Everything is stupid, and so are we. Welcome to Jezebel’s Stupidest Summer Ever, a season-long celebration of our worst, most idiotic thoughts and opinions.

Everything is stupid, and so are we. Welcome to Jezebel’s Stupidest Summer Ever, a season-long celebration of our worst, most idiotic thoughts and opinions.

Everything is stupid, and so are we. Welcome to Jezebel’s Stupidest Summer Ever, a season-long celebration of our worst, most idiotic thoughts and opinions.

Everything is stupid, and so are we. Welcome to Jezebel’s Stupidest Summer Ever, a season-long celebration of our worst, most idiotic thoughts and opinions.

Everything is stupid, and so are we. Welcome to Jezebel’s Stupidest Summer Ever, a season-long celebration of our worst, most idiotic thoughts and opinions.

Everything is stupid, and so are we. Welcome to Jezebel’s Stupidest Summer Ever, a season-long celebration of our worst, most idiotic opinions.

Picture the best and most beautiful summer’s day: A slight breeze, medium humidity, the sun shining on only part of your face as you sit half-in, half-out of the shade. Perhaps there’s a popsicle in your hand, or maybe an iced beverage. A car blows past you on the street, its windows wide open. What song do you hear?

Summer is coming, and your alliance to a preferred sweet treat of choice for a sweltering day will be put to the test. I’m partial to ice cream, especially if I run into a Mister Softie truck and have a few dollars in my pocket. Others flock to Italian ice stands, a seasonal staple that disappears as soon as a chill…

Earlier today, we received an email from a distressed reader who—feeling the encroachment of beach season—is desperate to find a new one-piece swimsuit and is having no luck. Let’s change that.

Summer vacation, age 11. My neighbor’s mom is driving my friend and her sisters to a tiny amusement park in our town next to a Putt-Putt and a little merry-go-round. I have a UTI from bubble-bath and can barely move; I spend the afternoon on a brown recliner in my mom’s dark basement, chugging cranberry juice,…

This has been a lame and dismal summer, no doubt, in terms of overall news, but also in terms of the box office. The movie business took a record hit in what’s projected to be the worst summer box office in more than a decade.

Sophie Lucido Johnson is a writer, illustrator, and comedian in Chicago. She is the editor-in-chief of Neutrons Protons, and she blogs and makes comics at her website. Illustrations by the author. 

For most of my many summers living in New York City, I never went to the beach. Year after year, I’d see photos of my friends spending their weekend afternoons schlepping to Riis beach or the Rockaways and feel not even the slightest pang of jealousy.

The summer bucket list is a well-traveled genre, and one particularly suited to the expression of one’s most intimate dreams and aspirations. Our summer selves are a little wilder, and more daring—or so we hope—and the large swaths of unstructured time facilitate all manner of adventures. Like, for example, “[camping]…

What the hell is going on with swimsuits these days? I know the world as a whole is spiraling into a pit of nothingless bullshit, but must we be ill-outfitted in a supply of uncomfortable swimwear as the oceans rise and Utah becomes the hot new beach destination?

It’s that time of the year again where I’m getting a taste of the summer months to come. More specifically, this weekend it was 80 degrees in Los Angeles and I was reminded what it’s like to be hot as hell while simply trying to live my life. So I committed myself to immediately purchasing more dresses and rompers to…

Summer is over. The bony, trembling fingers of Fall beckon us into the darkness. But People is trying to tell me that “everyone” in Hollywood owns this $45 black nylon tricot high-cut one piece from American Apparel, and I am wondering: why? It’s bad.

Flying roaches could be a nuisance in New York due to this sock-funk weather we’re currently experiencing.

Monday is July 4, the moment in my personal wheel of the year when I realize summer’s already a month gone and I’d better hurry myself to a public pool once or twice, lest Labor Day roll around and I feel like I wasted the season yet again. One of the surefire shortcuts I will take in my route to vibes: regularly…

As a woman slurred in my face last weekend, “It’s the season for rosé!” Close, but not quite: it’s frosé season, pals.