked my path to the wheel.

"Who the hell are you?" he asked.

It was a fair question, so I told him and we exchanged pleasantries. I explained how I listened to yacht rock, and now my mind was obsessed with all things yacht rock, and I was now trying to steal Gertie but didn't know why.

"Shit," he said. "Not again."

He said that I was the third guy who had tried to hijack is boat this week. Except the first two guys were dressed like Gilligan and The Skipper, respectively.

I asked if he knew what was happening to me.

He said he didn't, but that I should get the hell off of his boat. 

"Fine, I said. "But can I take a photo with your boat for Instagram?"

He said sure.

I took a selfie with Gertie and patted her hull. 

The man yelled at me for patting Gertie's hull and grumbled as he wiped away my greasy fingerprints.

I walked back down the dock and realized I no longer wanted to board a yacht. I threw my captain's hat into the water where it promptly used as a shell by a very large hermit crab.

I shed the rest of my clothes, but then put the shorts and shirt back on because I realized it'd be tough to get an Uber without them.

I hailed an Uber and hopped in once it arrived.

"Having a nice day." asked the driver.

"It's alright now," I said. "Hey, can you throw on some music."

"Sure thing."

He pressed a button on the radio, and the channel changed...

... to SiriusXM's Yacht Rock Radio. 

"No.. no..." I said.

I reached for the door, but the locks slammed down; trapping me inside.

The driver's faced morphed into an eerie grin, has he slowly put on a captain's hat, and unleashed a hellish, maniacal laugh.


So, basically what I'm saying is be careful when you listen to yacht rock.


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