What are you doing for spring break?

Wait, wait. Don’t answer that. You’re going to Panama City Beach.

Everyone at Iowa State is going to Panama City Beach.

Even our high school brothers are going to Panama City Beach.

Hell, we’ll probably run into our grandparents while we’re there.

Oh. You’re not going to Panama City beach?

Us either.

In fact, we’re going home, because there’s nothing better than free room and board, and maybe your mom and dad’s skewed view on what you should be doing with your life.

But we’re going to take solace in the knowledge that there are a lot of other places we’d just rather not be.

• Mexico. Kidnapping: the only thing that makes gonorrhea seem appealing.

• Alaska. Just as dangerous as Mexico, really. If you’re not stuck on a boat with your grandparents trying to spot whales, narwhals, seals, etc., you’re in a beautiful national forest. Being shot at. By Sarah Palin. In a fluorescent orange vest. From a helicopter — run all the curves and zigzags you want; it’s not going to help. And it might be the one place colder than Iowa this week.

• The dorms. It could be worse, right? You could plan your own little vacation. Bring in a couple of trucks of sand, spread it out, fill a wading pool with water, buy a snorkel and crank up the thermostat. Project the Travel Channel on to the wall and you’re set. Until you thrash around on your new beach and end up with sand somewhere unwanted. Itching, redness. Maybe some weird discharge. It’s the virgin’s STD.

• A T-Pain concert on South Padre Island. Pork swords swinging on a beach. Hussies. More STDs. All your other fellow Iowa Staters at Panama City Beach. This is nothing against T-Pain — we’d just rather see him at Veishea.

• Iowa City. What? We couldn’t help ourselves.

We’ve been pre-gaming for spring break (maybe home isn’t that much fun), so if this seems disjointed, we’re just forecasting your next Tuesday for you.

If you’re not going to see your parents, let us help them out:

Be safe.

Don’t wind up in jail. Etc.

Have fun.

And if, like us, you’re going home for the meatloaf and the after-dinner conversation (“But MOM! I’m 21! I don’t have a curfew!”), do something crazy.

Don’t be an 80-year-old trapped in a teenager’s body.

Have fun.