People have always enjoyed romantic interludes at the beach. Maybe it’s due to the intoxicating aroma of burned flesh and sunscreen. Perhaps it’s a combination of scantily-clad people and the seductive hiss of waves rushing over the sand. Most likely, it’s because you have less of a chance of getting poison ivy on your ass at the beach than you do engaging in al forno copulation in the woods.

But would-be beach shaggers on the Cape would do well to follow the old adage and get a room. The authorities are on to you. [via WBZ]

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Once in a great while, an item of news is so strange that it acts as Kryptonite to our Superman-level power of snark. Making an incisive observation proves impossible, and we’re left to utter things like, “What an idiot!” and “Who does that?!”

Today, the story of Somerville’s Ronnie Craven has left us (almost) snark-less.

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Being in a long-distance relationship sucks. You stay tethered to your phone like a lovesick teenager to keep the lines of communication open. There’s no calling up your significant other and asking him to come over and make out on a whim.

And now it’s becoming prohibitively expensive for couples to travel and get that much-needed face time.

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