And on that note ... wooooooooo.

Heathen/apostate that I am, reading the Sunday New York Times with my coffee is my most sacred ritual in life. So in the uniformly awful Sunday Styles section of this week’s edition, there was a long piece about dudes who do the Hamptons-summer-share-house thing well into their 40s and even 50s (and there was one dude who admitted to 60).

Oh. My. God. What a bunch of fucking douchetards (that’s douchebag + fucktard).

It’s like those creepy old skeezebuckets who go to Spring Break, decades out of kollege, to hook up with drunk 19-year-olds — same people, different geography. They profile this one guy who, at 42, has a girlfriend (age 25, natch), but wouldn’t let her in on the share house — because he wants to keep his options open. Ugh.

I mean, I’d never do the Hamptons share house thing anyway — I’m well past the age (um, 13?) at which I’d think rooming in an overpriced rental with up to 30 strangers in some sort of bizarre arrested-development social blender would be fun — but to still make it a priority of your life when you’re in your late 30s or 40s? Jeeee-ZUS. Grow the fuck up already.

I’m not saying you have to be married and have kids and all, but by that age, shouldn’t you at least have the financial resources to rent your own fucking summer place? Shouldn’t you have the mental and emotional maturity to manage a vacation that doesn’t depend for its success on having a neverending supply of fairly desperate, usually shitcanned women in-house? Hasn’t your imagination progressed beyond “wouldn’t it be great if I could live in the frathouse forever and ever?” Aren’t you tired, by that age, of these silly-ass hookups whom you then have to avoid when you get back to the city? Don’t you feel like a complete asshole for still using the word “hookup” when you’re over FORTY?